Viks shrugs. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
When none of them respond, I breathe a sigh of relief. If they really gave a shit about the gang, they would’ve said something, right? They talked about leaving Silverwood, getting out—that has to mean the Vargas gang is nothing to them. It’s just a means to his end, and so is his group of criminals.
The story that Gio had told me earlier in the day resurfaces in my mind. I glance his way, noting how the skin at the corner of his eyes is wrinkled. He’s tense, but so is everyone else. Mitchell Vikson is a powerful character in our world, and we’re not quite sure yet if he’s friend or foe.
Viks nods at Gio. “That’s what I thought.” He lets himself lean more firmly into the bar at his back. “The Vargas gang is overstepping their bounds. No, I don’t anticipate that they’ll be around for much longer. When you get to Eastpoint, you won’t have to worry about Darrio Vargas attempting to pull you back into that life. I’m sure you understand you’d be better off leaving it all behind.”
“Whenwe get to Eastpoint?” I ask. On shaky legs, I give up any pretense of refusing his order to take a seat and walk over to the closest couch. The second I’ve sunk down onto the edge, the rest of the room seems to release a collective breath and the tension fades the slightest bit.
“Did you think you wouldn’t be accepted?” Viks asks.
“It’s expensive,” I say. “And private.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Though there are special programs, as I’m sure your boys know.”
“We’re applying for scholarships and the football team,” Nolan states.
“You’ll find that your acceptance is contingent on whether or not I find the four of you useful,” Viks says. “And no, it’s not because I’m working for Eastpoint.”
“If you don’t work for the university, then how could you know whether or not we’ll be accepted?” Lex speaks for the first time in a while, drawing Viks’ attention back to him.
“That,” Viks hedges, raising his glass back to his lips and taking another long draw, “is something you’ll find out later. For now,” Viks angles his head to take in the rest of us, “let’s discuss Morpheus Calloway.”
11
NOLAN
Secrets are like sins. Everyone has them and no one wants to admit it.
I should have known Darrio would be hiding a secret from me, too. I should have fuckingknown.
My fingers tighten over the handlebars of my Indian as I race down the long, dark highway. The beam of light that washes over the dark pavement is swallowed around the edges by the darkness that encroaches.
The engine rumbles, a growling purr that fills my ears even through my helmet and visor. I grit my teeth and push the bike faster, the speedometer jolting up and sliding towards ninety miles per hour and beyond. It’s dangerous. It’s practically asking for death as I lean into the next curve and the line grazes a hundred miles per hour.
Adrenaline races through my system as I picture Juliet’s face. The betrayal. The horror. The confusion. Still, at least she had stayed long enough to hear us out. At least she’d left the same way she’d come—with us.
Now, she’s lying in my bed with Gio and Lex wrapped around her like twin vines and I’m…here.
Seconds later, the highway ends and shifts into regular roadways as I come roaring back into Silverwood and take a left towards the public high school rather than to my own neighborhood. The drive had meant to clear out the rage in my head. It didn’t work. I can still feel the old anger steeped like tea leaves in my blood. Once it’s combined with the rest of me, there will be no separating the two.
I was raised with an angry man in my house. He never left. I simply killed him and buried him in the back of my mind. Now, I am him and he is me.
Cory’s Gym comes into view and I slow the bike even more, turning into the parking lot. Were it me, I’d say it’s far too late for Cory to be here, but a dim light shines out from the windows that face the road. I halt the bike and jerk the kickstand down with my foot before reaching for the phone in my back pocket.
My lips twist. Late? It’s nearly five a.m. and I’ve been driving mindlessly for several hours. This is early for everyone else and it’s more than that to the man shuffling around the building.
I turn the Indian off and pocket my keys and phone once more, striding around the side of the building. If anyone can help me get my head on straight when a drive has failed, it’s Cory.
The door is locked when I get to the front, but a quick tap on the glass has the shadow beyond the blinds shifting. The sound of the lock snicking and then the door creaking open is followed by Cory’s confused face. When he spies me, he merely sighs and steps out of the way to allow me inside.
“Ya know I don’ open for another hour, kid,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face as he relocks the front door and heads for the front counter.
The lights are on and the scent of equipment polish and bleach burns my nostrils. Cory shifts behind the counter, acollection of pens and open scheduling planners laid out before him.
“I’m not here to work out,” I tell him.
Cory arches a brow and looks down to the boots on my feet. “Ya don’ say?” He switches his attention to the computer screen and starts typing. “If ya ain’t here to give your body something to do, whatcha here for?”
