Page 8 of Hurt

“This isn’t Gerard’s work,” Roland observed as they stood on the driveway, inhaling the fresh air. The rain had been steady for the last day and had only stopped a few hours ago. Everything still smelled like wet earth.

“No,” Grant agreed. “Or if it is, he’s gone insane in his old age.”

Roland hmm’d. “His sons?”

“They’re vicious but not very bright. This is the exact kind of idiotic thing they would do.”

“Did they want to be caught?”

Grant pressed his lips together. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Roland’s silence was tense. More so than his usual stoic silence. He glanced down at his watch, wiping the blood from his face so he could read the time clearly.

The Vega Cabal had been second for as long as Grant could remember—always reaching for the sun but falling short of the clouds. They didn’t have the territory or money the Weavers did, nor the intelligence. Their grandfather Wallace led the gang after Grant’s father’s untimely death and trained his grandsons to do the same. The strict doctrine the Weavers lived by produced a well-oiled machine the Vega Cabals couldn’t compete with. They had settled for snapping at the Weavers’ heels like a disorderly dog—occasionally nipping and crossing the line, worthy of a slap but never of a full-scale war.

But this? This was a blatant challenge to the Weavers’ authority. One that could not go unanswered.

Roland looked at his watch again, and Grant resisted the urge to laugh.

“Go. It’s almost eight, and you’ll want to change.”

Roland’s eyes snapped to his elder brother. He was bigger than his elder brother but still a few inches shy of his height. “…it’s fine.”

“Roland,” Grant said with a huff. “Don’t be foolish. It isn’t becoming.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and sighed.

“I can finish here. Go to your dancer.”

There was a beat. “You know.”

It wasn’t a question, and there wasn’t surprise in his tone. He knew his brother would find out eventually.

Grant smiled tiredly. “I do, and I don’t care. You know your happiness is all that matters to me.”

There was a whooshing noise, followed by shattered glass and the smell of burning carpet. The scent of crisping acrylic and smoke was pungent and unpleasant. Elijah and Jamie joined them moments later, faces smudged with smoke and blood.

Without saying a word, Elijah followed Roland to their car. Their silent bond was ethereal. Something no one outside of the two could understand. Elijah was able to predict Roland’s moods, more so than even Grant. He could read his bosses’ silences and worked according to them.

“God, I love fire.”

Then there was Jamie.

The black sheep of the Weaver group, Grant found his straightforwardness endearing. Grant spent all day playing mind games, mental chess to find out the best way to defeat his enemies and advance his family. It was refreshing to spend time with someone who said exactly what was on his mind.

Jamie was twenty years old, and his youthful smile flashed white against his swarthy complexion. Jamie was another one of the Weaver orphans. His family background was unknown to Grant. But judging from his skin color and dark hair, he was probably of Hispanic origins.

“I need information,” Grant said without looking at his shorter comrade.

“Yes, oh handsome one. I live to serve.”

Grant raised an eyebrow and glared at Jamie out of the corner of his eye. “What do you know about The Sunspot?”

“Shitty alcohol,” Jamie said quickly, putting a cigarette between his lips and using a gun-shaped lighter to light it. “Owned and operated by Molly Herrera. Great doctor with a great body. Eyes you could melt into and a great pair of—”

“Jamie,” Grant snapped.

“What?” He grinned around the cigarette. “I was going to say hands. Great set of hands. Sewed me up a couple months ago. Didn’t even scar.”

Grant knew all about The Sunspot’s neutrality and its overqualified owner. The Herrera siblings ran it with complete impartiality.