The bench. A place no football player wants to be. Especially not mid-season of their senior year. This makes things really fucking difficult as far as my future career goes, but I keep reminding myself that it doesn’t do me any good to play injured either—or doped up—and risk it all. Still, it feels fuckin’ weird to be out on the sidelines in my jersey. No helmet. No pads. No athletic tape holding me together. Just a damn jersey.
As our offense comes off the field and the defense takes their place, I glance back into the enormous stands behind us. This stadium may be huge, but my eyes immediately locate Lennon, Duke, and Mason in the same section and seats they’d watched the game from last time. It’s a shame I’m not playing, because Lennon looks so damn cute wearing the jersey I got for her. When she walked out of my bathroom with a bold 86 scrawled on her cheek, it’d made my heart thump double time in my chest. It’s good to see all three of them up there. I lift my hand and plaster a smile on my face that they know better than to believe, but that’s okay. They understand the pressure I’m under, and that’s why they’re here.
I have plenty of friends who support me by coming to watch me play tight end for the Kingston Lions. But the real, true ones are those who show up for me even while I’m riding the bench. Duke and Mason have been by my side for years. Through thick and thin. That’s maybe the only reason why I’m grateful Murdock didn’t know without a doubt Mason wasn’t his. If he had, he would have disowned him, and I’d never have known Mason the way I do. I chew on my cheek, contemplating what that would have been like—for both me and Duke to not have Mason in our lives. Unfathomable. And Lennon. He never would have gotten a chance to know her either … because he wouldn’t have been at fucking Bainbridge Hall at all. That realization has me frowning hard. I guess the fact that Lily hid Mason’s parentage worked in our favor. But then she’d died, taking that secret with her. Until now. Until the journal I’m certain she had no intention of anyone ever seeing, surfaced, revealing her affair with her husband’s friend.
I take a deep breath, blinking as Lennon smiles and gives me a little wave, a red lollipop clutched in her hand that she’s yet to eat. That girl. Fuck. No doubt she’ll taste like cinnamon and sunshine later.
At halftime, I stay with my team, jogging up through the tunnel to the locker room, but get waylaid before I can make it there by none other than one fuming Derek Pierce.
He fiercely grips me by the arm, just above my left elbow, but I don’t even flinch, which only serves to piss him off. “Get the fuck over here,” he grumbles. A moment later, his expression completely changes as Coach approaches. My father clears his throat. “Mind if I have a word with Bear?”
“Not at all.” Coach jerks his head toward the locker room. “You’ve got five minutes. I want you in there when I talk to the team.”
“Got it.” I nod and turn my attention to my father. I can only assume this is about the fact that I’m not playing today, but who the hell knows? I’d love to ask the asshole what the deal is with using our damn grunts to fucking spy on us, but we agreed as a group that we absolutely weren’t bringing it up yet. Let them wonder where the hell those two have fucked off to.
The reality is we can’t keep them tied up like that for very much longer. Hopefully, they’re learning part one of a very tough lesson. Part two I think we’ll be taking care of tonight.
While my brain has been whirring and the team has been filing into the locker room, my father and I have engaged in an epic stare down. The second my teammates are inside the locker room and the heavy door shuts behind them, my old man takes a menacing step in my direction. It’s kind of amusing since he hasn’t physically intimidated me in years. Even injured, he must know I’d kick his ass. One strategically thrown punch, and it’s lights fucking out. But I allow it. Why? Because I simply don’t care anymore what he thinks.
“Something you want to tell me, Bear? This is bullshit.” He glances around to make sure we’re alone. “I had the oxy sent over specifically so you could pull through the game.”
I wet my lips. “Let’s get really fucking honest here. I never know what your intentions are. One minute you play nice, the next you don’t. And … actually, I’ll say this—I don’t think you ever have done any of this to help me. Every move you make is about the mighty Derek Pierce and what he can get me to do for him. To further his own agenda. Not mine.”
He ignores what I’ve said, because clearly it means nothing to him. He doesn’t care about me one fuckin’ bit. Looking incensed, he grits out, “Why didn’t you inform me that you wouldn’t be playing today? It’s a goddamn embarrassment.”
