Курок Дуглас Пенелопа

I took it.

He left, and I turned it on, seeing it was armed with a pattern passcode. I couldn’t get into it, but there were several notifications visible just on her lock screen.

Mostly from Rika.

An article in the town paper about Winter’s performance last night.

Talk on social media and some videos. Lots of shares and comments as the video spread outside of our town.

I squeezed the phone. She didn’t think she was getting out of here, did she?

And then I expanded a text from Rika. It was a screenshot of a Twitter comment on the video of Winter dancing:

 

This girl should be everywhere! Why isn’t she touring?

 

Rika texted below the image:

 

What she said! Need some sponsors? I might know a few. Let’s talk.

 

I gritted my teeth together, barking at the dog. “Kom-yen ya!”

He scurried to my side as I left the room, and I carried the phone downstairs and dropped it on the foyer table. I whipped open the front door, charging out of the house.

Fuckin’ Rika.

“Stay,” I told Crane who stood in the driveway, washing the other car. “She doesn’t leave.”

He nodded, and I jumped in my car, the dog taking the passenger seat. I sped off, kicking it into high gear in less than five seconds.

Goddamn her.

My ex-friends were the only people who could protect those in Winter’s life I threatened, and that’s why I needed Rika on my side. Seemed she was tired of waiting for me to keep my end of the bargain, though, so she was trying to undo hers.

She gave me Winter. Now she was trying to take her away.

 

 

I stepped into the large hall, hanging back in the shadows as lots of activity happened around the room. I’d missed this place. Hunter-Bailey was a nice club to relax because it was geared for men and didn’t allow women.

Other than one.

After some digging, I’d found out Rika had installed two bouting nights per week at Hunter-Bailey for fencing, and one of them was tonight. It had always been a hobby of hers, as well as collecting swords and various kinds of daggers, and while no other woman was permitted on the premises, Rika could come and go as she pleased as long as she was covert about it. The perks of having a star athlete fianc for the Meridian City Storm, and a future father-in-law who owned a large fraction of the city.

Boxers went at it in a ring to the left, some worked out, and others lounged on chairs with drinks, chatting it up. I followed the sound of foils clanging together and veered to the other room off to the right and entered, seeing more chairs occupied, a full bar, and members in the middle of the room dueling it out, dressed in their white protective gear and helmets.

I spotted Rika right away. Her body was unmistakable in the tight pants.

She lunged for her opponent, landing her point right in his heart, and I heard him growl and back away before setting himself up again.

I wanted to go over there and drag her off now, but I wasn’t supposed to be in here, Michael having had them cancel my membership two years ago. I was barely able to sneak in at all.

I watched the way she stepped and retreated, rolling her wrists and swinging her arm. Like choreography. Methodical. It was like chess with strategy, but also like a dance. Graceful and statuesque.

I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, leaning against the wall and watching her, but she finished, and I didn’t even know if she’d won. Keeping her mask on, she put up her foil, and walked to the other side of the room, ascending the stairs.

I followed.

They didn’t have a female locker room here—or they didn’t the last time I was here—so I imagined she changed in a private room.

I climbed the two flights of stairs, and once at the third floor, I stepped quietly down the hallway. Doors lined both sides and I was unsure of where she went.

There were offices, a library, a few bedrooms, and on the right, I passed a billiards room, the door open and Rika leaning on the pool table with her back to me. I stopped, seeing her staring at a collection of weapons hung on the wall.

“Michael didn’t want me to come tonight,” she said.

I smiled to myself. Couldn’t sneak up on her anymore.

“He knew you knew my routine,” she continued. “But lately, and with as happy as I am with so much in my life, the bouts are the only time I feel like I’m sure of what I’m doing anymore. The only time my strike is sure. I couldn’t miss it.”

She stood up and turned around, still dressed in her fencing gear minus the helmet. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and she looked down at the pool table, absently rolling the pink ball back and forth.

“You know, after our meeting at the club that night,” she told me, “I started reading up on chess. I mean, I knew how to play. My father made sure of it. But I wasn’t very clever with it.”

I approached the table, listening.

“I thought each piece’s power increased based on its proximity to the king, but that’s not true.” She looked up at me. “Other than the queen, the most powerful player is—”

“The rook,” I said.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“So you’re finally ready to begin?” I asked, pouring myself a glass of bourbon.

But she just turned around, looking back at the wall of weapons. “The game has already begun.”

My pulse throbbed harder in my neck as I carried my drink to the table. I lived for this shit.

But while I liked my games, intrigue, and going wild, I didn’t like doing it alone. I wanted someone on my side. I wanted her on my side.

“All of this is mine,” she said, gesturing to the wall of weapons and turning her head to meet my eyes. “It’s only taken me a few months to gather it. Some purchase, some traded, and some borrowed from private collections.”

