Page 45 of Of Heathens & Havoc

That’s what she said. She said she’d stay with me, but a week later, Dad ordered her to come home. Mom was a godly wife, an obedient one who did as the head of her house told her to do. By the time I realized it would never blow over, it was too late. She was gone.

Not too long after, my aunt told me that Saint had come home. She said I could go home too, but I knew better. If I was wanted at home, my parents would have come to get me. If Saint wanted the little sister he’d always asked for, he would havecome to pick me up like he always did. He would have picked me even after what I’d done.

But he never came, and neither did my parents. They sent generic birthday cards where Mom signed for all three of them. Sometimes she’d write, “We love you.” But the words were as meaningless as the checks enclosed.

I didn’t need birthday cards. I didn’t need cash. I needed my family.

I needed Eternity. I needed my other friends, the ones who were gone forever, long after they’d served their sentences.

They didn’t need me.

They have each other.

They have their families.

They have the truth.

And I want all of it.

seventeen

The Heathen

“More,” Angel grits out, though his face is already closer to purple than red on the spectrum of face shades.

“You don’t have anything to prove,” Saint mutters, glancing over at our new star, the giant who should probably be playing QB in the NFL. Our team looks funny with the tallest guy being the quarterback. He’s not as tall as Bain Sincero, but he could swing that skinny freak around like a baseball bat if he wanted. The thought makes me a little too happy, and I nearly sprint off the treadmill before I can up the speed.

My feet pound the belt, and I grab my towel and mop my forehead, then wipe the grin off my face. I’d never forgive myself if I was laughing when Angel kicked the bucket. Death by competitive weightlifting. Then again, if he’ll kill himself trying to beat a guy who’s got a good four inches and fifty pounds on him, maybe laughing at his dumbass is the sendoff he deserves.

Royal, for his part, looks entirely unbothered. I’m not sure he even notices that Angel’s got the same amount of weight on the bar. The new guy’s alright, despite the shitty comment about Eternity he made the first time we met. He’s fuckin’ brilliant on the field, and off it, he keeps to himself. Dude doesn’t even live on campus, according to the Master, who checked him out for Angel.

Can’t be too careful with all the Disciples who’ve moved in over the past decade. We didn’t have to worry about that shit when we were kids. The Skull & Crossbones ran Faulkner like a well-oiled machine. That was the heyday, according tomy brother-in-law, in the time between the reconciliation of the Skulls and the Crossbones, which had split into two separate entities, and the encroachment of the scumbags who call themselves Diablo’s Disciples.

The door to the gym swings open, and Royal glances over.

“Closed session,” Saint calls without looking up from where he’s spotting Angel. Everyone knows the gym is reserved for the team this time of day, and if anyone interrupts, it’s usually the Sinners trying to fuck with us and stage an “accident” with the weights that leaves one of us decapitated.

Not that I blame them. I’d do the same to every single one of them without hesitation.

Hey, even gangsters want to make the world a better place.

I see who it is before the others, so I hit the button to stop the treadmill. This should be some good shit. I glance at Saint, waiting for him to turn around and see his sister, but he’s trying to keep Angel from bursting an aneurism by lifting too much. To my surprise, Mercy stomps straight over to me, wearing those hideous wooden shoes she always clomps around in, a jean skirt that reaches her ankles, and a shirt that looks like a reject from the wardrobe ofLittle House on the Prairie.

“I know it was you,” she snaps, her eyes flashing with some of the fire I remember so well from when we were kids. It makes me wonder where all that went. Guess juvie’s not the only thing that can fuck you up.

“Hey, little lamb,” I say, grinning and pulling out my AirPods, a gift from Saint’s rich ass. “What can I do for you? Need me to kneel so you can squirt me in the face again? Because hot as that was, I think it’s my turn to give you a facial. Gotta return the favor, little sis.”

She gulps, her cheeks going pink and her startled gaze flying to the others in the room.

Angel drops the bar back into the cradle, and Saint turns to glower at us. I hop onto the edges of the treadmill, letting the belt crawl between my feet as it slows.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Saint demands, snagging his threadbare t-shirt and shrugging it on before dragging his hair from the neck. He winds it up in a bun while glowering at his sister.

Mercy tears her gaze from the way the thin shirt is plastered onto Saint’s sculpted body and back to me. “You trashed my room,” she accuses, stabbing a finger into my chest.

I catch my boys glancing at each other, the frown of confusion on Saint’s brow. Then he turns to Royal and the linebacker doing leg presses. “Give us the room.”

Angel puffs up like he’s ready to fight them if they refuse—the linebacker knows what’s up, but Royal’s new. But he just stands and chugs some water, then heads for the door.

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