I shrug, resting my hands on my hips. “Ask Coach. It was his decision.” A calm washes over me like I haven’t felt ever where my dad is concerned. I’ve finally begun to see that while my father could tell everyone I’ve been abusing prescription medication, he likely won’t. That threat he held over my head worked well before this—it’d been effective because I used to be scared of him. But I’m no longer afraid. Because if he tells my coach or anyone else about the medication that he’s supplied for me, and I get booted from the team? If that’s what keeps me from playing pro? I’ll go full public with all of it. Going through the withdrawals again, not to mention being at my father’s mercy—or lack thereof—I’m simply no longer interested in playing that game. I don’t care about the things my father could potentially do for me or the connections he has, because they all come with a price tag. And that’s not how I want to build my career, my future. I can do it without him.
Over the years, there’s been one thing that had given me cause for concern—the one thing my father was never entirely clear about—and that was whether or not he had Coach Cambridge in his back pocket or not. But I’ll be damned, it’s apparent from the irritation on my old man’s face that he most likely does not. He doesn’t dare question my coach why I’m not playing. And for that, I’m so fucking grateful.
He jabs his finger just below my bad shoulder. “This is fucking ridiculous. We’re Pierces. We play sick, injured, or otherwise. We don’t let our team down.”
“I’m not letting anyone down.” I don’t know what he’s bet on this game, but I’d wager it’s big from the mottled-red look on his face.
“The fuck you’re not. You’re letting me down!” he seethes, his quiet anger something that used to keep me under his thumb.
I draw myself up, shaking my head. Well, not anymore. “Fuck you, old man. You want me to fight tomorrow? Then, I sure as fuck can’t play today. I know that pisses you off, but you can’t have it both ways. Coach said I’m on the injured list for the moment, so I take the bench until further notice. Period. Done.”
I swear, it looks like his eyeballs are going to pop out of his head. “Fine. But you fight tomorrow. In the ring, I’m your coach and sponsor. You answer to me and me alone.” His chest heaves as he hisses, “How the fuck is it that it’s our own sons who are the embarrassment of Bainbridge Hall?”
“How are we embarrassing you? Did you—”
But before I can ask whether he knows that Mason isn’t Murdock’s son, he spits, “Tell your little gay boyfriends that we’re watching them. All of you.”
Holy shit. Whether there are cameras somewhere or Quincy and Arik reported Duke’s and Mason’s relationship back to the OGs, I don’t know … but that’s definitely not going to help matters. Not at all. Tristan, Murdock, and my father are not the sort to put gay pride stickers on their bumpers. I press my lips together in an attempt to keep all those thoughts to myself, and because I don’t respond, my father gives me a cold eye roll and takes off, blustering his way down the hall.
Just then, from the other direction, Duke and Mason hurry toward me with a green-looking Lennon between them.
Duke catches my eye first, his tone dead serious. “Lennon’s sick. We think one of those asshats did something to her stash of lollipops before we caught them.”
Hours later, I’m more exhausted than if I’d played in the game. I’d gotten permission from Coach to leave, and we’d taken Lennon straight home where she’d continued to vomit for an hour straight. Once she’d emptied her stomach, she swore she felt better and didn’t need to go to hospital. I don’t know what she has against being seen by medical professionals, but none of us wanted to argue with her.
There’d been no way we could ignore the assholes in the attic any longer. Since we also hadn’t wanted to let Lennon out of our sight, she’s currently asleep in the back of one of the SUVs, curled up with a pillow and a blanket. I’d driven with Lennon and her puke bucket—just in case—and Duke and Mason had brought our sorry-ass grunts in the other SUV.
They need to understand what they’ve done has severe ramifications. They could have killed Lennon. Who the fuck knows what was on that lollipop. I still can’t believe they blindly followed the OG’s instructions. I let out a sigh. Except, maybe I can. People look at our fathers and they seem larger than life. Powerful. So, I guess they thought they were doing what was expected of them. They didn’t once let on that they were responsible for what was happening, nor did we suspect them. Fuckin’ impressive, honestly, but also—Lennon suffered on numerous occasions, and they were fine with that, so I don’t feel badly about what they’re about to endure. In fact, it’d been obvious that they’d reveled in every aspect of fucking with her. That was before they understood the magnitude of their fuckup with us. And the OGs? They’re going to pay, too.
“Last time we’re going to ask you,” Duke grits out, eyeing Quincy and Arik side by side as he whips the blindfolds from their heads, “what’d you do to Lennon’s lollipops? Or did you swap out the ones she had stashed in her bag with something that was given to you? Because, frankly, I doubt you’ve got the brains enough to doctor something like that.”
