Matchsticks disappeared, grabbing two men to help him. The sound of a window smashing and a door being kicked overrode the crackling of the flames. Grasshopper returned first, proving once again why he was my most trusted friend and VP.
Between him and Matchsticks, they dragged a double mattress.
I moved to help, but my head held me hostage. There was no way I could lift something so awkward and cumbersome and remain standing with the pressure in my skull.
Instead, I waited for the men to drag the mattress into position. With a sharp push, they tipped it over so the large spring-covered bed smothered the fire and opened a gate.
Stepping onto the mattress, I braced myself.
Cleo moaned.
Fuck this.
I leapt.
In stolen Converse sneakers and too-tight sweatpants, I threw myself through the gap of hissing heat and slammed to a stop beside Cleo’s bloody form. The mattress singed and charred, the flames doing their utmost to devour their new enemy.
I didn’t have long before it ignited and locked us both in here.
Mo returned with a fire extinguisher.
Looking at the men from this side was surreal—as if I were already in hell and permitted one last glimpse of life.
“Shit, Prez. You could’ve waited another few seconds for us to kill the fire!”
A second was too long!
Didn’t they understand a second was fucking purgatory when Cleo was hurt?
Slamming to my knees beside her, I touched her cheek. “Buttercup?”
She didn’t move.
Her skin was slippery with blood and sweat, and hot—terribly hot.
The gushing sound of foam faded into the distance as Mo attacked the fire like a veteran. He barked commands at his brothers, rallying them into throwing buckets of dirt and any other debris they could find to kill the flames.
I blocked them out. I didn’t care.
My whole world was in front of me. And she wouldn’t wake up.
“Cleo … open your eyes for me. Please.”
Brushing her hair back, I inspected her quickly. My hands shook as I searched for the wound causing so much blood. Nothing on her neck, chest, rib cage … her skin was covered but there wasn’t a single puncture or slice. My hands trailed down her side, rolling her gently onto her back. I convinced myself it was to ensure once and for all that she wasn’t bleeding out, but in reality … I had to check.
I had to know if my father had raped her.
Clenching my jaw, I traced the muscles in her stomach down and down. Following her hip bone, I glanced between her legs.
There were no bruises, no blood … but that didn’t necessarily mean …
Fuck, please don’t let them have hurt her that way.
I could fix her physical injuries. I would make it my life’s work to ensure she was cured and untarnished in every way possible, but rape … that I couldn’t cure. That might ruin her. That would ruin me.
And I would never be able to undo the pain inside.
Unable to withstand her silence any longer, I cupped her face. My headache increased, migrating to throb behind my eyes and in my ears.
I shook her gently. “Cleo, I need you to wake up.”
Nothing.
My eyes fell to a tintype photograph peeking out from beneath her shoulder.
What the—
My heart stopped beating as I picked it up.
The picture was of all of us. Cleo’s parents, my parents, and my brother. I remembered that evening. Hot and muggy—the entire Club had come together to celebrate a windfall. At the time, I’d had no idea how they’d earned. Thorn Price wasn’t into skin trades or guns, but he wasn’t averse to drugs. I guessed now cocaine had been the explanation in the sudden accumulated wealth.
It’d been a great evening of laughter, fun, and a secretive kiss on my cheek from a bold Buttercup.
I froze.
The image wasn’t just a memory, but another fucking message.
Flipping the photograph over, I recognized my father’s scratchy scrawl instantly.
Arthur,
This is just the beginning. You thought you were untouchable, that you could outplay me. You thought you could keep her hidden. I’ve been one step ahead of your useless fucking plans the entire time.
You can take her home, but she’ll never be safe.
Not until you’re dead.
Then I’ll make her mine and give her the life she was always destined for.
Queen of my motherfucking Club, not yours.
Until the day of your death, son.
My throat closed over with anger so violent, I struggled to breathe. I hated to admit it, but I’d underestimated my father. I’d been too arrogant thinking I could wipe him out at my convenience without worrying if he had the same agenda.
I hadn’t waged war.
We both had.
Like father like son.
Grasshopper suddenly crouched beside me. Foam stuck to his mohawk from the fire extinguisher, face blackened with soot. The flames were no match and existed no more.
Without a word, Hopper read the message. “Well, shit. Fucking bastard is more resourceful than we thought.”
I nodded, scrunching the photograph in my fist. I didn’t want to look at the image again. He’d just ruined any happy memories I had left.
“I want him dead, Hopper. I want it so fucking bad.” Looking down at Cleo, I couldn’t breathe at the thought of my father winning and taking her as his prize.
I will never let that happen.
“He’s already a corpse, dude.” Grasshopper rested his hand on my shoulder, his blue eyes landing on Cleo. “Ambulance is on its way. Thirty minutes.”