Page 1 of Rear View

Xavier

Eight Years Earlier

I stared through the blinds in my dad’s study, out to the dark road of our street.

Surer than shit, he was comin’ for me. His security app would’ve notified him the front porch camera was out, and he monitored that thing because control was his MO.

It wouldn’t be pretty when he got there, but it’d be worth it.

Footsteps approached me from behind and I eyed the room’s door.

Alec crossed over, his body coiled. “Everything’s good to go.”

Dragging a hand through my short, dark-brown hair, I gave a tight nod. The guy’d been my best friend since we were six, from climbing trees and chasing girls, to back-alley brawls. For ten years, he’d been there. If he said stuff was ready, it was ready.

“How’s it goin’, Sean?” I asked, voice level, heart beating like a kick drum in my chest.

He wheeled the leather office chair closer to my father’s mahogany desk. “The encryption on these files is decent.”

“What’s that mean for our time?” Alec asked.

Sean pulled his long black locs back from his face, his attention fixed on the computer screen—pulling up the documents my father was about to go down for. “I should be through in less than a minute if you shut the fuck up and let me work.”

Alec’s hand fisted, tendons straining beneath his deep-brown skin like he wanted to introduce it to the back of his older brother’s head. The two got along…kinda. The Hawkins boys didn’t hate each other. But they had fuck all in common.

Not like me and Fallon. My brother’d been my damn idol. Whatever he liked, I liked. Whatever he did, I wanted in. We’d been tight. Until he’d died and we weren’t.

Rolling his neck, Alec chucked his chin my way. “How ya doing, X?”

My eyes grazed the diplomas and all the other bullshit accolades lining the bookshelf across from me—my father’s shrine to himself. None of it would mean a damn thing soon.

An eager grin tugged my lips. “I’m good.” Real good. ’Cause what was fixing to happen had been a long time coming.

I pulled the keys I’d snatched to my dad’s candy-apple-red 1970 Chevelle SS454 from the pocket of my jeans. His car, not the family’s. The asshole’d made that clear. They clanked when I flipped them around a finger, the room’s piss-yellow walls reflecting off their metal.

Sean’s hands clacked over my dad’s keyboard, doing…whatever the hell he did, when he said, “I’m in!”

My chest tightened. Let it still be there. Let it still be there!

“Jesus, man,” Sean cut in. “Your dad was up to some shit.” He half-turned to look at me over his shoulder. “What’d he do to piss you off anyway?”

Sean knew what Sean needed to know, which was pretty much nothing.

But Alec had been there, seen the aftermath.

He’d kept his mouth shut and helped me work my plan—every part of it.

I trusted him with my life. And Sean? Only reason I’d pulled him in was his talent for hacking.

With him, I had two things I could count on: his thirst for cash, and his need to not get his ass caught.

Both of which worked for me. He was predictable, and predictable was good.

I cleared my throat. “He did enough.”

He clicked something that set the printer off and sheet after sheet came out. The stack got deeper, and my adrenaline spiked, ’cause my father’s fall was inbound. And I couldn’t wait to bring him down.

“The files are up, and ready. Everything you need is here. Your dad’s good as screwed.” Sean swiveled his chair to face me. “What about the rest of my money?”

Alec shoved his brother’s shoulder. “The job’s not done yet, dickhead.”

I tugged the hood of my navy sweatshirt up and eyed Sean. “Alec’s got the rest of your cash at home.”

Sean flipped his brother off and Alec smirked, but it was tight, ’cause the hardest part was yet to come.

“How long before the security cameras reengage?” I asked.

Flipping his wrist, Sean checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

Good. “Are the emails sent?” The ones to dad’s clients—the clients he’d stolen a hell of a lot from.

“Done!”

My nod was sharp. “Wipe the keyboard,” I told him. “Get ready to move.”

He did, spraying it down before he scrubbed his prints from the trackpad and keys, then bagged up the cleaning supplies.

A familiar engine roared off in the distance, headlights speeding closer when my old man’s SUV barreled down our wealthy, suburban street. The houses were all two-story, six-bedroom, three-car garage beasts with white picket fences and a shit ton of secrets.

“It’s go time, Alec.” I straightened and rolled my shoulders. It all came down to what happened next, and the rest was on me. “Make the call.”

He pulled a voice modulator and burner phone from the black bag on the desk.

Sean’s hand shot out, stopping him, words for me when he said, “Once he does this, there’s no going back.”