These bumbling fools stand there, wild-eyed, looking all around. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, surrounded by trees and Georgia swamp. We’re about thirty minutes from Bainbridge Hall by car. This area is all peat-filled wetland. If they move in the wrong direction, they could be in real trouble. They’ve chosen silence tonight, and if that’s how these two want to play the game, then we’ll make damn fucking sure they regret their decision. By not giving us any intel, they’re sealing their fate. “Seriously. You don’t have a single fucking thing to say?”
Arik gives Quincy a nasty look, and I’m certain he’s easy enough to read. Don’t you fucking dare.
Mason steps closer to them. He has three lengths of rope in his hands. “Clothes off. Toss them over here.”
“Wha-what?” Quincy blinks.
I growl. “Do it. Now.” They’re fucking lucky we didn’t take them further into the boggy swamp. They’re right on the edge, though still in the middle of the wilderness. And now they’re about to be clothes-less.
With shaking hands and a few curse words thrown in, they begin undressing. Once they’re standing buck naked and covering their junk with their hands, Duke picks up all the clothing, then tosses it into the back of the SUV. Arik and Quincy stare, their mouths wide open. If it were me, I’d have started running already to see if I could figure out how to get out of here. Follow the tracks of the vehicles, maybe, though it’d be difficult in the dark. But nope, these two stand stock-still while Mason ties Quincy’s left wrist to Arik’s right, then the same at the ankles. For the grand finale, he ties the third length of rope to Arik’s left wrist, strings it behind them and catches Quincy’s right. They’re going to do nothing more than fumble around for hours, unable to untie themselves. I pitch a pair of flashlights and a compass about ten feet from them. Good luck using those.
Arik blinks hard. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You can’t leave us out here. Not like this.”
I shake my head. “The fuck we can’t. You should have come to us. The OGs are not who you report directly to. So, the fact that you’d knowingly inflict mental and physical harm on Lennon by someone else’s order? We don’t need that in our brotherhood. I don’t care what you thought you were doing.”
Duke gestures a hand around to the surrounding trees and then down to the wetlands beyond. “Good luck with this. See you if you can manage to get yourselves out of this mess. If the gators don’t get you, the bugs might. Though, whether you think it’s a good idea to show up back at the house is your decision. I guarantee you won’t be welcomed. Maybe you should go beg for the OG Bastards mercy, instead. I can’t tell you whether they’ll be any kinder than we’ve been, but my guess is they’ll express their disappointment.”
“You should probably fuck right off. Beg your parents for on-campus housing. You know, if you make it out of here.” Mason gives them that deep, terrifying stare of his that beams from his eyes when he’s really fucking pissed.
I meet Duke and Mason’s gazes and jerk my head toward the waiting vehicles.
As we turn to leave, Quincy holds his hand (and thereby, one of Arik’s) in the air to stop us. “Wait! It was Hunter who gave us the photos of Lennon! He also gave us the tainted lollipops. She left her bag on the dining room table. We traded the ones in it for the lollipops that he supplied us with. Then we went upstairs where you caught us in Mason’s room.” He shakes hard, one violent tremor after another rolling through his naked body. “Please …”
“So, wait.” Mason’s voice is low and gritty, his chaotic anger simmering just below the surface. “Even after you got caught, you didn’t bother to tell us about the lollipops. What, did you think that would be funny if you got one last jab in?” His brows shoot up waiting for an answer that never comes. He shakes his head, his scowl slipping into dangerous territory. “You don’t know what was on them. You could have fucking killed her.”
Arik looks away, unwilling to answer. Is he ashamed of what they’ve done? Or does he simply not fucking care? Not so easy to tell with that one. But Quincy? His lip begins to tremble. Hard.
“What the fuck were you doing in Mason’s room?” My jaw tenses, and I wonder if one of the dumbasses will answer in hopes that we’ll take him home.
“Hunter told us to look in Lennon’s room for anything that we could use against her. We thought we heard her in the hallway, so we used the balcony to move into Mason’s room to hide. But—”
“Shut the fuck up, Q,” Arik shoots his beady eyes at his supposed buddy.
Too bad for both of them, we’re beyond caring. The time for bargaining with us has long passed. I side-eye Mason to see how he’s taking the fact that his half brother was directly responsible for a whole lot of shit, and as I watch, his eyes grow as hard as flint.
I’d hate to be Hunter right about now. Because Mason may not have killed his mother, but that doesn’t mean he won’t put an end to someone who has so casually aligned himself with the man who did—especially now that we know what he’s been up to.
Makes me wonder what else he’s done …
