Sean kicks back in his camping chair, and in a sudden move, Dom leaps from his own and shoves Sean’s chest, tipping him over. Dom and Tyler both chuckle as Sean curses and stands brushing the dirt from his pants before fishing out a pack of cigarettes from his jeans.
“You broke my fucking smokes, dickhead.”
“Shouldn’t be smoking anyway,” Dom says, pulling a joint from his backpack.
I lift a brow. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Serious enough, brother,” he mumbles, lips wrapped around the joint as Sean strikes his Zippo.
“Just hold off on that a minute,” I order.
Dom reads me and nods, tucking the joint behind his ear.
“What’s the update on the garage?” I ask, between the three of them. “How close are we?”
“It’s done. As soon as I get my settlement money,” Dom says. “No other offers on the table because no one else around here has the money to buy it.”
Tyler chimes in, his brows drawn tight. “What’s the point of the garage with everything else we have going on? Is it just a front?”
“No,” I say, gaze straying back to the fire. “It will be a legitimate business. We’ll be fixing cars and taking money for it. The legal age for mechanics in this state is sixteen. But we’ll need a few more in order to make a decent profit and handle overhead costs.”
“I know someone,” Tyler adds, “name’s Russell, he’s been teaching us how to work on the classics Sean’s uncle left us. He’s old enough. And he’s fucking good.”
“Trust him?”
“Yeah,” Tyler nods. “He’s good people and never been printed either.” We have a strict no print rule when vetting new birds for obvious reasons. We don’t want anyone associated with us with fingerprints in any database—even as a juvenile—which makes it harder to find the type of recruits we need. We need smart thieves and good men, but in our neck of the woods and with the meth spike, they’re hard to come by.
“Bring him in. I want to meet him.”
Tyler nods. “I’ll see if he knows anyone else.”
My eyes drift back to the flames, and it’s then I’m struck by the thought of my parents, locked in a room as similar flames surround them while they scream for help. It’s no mystery why that image of them is weighing on my mind.
Picking up some kindling, I toss it into the fire. “I saw Roman up close for the first time today.”
“Where?” Sean asks.
“The library,” Dominic supplies, “when he came to pick me up.”
I glance over at my brother, mildly surprised. He was in the far corner of the library, engrossed in his book when Roman strolled in, looking weightless as if he wasn’t responsible for ruining lives. But I guess he wouldn’t be weighed down with guilt. Men like him consider my parents ‘the help,’ no more than liabilities whose murder probably inconvenienced him more than anything else. He’ll never know that my mother was the only woman capable of getting me out of my moods, of soothing my temper with a few words, of making me smile not just with expression but with my whole being. He’ll never understand the notion of my stepfather’s American dream. Or that my parents chose the town he’s monopolized to create a better life for us—and for the woman he rescued from her mad husband and her bastard son. Even if he was made aware, I doubt he would care. Because it was evident by the way he treated his own daughter today, he’s got no weaknesses of his own.
Dom stares back at me, irritated. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the man who murdered my parents?” He scoffs. “You think I’m still too busy playing video games and jacking off?” The look in his eyes is one of an old soul, not a kid inching toward sixteen.