She turned back around, studying it again, and I stared at the back of her head as I took a swig of the alcohol.

“The curator of the Menkin Museum would love to have this for her weapons exhibit next summer,” she explained. “And I’m prepared to let her have it in exchange for a favor from her husband, whenever I choose to call it in.”

A favor? Who was her husband?

She paused and then clarified, “Her soon-to-be police commissioner husband, Martin Scott.”

I blinked long and hard, anger winding its way through my stomach.

Martin Scott.

As in Emory Scott.

The girl with the abusive—police officer—older brother whom Kai and Will were sent to prison for assaulting as payback for beating up on his little sister.

The little sister who wasn’t little anymore and who Will was still obsessed with.

He hated us, and was now more powerful than ever.

Rika shot up, grabbed a sword off the wall, and whipped around, holding it at her side and pinning me with a stare. “And guess where he plays billiards every Friday night?” she taunted.

Goddammit. My hand tightened around the glass.

“See, the thing I always wondered about was,” she said, circling the table, and I did the same, glass in hand. “Kai and Will served time for assaulting Martin Scott, but…” She eyed me. “They weren’t the only ones there. Someone was filming.”

You little shit.

“And that’s like… aiding and abetting, right?” she asked.

The glass shattered in my fist, and I felt the sting of a cut as the liquid spilled and the shards fell to the ground.

She just smirked at me, a glint in her blue eyes. “Queen takes rook.”

You fucking bitch.

“Fucking little monster,” I muttered, breathing lava out of my nose.

“Kai and Will protected you,” she stated, fighting not to smile. “That charge along with the statutory rape charge? You would still be in prison. If Martin Scott were to find out…

“There’s no proof.”

“There’s Kai and Will,” she fired back. “And they’re mad at you right now.”

Goddamn her. Martin Scott knew it was me filming his much-deserved beat-down, but without a reason for Will and Kai to be silent about my part in it anymore, all I had was Rika. She pulled the strings.

She circled the table, held up the sword, and pointed it at me. “You will not force her,” she ordered her terms. “You will not threaten, torture, or coerce her into your bed. You will not touch her.”

I shot out my hands, planting them on the pool table and leaning over it to look her in the eyes. “And if she wants me to touch her?”

“It’s good to dream big, Damon.”

I almost snorted, but I couldn’t contain my smile. “God, you’re like a female version of me,” I said. “It’s turning me on.”

“Makes sense. You love yourself best.”

I stood upright again, brushing off my hands. She was exquisite, and if she weren’t working against me, I’d think she was brilliant.

Smart. Tough. Clever.

And cold when she needed to be.

Cold.

“The queen,” I mused, rolling a ball on the table as a memory came to mind. “The snow queen.”

She thinned her eyes, probably confused.

“Years ago,” I explained, “when your father brought his young bride here from South Africa, I’m told my father was quite enamored of her. She reminded him of the beautiful snow queen from the Nutcracker ballet.” I tipped my chin down, casting her a knowing look. “And that’s what he called her. His little snow queen.”

She growled and lunged, and I shot backward just as she slammed the sword on the table. Leaping onto the table, she forwent charging around it to chase me, and hopped off, going straight for me.

Did she not like me insinuating my father got inside her mother’s panties?

She swung for my legs, but I stomped my foot on the sword, knocking it out of her hand, and threw her down on the floor, pressing her shoulders into the wood.

Her face was red with fury.

“The queen is the most valuable player,” I told her, “but to win, she’s not the last one standing. Her job…” I paused, arching an eyebrow, “is to protect the king.”

She pulled out a knife from somewhere and pressed the side of the blade into my neck.

Jesus. She must be fun in bed.

I grinned. “You won’t hurt me.”

“And why not?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word!” she snapped. “You don’t care about me!”

“I would kill for you,” I shot back, getting in her face.

The incredulous look on her face, like she didn’t know if she should be touched or laughing, mimicked exactly what was happening in my head right now.

Yes.

It kind of just came out, but I thought it was true. At one time, I would’ve killed for Michael, Kai, and Will. I might still.

But I’d definitely kill for Erika and Banks. They may not like me a whole lot, but they understood me.

I pushed her knife off my neck and looked down at her.

“Now I’m impressed, but you’re on the wrong side,” I told her.

And then I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out the flash drive with the information Alex had retrieved. The proof I said I would get in exchange for the information on Winter’s father Rika got for me.

She looked at me, realization crossing her eyes and all the anger leaving her face as she took it from my hand.

Getting off her, I sat down next to her. “There’s more coming. Gimme a few days.”

“It’s bad?” she asked, turning her head to look at me.

“It’s exactly what I told you last year,” I said. “I told you I don’t lie. Evans Crist—and my father—had yours killed.”

