Page 75 of Their Will be Done

Not highly original, but for a bunch of kids trapped in a dark basement who’d never played sports or gone to the mall or even asked out a girl to the prom…it filled a void.

We played it once or twice after we escaped, but it became painfully obvious that we’d be adults by the time we’d had our revenge.

What did it matter, then, what dreams we had as kids?

But those things stuck with me.

Apollo loves the ocean even though he’s never set foot on the coast. Before he was taken, he’d watch surfing championships on television and imagine it was him slicing through those waves on some beach in Malibu. Honestly, I think he just secretly wanted to take photos of chicks in bikinis. But who the fuck am I to judge, right?

One day I went to town on a supply run, hungover as fuck after a night of blunts and whiskey, and I decide to get a plate of something greasy at the coffee shop. Only to discover they have Wi-Fi.

In this place?

Shocker.

I had one of Apollo’s old laptops with me. He wanted me to send it in, because he swore the on-board graphics card was malfunctioning. I stopped listening after the fifth time he mentioned the driver and took it with me anyway.

They keep forgetting they don’t have to repair shit.Ever. If it breaks, I’ll buy them a new one. Money means fuck all to me.

So, hungover as fuck, I decide to get Apollo’s laptop out of the car and go online while I’m waiting for my grub.

I’m guessing the laptop didn’t shut down properly because as soon as it boots up, the browser pops open and loads the last website Apollo had been on.

A Youtube video of some surf competition.

Minutes later, I was hunting down coast-side properties in California where I’m guessing—probably incorrectly—that a guy can catch the best waves.

Then I found it.

Six bedrooms, five en-suite. An infinity pool overlooking the ocean. A garage big enough for as big a collection of classic cars as Reuben wants. A game room for Cass, replete with a fucking billiards table. Billiards, not pool, because he’s snooty like that.

There’s even a fucking dance studio with wrap around mirrors on the walls, perfect for Cass to admire himself in.

I haven’t told them about the property.

I also haven’t told them I put in an offer on the place on Saturday. I know I’ll be getting that call sometime this week—my offer was ten grand above asking.

It’s eating me alive, but I have to make sure it’s happening before I break out the champagne.

And yeah, I bought champagne. Four bottles of the most expensive brand the liquor store stocked.

“Love the new look,” I tell him, pointing at my neck. “Just give me a heads up if you’re about to start reciting bad poetry, though.”

He’s wearing a black turtle-neck shirt and dark jeans. Sullen colors which match the smudges under his eyes.

“I could have died,” he says, voice as dead as his eyes.

“I think youweredead for a few seconds.” I wish there were a power outlet down here so I could brew some coffee. The only other alternative is alcohol or weed.

I choose the whiskey, turning my back to pour out a shot. Fuck the fact that’s it quarter past six in the morning.

“But luckily, you’ve always been a stubborn sonofabitch.” I glance at him over my shoulder when I don’t hear the rueful chuckle I was expecting.

“It worked,” I say.

Cass shifts a little, and then runs his palms down his legs. “Yeah?”

“She took the drive to Rube last night.”

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