I was already too far down that road. No matter how things shook out, I was screwed. I’d already calculated that loss. But as things sat, my life hovered on a ledge. Had done since everything with my brother went down. If I didn’t act… Nah. Not an option. I’d waited long enough.

“Do it,” I told Alec.

Dialing, he lifted the phone to his mouth.

“Nine-one-one. What’s the address of your emergency?” the woman said from the other end of the line.

Alec’s electronically distorted voice recited his script. “There’s a domestic in progress at 49 Summerfield Street. Send the police.” He hung up.

The cops would come, but they wouldn’t rush. They knew our house well enough. Knew what they’d be walkin’ into. They’d never been useful before. But this time was different.

Dad whipped into the driveway with Ma in the passenger seat. Her head jerked forward when he slammed the brakes, tires screeching as he skidded to a stop. The driver’s door launched open.

“Go. Hide,” I told Alec and Sean, then grabbed the stack of printouts and headed for the hall.

“Xavier.” Alec’s dark eyes pinned mine and held. “Handle the fucker.”

My nod was sharp.

He and Sean bolted for the door that connected to the garage while I picked up my pace, my pulse pounding in my ears as I beelined for the front entrance.

A second later, my father barreled inside.

I dropped the documents, pages scattering as my fist flew and found his face.

A loud crack filled the house when his nose broke.

Blood spattered the light gray walls as he rocked back and collided with the doorframe.

The whites of his eyes stood out under the chandelier before they tracked to me.

I bared my teeth. “Welcome home, asshole.”

He dragged the back of his arm across his mouth, streaking his dress shirt sleeve in red. His pale blue eyes—the twins of mine—glared back at me. “Think you’re tough now, huh, boy?”

The smile that split my lips held a lifetime worth of vengeance.

But I wasn’t like him, and I never would be.

I didn’t react. I planned. I knew what he’d do before he did, ’cause Peter Bosch was a walkin’ time bomb.

Predictable as hell. If you knew what buttons to hit, he’d detonate.

And the prick had a lotta buttons. Hit first, ask questions later. That’s what he did. Every. Damn. Time.

And I was done living his way.

He swung, and I ducked. His punch arced wide, and the momentum threw his torso around.

I launched a hit, connecting hard with his cheek.

The blow split the skin and drove him back.

He smashed into the family portrait on the wall—one done two years before, when Fallon was still alive.

It dropped to the floor. The frame cracked. Glass shattered.

Dad blinked hard. Blood leaked down the side of his face. His eyes went wide, more from shock than fear. Not a surprise, seeing as it was the first time I’d swung on him. Or fought back. Ever.

We were the same height. He had a good fifty pounds on me, but I was prepared. I’d made sure of that.

His nostrils flared, a tell. He kicked off the wall and bent low to tackle me.

I sidestepped and my fist flew again. He tried to duck, but I was ready for him.

So goddamn ready. His movements were slow, uncoordinated, and when my hit found its mark, colliding with his temple, he dropped like the two-hundred-pound sack of shit he was.

Flipping him onto his stomach, I pulled a zip tie from my pocket, hogtieing his hands and feet. I dragged him into the living room, then lifted him, settling his crooked ass into the chair there.

He groaned.

I picked a clump of pages off the floor and the duct tape from the coffee table, then strapped that evidence to his chest and him to the chair. Taking a black marker from my back pocket, I wrote what I needed the cops to see.

A gasp snapped my head up. Ma stood in the doorway, hands over her mouth. The wind from outside flipped the strands of her bleach-blonde hair around her face and blew the papers at her feet across the floor. “Xavier,” she breathed. “What are you doing?”

I eyed the bruise over her collarbone—the one she’d done a decent job covering with makeup. Practice made perfect, and all that.

“What no one else will, Ma,” I said. “He’ll never hurt you again. This ends tonight, yeah?”

Her emerald-colored eyes darted between us, then turned red and glassy, her terror rooting her feet. It always did, but too much was on the line. I couldn’t let her freeze. It wasn’t like she’d tell the cops everything he’d done. She never did. But she couldn’t let me down again. Not this time.

I stepped in front of her to cut her off from Dad and force her attention my way. “Take the SUV. Start a new life. There’s a folder with everything you need on the passenger seat.” One Alec would’ve slipped there by then. Directions to a safe house. Cash. A new identity. All of it.

Something like hope filled her eyes until she scurried closer, and it flickered out. “Are you coming too?”