It was something I’d picked up over years of accidently overhearing conversations in my house, and I’d had Alex working Evans Crist—Michael’s father—and gathering security cam footage and bank statements that I knew he kept just in case, so he could hold it over my father if he ever needed to.

“Your father was involved?” Rika asked. “Why yours?”

It was a good question, and one I wasn’t sure how to answer yet. It was obvious why Evans wanted to get rid of Schraeder Fane. They were friends, and Evans had power of attorney over his friend’s estate in case anything happened. And Evans saw his chance. He wanted to marry Rika off to his son Trevor when she grew up, so the Fane fortune would be theirs. He knew Schraeder had no plans to allow his daughter to marry too young, though, and he knew Rika’s mother was much more pliable.

As for my father helping, I had no idea why. He wasn’t getting anything out of it. Maybe just a favor?

“I don’t know that yet,” I told her.

She sat up, and I watched her stare at the drive as she fingered the scar on her neck. The one she got when she was thirteen in the car accident that killed her father because his brakes had been cut. Gabriel and Evans didn’t expect her to be in the car that day, but thank goodness she lived.

Because I needed her and we had shit to do.

 

 

 

Winter

 

Five Years Ago

 

“All set?” Sara Dahlberg asked as she walked into the ticket booth.

I pooled all the nickels into my hand, dumped them back into the tray, and recorded the sum on a notepad, fingering the indentations of my pen marks to find where I needed to write the total. “Yep.”

“I’ll count your bills.” She pulled the tray over to her side, and I heard the shuffle of money as she counted the rest of my bank.

“Thanks.”

I shut down my computer and switched off the marquee outside, the constant buzz of the lighting above finally dying. I’d only been working here about eight weeks, but already that sound was killing me. I would’ve rather worked concessions inside, but the theater manager was concerned about how I would manage behind the counter with the chaos of other employees moving about. I had ideas, but she had a system that worked, so…

I didn’t really expect much more from her, though. She didn’t think I should do a lot of things. She only gave me this job right before my junior year started several weeks ago to shut me up about dancing with the company, since the theater not only showed movies but held plays, symphonies, and ballets.

I’d started looking for a job when the last school year ended to stay busy and enjoy some independence, but I’d had rotten luck, so it was either this or stay home to revel in Arion’s constant self-importance and listen to my parents fight.

“’Okay,” Sara said. “Here you go.”

I held out my arms, and she placed the tray with the count on a piece of paper in my hold, and held the door open for me as I left the little room. I tucked the tray under my arm, propped up on my hip, and held out my free hand to walk the path to the manager’s office. I’d gotten used to navigating it over the past two months, counting my steps and feeling my way.

Two months.

Two months since I’d started working an actual job.

Two months until Christmas and the only time Arion and I got along.

Two months plus one until I was seventeen.

And less than two years until I graduated, and two years since I’d spoken to him.

Two whole years.

The night of the car ride and motorcycle ride was the last time he paid me a visit. Why hadn’t he come back?

Scenarios and fears raced through my mind over time.

He’d been arrested.

He’d moved.

He’d died.

All of those were agonizing possibilities, but not nearly as painful as facing the most likely one.

He’d lost interest.

He’d had his fun, moved on, and was happy and laughing with someone else, while I sat around and missed him.

I thought that was why it was a good idea to get a job. If you can’t keep your head on straight, then at least keep busy.

I was still constantly aware of him, though. Living my life as if he were watching me. Curling my hair, asking Ari for makeup advice—which she loved and was actually really nice about helping with—and dancing. Dancing late at night after everyone had gone to bed in hopes that he was there and would know it was safe to come out.

Two strange but fascinating visits two years ago, and I still walked around like he was watching me.

Because, I swore, sometimes I thought he was. After that Devil’s Night and he disappeared, I could be at a party or a basketball game or sitting on the terrace under the awning in a summer rain and listening to my audiobook, and then…I’d feel it. The heat of his eyes.

I guessed he could’ve still been watching, but why cut off contact?

Probably just my mind playing tricks on me, but it made it hard to forget him. He’d definitely succeeded at making an impression, hadn’t he?

And in all the time since I’d last spoken to him, I hadn’t told anyone about him. I’d joined the dance club at school, made some new friends, and even though I felt a lot more comfortable there now, it was the one place that was drama free for me. I could only imagine how the story of my mysterious interlude with a dark stranger would suddenly turn into a story of how I was forced to dance for a psycho serial killer who wanted to dress me up in pigtails and keep my feet as souvenirs. No, thank you. I wouldn’t let anyone ruin it.

Not to mention, telling others risked my parents finding out, and that would be bad.

Carrying the tray up the stairwell, I walked into the manager’s office and set it down on her desk.

“Thank you, Winter,” she said. “How are you? You seem to be doing well down there.”

Yeah. “A nine-year-old could do that job.”

“Winter…” she scolded.

