Page 7 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

And that’s all changing.

“Hey!” I call out as I approach, and all of their heads pop up, turning in my direction.

Ava smirks as Dean slips his arm from her shoulders to her waist, a possessive move that I recognize.

“Dear God, we don’t have to play friendship with you, too, do we?” Abel groans. “It’s bad enough that you’re here on our turf.”

“You could always just kill me if you get tired of me,” I remind him.

“Don’t tempt me,” Braxton replies. Clover leans over and smacks his arm, but he merely reaches up and jerks her off of her perch on the edge of the tabletop and right into his lap.

“I assume there’s a reason for your presence,” Dean finally says. “Go on and spit it out.”

I drop my duffle bag at their feet and stuff my phone into my pocket. “Yeah,” I say. “I came to discuss getting me on the Eastpoint team.”

“Our team?” Abel glares at me. “Fuck no.”

“Don’t forget that you owe me, asshole,” I snap. “And considering you haven’t been able to track down who burned the Kincaid mansion…” I switch my attention to Rylie who dips her head and shakes it in response to my unfinished question. “Then, this is the least you can do.”

“You’re at Eastpoint,” Dean points out. “That’s what you wanted. Getting you on our fucking team wasn’t included in the deal.”

“You know as well as I do that I could’ve asked for a hell of a lot more,” I reply. “But I didn’t.”

“Just because we allowed the transfer doesn’t mean you belong here, outsider,” Abel growls.

“Abel…” Rylie’s voice is as quiet as a mouse, but when she speaks, Abel leans closer to her, wrapping his arms more solidly around her midsection and the slight bump that can be seen beneath her baggy black sweatshirt.

I blow out a long breath, reaching up and pinching the bridge of my nose. “Whoever the fucker is that burned down the estate is still out there,” I say slowly. “I’ve done my part in helping your group. I’ve proven myself. If it weren’t for me, a few of you”—I look to Clover and Brax in particular—“wouldn’t exactly be sitting here all nice and comfy like you are right now. I’m done trying to placate you.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Marcus asks. “Placating everyone?”

I don’t bother with a response. Instead, I drop my arm and focus on Dean and Braxton, switching my gaze between the two of them. Dean is their leader, but Braxton is his boy—and I, for damn sure, gave him what he needed, to my own detriment. I still haven’t heard from my father since the whole ordeal with the Undead went down. The fire only pushed him further over the edge. Other than the periodic threatening calls I receive in the middle of the night, he’s practically disappeared off the face of the Earth.

The fact is: I am alone right now. In our world—the world of the Elite—being alone is a deadly thing to be. Without connections. Without allies. And the fact that someone is obviously gunning for the Kincaids—as evidenced by the fact that our home has been razed to the ground and no one can seem to find out who did it—means I more than want those connections. I fucking need them.

“You aren’t someone who forgets your debts, Carter,” I say quietly. “And you owe me a great deal—both you and Smalls.”

“There’s no one to fucking find,” Braxton replies at the mention of his name. “The fire was arson, but whoever it was—”

“Their fingerprints aren’t in any database,” Rylie interrupts him. “They knew the code to the estate and they were able to disarm it from the inside. As far as the police are concerned, it was an inside job.”

“We managed to make the police back off on the insurance claims that you’d done it yourself,” Marcus says. “That should be good enough.”

“We all know I wouldn’t need help to pull something like that,” I sneer at him. “So, don’t act like that was a huge favor. I may not be at Dean’s level in terms of governmental corruption, but I damn sure know how to handle the fucking cops.”

“A favor is still a favor regardless of how small,” Marcus replies with a shrug.

I return my attention to Brax. “Surely your Undead contacts can do better,” I press, my fingers clenching and unclenching as I try to maintain at least the facade of control.

It isn’t Brax who answers, though, but Clover. “The Undead is still in the process of being restructured,” she replies. “We have feelers out but there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to find anything. The police were stumped too. This takes time.”

“I don’t fucking have time,” I grit out. “I need answers.” And I need them fucking now before I lose what’s left of my sanity.

“If that’s what you’re so worried about,” Avalon finally says, “then why do you want on the team so bad?”

Unlike the others—in particular, the men—her question holds no condescension, only curiosity. I blow out a breath. “It may come as a shock to you, but I actually like the sport,” I say.

“There’s more to it than that,” Dean replies.

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