took Dad’s watch.”
I hug her tighter. The bracelets and necklaces—it’s not their worth that means something to her, it’s who gave them to her, the sentiment behind the gift. Some from me, some from Cyrus, most of them from her father. Losing them and her father’s watch would be like losing a part of her soul.
“We’ll get them back.”
She doesn’t argue, but doesn’t agree either. “You think it’s after midnight?”
After midnight. Damn. This isn’t right. None of this is right. “Happy birthday, Violet.”
“Eighteen,” she whispers.
We had so many plans. “Eighteen.”
“I want to go home.”
“We will.” I’ll walk through hell to make sure it happens. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Try anyhow. At least doze. We both know you can be awake and asleep at the same time. Do that. There’s no telling how long we’re in this for and we have to keep sharp.”
Violet nestles into me like she might try to sleep and I move my hand from caressing her arm to rubbing her head. That always made her sleepy, always made her fall asleep in my arms.
“Thank you for sacrificing yourself for Brandon,” she murmurs. “He loves you.”
“I know.” A lot like he loves her. A lot like I love her, too.
Violet begins to sing. Not loudly, softly, under her breath. She has a beautiful voice. When I was a kid, I used to think that’s what angels would sound like. Violet used to sing all the time when we were younger, but less and less as we got older.
Last time I heard her sing was the night her dad died. I held her that night, too. We lay in her bed, her head on my chest, and she sang in a soft tone until she fell asleep.
Broke my heart then. Breaks my heart now. But like then, I’m helpless and do only what I can, hold her and pray.
THE BEAMS OF sun warm my skin and I stretch lazily on the blanket. I’m at my favorite place on earth—the back field of my house. Walk long enough and eventually I’d wander onto Cyrus’s property. Dad would let the grass grow high here and he’d have it cut several times throughout the summer and sell the hay, but he would leave this small portion untouched for me.
I loved the wildness of free-growing grass, trees with long limbs and branches heavy with leaves. Beside me, Chevy’s propped up on one elbow and he’s watching me. Chevy always watches me.
“I’m dreaming,” I say.
He smiles, shifting from fourteen to seventeen, then back to fourteen. Can’t decide which one I like better. He’s handsome either way, but at fourteen, Chevy couldn’t make up his mind on whether to hold my hand. Confused about how he felt, since we had been raised to love each other as siblings, but we were more than brother and sister, more than friends. The two of us always shared a special connection.
At seventeen, he broke my heart. I blink and Chevy is sixteen and I loved sixteen. He did way more than hold my hand then and we were light-years away from him shattering my soul.
I’ve always been able to do this. Be aware when I’m dreaming, but there’s a cost to it. Sometimes I become paralyzed. Powerless to move my body. My mind awake, my muscles asleep and I’ll panic at the thought of never being in control again. To never speak or walk or run.
I hope this isn’t one of those dreams. To be sure it isn’t, I focus hard and I’m able to twitch a finger—not in the dream, but in reality. Coldness rushes into the heat of the day and I pull back from my conscious mind and return to the dream, but a sense of dread washes through me.
“We aren’t safe,” I say to Chevy. “I shouldn’t be asleep.”
“I first kissed you here,” he replies like that’s an appropriate response, but it’s a dream and I go with it.
“We did a lot more than just kiss here.” Happiness swirls within me at the memories of stolen moments I thought would last forever. We did a lot of firsts in this back field. Too many to count. None of it rushed. All of it slow. Teeny, tiny baby steps because I was never ready for too much too fast and Chevy was patient, always patient as if he was just as scared as I was to go any further than we had before.
Chevy’s smile widens and it’s that mischievous dimpled one that continuously dared me to go along with one of his crazy schemes. Smuggling hot cookies out of Olivia’s kitchen when we were seven. Lifting Cyrus’s Reign of Terror cut when we were ten. Pickpocketing Eli’s keys so we could go joyriding in his truck before we had our licenses.
Can’t take much credit. Chevy was the mastermind with the fast hands. I was the lovely assistant who helped with the distraction, but I loved being part of the action.
I reach out, stretching because I miss touching him so much, but his smile fades and his expression darkens. “Violet, wake up.”
Fear seizes my lungs as storm clouds gather in the sky. Chevy grabs ahold of my arms and yells, “Wake up!”
My eyes snap open, a haze of morning light barely lightens the basement room and the air is knocked out of me as I’m being shoved to the concrete corner. Scuffed black boots in front of me, and when I look up, Chevy has his back to me, arms out, the handcuffs dangling from his fingers.
Nausea races up my throat. They’re returning and this is all Chevy has for weapons.
I push off the floor, and as I stand, Chevy presses back so I’m flush against the wall. “Stay behind me.”
I rub my eyes to wake myself as four men enter the room. All of them from last night. Fiend marches in behind them like a victorious general. Two men fan to the left, the other two to the right. Fiend stays near the door in the middle and sizes Chevy up. “I heard you were wily, but I had bet you couldn’t bust out of cuffs. Guess I was wrong.”
Chevy says nothing and Fiend makes a show of leaning as he looks at me. “Have a nice sleep?”
I don’t break eye contact as I follow Chevy’s lead on staying silent.
Fiend hikes up the waist of his pants. He has a belt on, but his gut is overbearing. “This is how it’s going to play out. McKinley, you’re coming with us. We need to talk about your club.”
“I’m not a member, and even if I were, I don’t speak for the Terror.”
“Your grandfather is the president of the Terror. I have faith you can handle this negotiation.”
“Nothing I do or say holds any weight in the club.”
“I disagree. President’s grandson does hold weight. Especially when it’s his life on the line.”
“You got something to say, say it,” Chevy spits