I wasn’t really joking, though. It was the truth. A typical teenage job. While I didn’t need the money, it was nice to earn my own cash and have something low-stress, so it didn’t distract from school, but it was also a job she thought I could do. She’d picked it for me.

And I wanted to do more.

I stood there, hovering, and she must’ve seen the look on my face, because she stopped counting the money.

“You nearly broke an arm,” she reminded me, sighing.

I fell practicing over a year ago. Dancers fell and broke bones all the time.

“You can’t dance with the corps,” she went on. “You learn slower than we can work with. The wrong fall could kill you. I mean…do you know what you’re asking of us, honey?”

My jaw locked, because she was tired of this conversation, and I had no new arguments. I danced on that stage downstairs many times when I was little. I danced at home with no accidents. Yes, it took me longer to learn my stage, and I would make everyone’s job just a little bit harder and that sucked, but it wasn’t impossible. I’d gone over it in my head a thousand times, mapping the choreography—mine and the other dancers’. I just wanted a shot.

She rose from her chair, the wheels squeaking underneath, and she pinched my chin lightly between her fingers.

“Challenges find us so we can become who we’re meant to be,” she told me. “God has taken you on an exciting new path. Trust his judgment and see where it leads.”

What the hell?

“I bought a first-class ticket,” I told her. “I’m not taking the bus.”

And I spun around, heading back down the stairwell.

People were priceless. The things we told ourselves to justify giving up and falling in line like we had to accept anything less than what we wanted. Like fighting for your dream was a bad thing.

I would tour, and people would pay to watch me.

Heading into the ticket booth, I gathered up my school bag and phone, and switched off the light, heading back into the lobby and out the front doors. I called my driver to check if she was almost here, but there was no answer, so I left a voicemail. Since Arion was away studying abroad this semester for college, and my parents had schedules to keep, my mother arranged a car service in town to pick me up and drop me off to and from work. It probably cost more than I was making, but since our town didn’t have a public transportation system, I couldn’t manage any other way. I tried to give them my paychecks to cover the cost, but my mom wouldn’t take it.

I stood out on the town sidewalk, hearing the cars drive by and music coming from Sticks across the square, but I stayed close to the theater doors, just to be on the safe side, until my ride showed. The concession staff was still in there cleaning, so I had help if I needed it.

“Hey, Winter,” someone said across the street. “Want a ride?”

Sara. She’d worked the booth with me tonight, and trained me when I started the job. She must just be leaving, too.

“Oh, no, I’m okay,” I told her. “My driver should be here soon.”

“My driver…” someone repeated, chuckling.

I didn’t recognize the voice. Did I just sound pretentious?

“I can’t leave you standing there,” Sara joked. “Come on. Cancel your car. We’ll take you.”

We?

I pondered for a moment, not really having a good reason to say no. The driver wouldn’t care. She’d still get paid and get in bed earlier tonight.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

Car doors slammed, an engine started, and tires skidded, the car coming around to my side of the street.

Sara got out and took my hand, leading me to the car. I gently pulled my hand out and placed it on her arm.

“Do you know Astrid Colby?” she asked, holding the back door open for me. “And her boyfriend, Miles Anderson? They’re both seniors. This is his car.” And then, “You guys, this is Winter Ashby.”

I stopped. “Oh, I don’t want to cause any inconvenience.” I thought she was driving. “I have a ride coming. It’s fine.”

I didn’t know Astrid and Miles, but I knew of them. I definitely got the impression they were trouble.

“Relax.” Sara nudged me. “We’ll have you home in no time.”

Fine. As long as she was here, it should be okay, I guess.

I pulled my bag off and climbed into the car, smelling cigarette smoke and sucking in a breath as the cold leather seats hit the backs of my thighs. I still wore my theater uniform—pleated skirt, button down, and bow tie—but as soon as I was settled, I sent a message to the driver.

After Sara got in and shut the door, we sped off. I felt the car turning, so I assumed we were rounding the square, and next probably cutting through the neighborhood toward the highway.

Judging from the deep rumble of the engine, the leather bench seat I sat on, and the heavy sound of the door closing a moment ago, it was an old car. Classic American muscle, maybe? I didn’t want to be a traitor or anything, because the spaciousness was nice, but I preferred the sound and feel of another car. His car. The only car I’d ever driven and probably would ever drive. Agile, fast, quick to respond…. It drove like slicing butter.

And him underneath me. That might’ve had something to do with my loyalty to that car, too.

I thought it was a BMW. My sister got one for graduation, and I sat in it, damn near falling into a trance when I felt the exact same circular emblem in the middle of the steering wheel as he had in his car.

“Turn off your brights, asshole,” the guy driving said.

“He’s like right on our ass, too,” Astrid commented.

“Yeah, you’re being followed, Miles,” Sara added, teasing. “It’s almost Devil’s Night. Let the pranks begin.”