Page 58 of Clubs

What did she have to look forward to? What role models did she have then? Me? The life I had then? It was hard work with no relief.

And now…

Now, I had a life worth aspiring to. It wasn’t perfect, especially considering the whole boyfriend with pending murder charges situation going on, but it wasn’t all that bad either. I went to work, I went home, I had great sex with a man I loved, played card games with my friends, and did it all over again.

Maybe this was what she needed. Maybe she needed a rock-bottom and a pretty image to aspire to.

“Yeah, sissy.” I managed a smile in response. “We’ll call rehabs.”

A wider smile, and a nod. Then she sniffled. “I really am sorry. It wasn’t true. None of it was true. I was just hurt, and angry, and—”

“It’s okay.” I squeezed her hand tighter. “It’s okay.”

And before I could stop her, she was tossing her arms around me, embracing me like I was a tree, and she was a monkey. It was storming, and the branches were swaying, but as long as she held onto me, she believed that. That everything would be okay.

I relished in it for a moment.

Our lives were fucked. This whole situation was a disaster, and I had no idea how to help Declan. But I knew that she was okay. She was miserable, and in a lot of pain, judging by the wince when I held her too tight, but she was okay. Things couldn’t get much worse. From here, it could only get better.

The bedroom door hinges squealed, calling my attention that way. Declan leaned against the frame, looking a mess. His hair wasn’t brushed, his wide eyes were framed by deep, dark circles, and the armpits of his white T-shirt were doused in sweat. “Good. You’re awake.”

“Barely.” Pulling away from Ria, I stretched my arms overhead. “Did you sleep on the couch?”

“Didn’t get much sleep at all, actually. And you need to wake up. Pretty damn fast. Because we got a problem. A problem I have no idea how to handle, but I’m pretty sure you do, you little fucking psychopath.”

Brows furrowing, I crossed my arms against my chest. “Well, fuck you, too.”

Massaging his forehead, he blew out a deep breath. “I say that with love. Really, I do. Because right now, that’s what I need. My little fucking psychopath. We gotta go. Like, ten minutes ago, we got to go.”

“Are the cops here or something?” Ria asked.

Standing from the bed, I caught a glimpse of some red on Declan’s fingers.

“No. I really hope not, anyway.” He looked over Ria for a moment, then said, “You… You should probably stay here.”

“What? Why?” she asked.

“What is that?” I squinted at Declan’s hands. “Jesus Christ, did you kill somebody?”

“No. No, I did not. But… Well, I, I did not.”

* * *

Mangled wasn’t the right word for this. Davey, the drug dealer I’d met yesterday, the one who was apparently pimping out my sister, was almost unidentifiable. All that I recognized was the tattoo on his wrist. His face? Hardly more than a pile of mush.

Declan was a few feet from the body, squatting, propping his elbows on his knees and holding his hands over his mouth and nose. Of all people here, he should have been the least bothered by this. But the stereotypes surrounding Werewolves were clearly just that.

With tight lips, Emory stood beside the pile of mush that must’ve been Davey’s brain a few hours prior. I wouldn’t have described his expression as casual, but he was certainly less panicked than Declan.

“You did this?” I asked.

Emory spared me a glance, then nodded.

“Bare hands?” I asked.

He dug in the pocket of his blood speckled jeans and held up a pair of brass knuckles. Not brass, though. Silver. Certainly an effective way to take on a Vampire. I preferred knives, but to each their own.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I asked. “Was it your plan to come here and kill him? Because you realize how much this fucks things up for Declan, right? Now we have no one to pin Alicia’s murder on. How the fuck are we going to plant evidence anywhere to point it back to the person who actually did the damn thing when he’s fucking dead, Emory?”

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