Page 3 of Pursued-
“Drink, Sasha. Please.”
Through a heavy-lidded gaze, he seems to recognize me.
“Raven.”
He’s called me that once before. I’ve got a Poe obsession, and because I’ve been in a dark place, I’ve started dying my hair black. I didn’t know Sasha read Poe. I didn’t know Sasha read anything.
“Drink this,” I insist, pushing the straw past his lips.
He sucks on it. The bitter solution of watered-down pill fragments rises and enters his mouth. He swallows.
“More,” I say.
It goes on like this. I’m relentless. For close to an hour, I badger him until there is no medicine left. Then I pour Gatorade into the cup and start again.
His body is a furnace. I wipe him down with a damp soapy cloth and speak softly to him. I know he doesn’t comprehend any of what I’m telling him. He’s in a shadowy place, halfway to the grave. He probably deserves to die for all the bad things he’s done.
But I don’t care what he deserves. I whisper the same things into his ear over and over. “Fight. It’s what you do, so fight. And stay here, Sasha. Stay.”
He settles, and I rest my head on the mattress next to his.
I don’t know him well and don’t really like any of them, but he’s acted as my bodyguard a lot recently and I’m not letting him die without a fight. I can’t because I have a secret that I’ll never admit to anyone.
I’m the reason he got shot in the first place.
Chapter
One
Present Day
ANVIL
People call the main house in C’s compound ‘the castle’ because of the turrets. The mansion doesn’t look like it belongs in the neighborhood. Four decaying houses were leveled to put it here.
It belongs here because we do. Ever since we broke from Frank Palermo three years ago and started our own crue, we’ve lived on this patch.
The compound’s surrounded by a cement wall with razor wire at the top. It’s probably overkill, since anyone storming the gate better come with assault rifles and enough rounds to stage a coup in Moscow.
This is the devil’s stronghold, and I’m the devil’s right hand.
My cement-walled apartment’s off the back of the castle. As I walk down the grated metal stairs, my phone buzzes half a dozen times in my pocket. I shake my head. Fucking Trick.
I come around the house and find Trick standing on C’s front step, looking at his phone. He looks up as I head to one of the two C Crue Rovers.
“Your porterhouse is three minutes out. Aberdeen Street and counting,” he says.
Trick doesn’t give a fuck whether I eat the steak I ordered or not. He’s on to something and wants to run it down. The guy couldn’t give fuck all about most things, but he doesn’t like mysteries where our crue is concerned. And I’ve been coming and going without explanation. Usually my only business is crue business, so he and C are wondering what’s up.
“Toss it in the fridge. I’ll eat it later,” I say, my tone casual. I doubt he’s fooled. Trick’s a pretty boy, which makes a lot of thugs underestimate him. Long experience has shown that to be a deadly mistake.
“Who is she?” Trick asks, taking a stab.
I shake my head, not looking to let him go on a fishing expedition into my personal business.
“Has to be. Let me come and meet her. I’ll hang back,” he says.
I roll my eyes. He thinks I’m into some woman and that I’m afraid to bring her around in case she sees him and gets distracted. It’s true that when Trick shows up, most women don’t notice much else for a while, but I don’t need hispromise that he’ll watch himself if I’m serious about someone. The person I’ve got serious plans for already knows him. Also, my plans aren’t hearts and flowers. My plan is to satisfy a vendetta.