My stomach is tied up in knots. I rub my hand over my jaw as I sit on the couch in my room, trying to decide on a course of action. We need to do something about Hunter. Fast. We’ve pissed off the OG Bastards multiple times in the last week, and I assume they’re gearing up to strike back at us. I work my jaw to the side, knowing deep in my heart of hearts this war was always coming. We were simply too young and blind to see it before now. Go figure that we thought our parents were going to be there for us, that they’d be men we could look up to. Painful lessons we’ve been learning these last few years, but especially as this final year at Bainbridge Hall has started.
Glancing down at Hunter’s phone, I punch in his passcode. Yesterday, we’d taken it from him, only to see a notification from Tristan, checking in to see if Hunter had spoken to Quincy and Arik. Obviously, we had to respond, but Mason had fucked up Hunter’s face too bad to use the facial identification to open the phone. We’d finally wrangled the number from him with a knife to his throat.
Yep, I pulled his own goddamn knife out of his pocket to use on him. It was probably the one he used to control Lennon. I’d say he deserved it.
I want to make sure there’s nothing else I need to respond to, so I take another look at that thread of messages.
Q & A?
Made contact. Lazy fuckers.
See you tomorrow at the club.
Good. No response, so there’s no need for another text. Thank fuck. The less information we give them, the better.
In reality, we don’t know where Quincy and Arik are. If they aren’t here and they didn’t go to the OGs to beg forgiveness, they’ve probably either tucked their tails between their legs and gone home to their parents or … they didn’t find their way out that night. Honestly, if they didn’t, that’s on them. All they had to do was follow the damn tracks of the SUV to the main road.
I take a deep breath, looking over at Duke, Lennon, and Mason sacked out in the middle of my bed, sound asleep. It’s for the best. I don’t know how else to help them right now. We need to get as much out of him as possible before we dump him off at the club like the trash he is. I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment. I’d better keep to questions regarding what went down at the auction. I don’t want to alert our fathers in any way that we’re on to the fact something horrific is happening at the club.
Considering my options, I figure I’m the only one capable of questioning Hunter in any logical manner. Can’t send Mason out there. He’d finish him off. And now that we know Hunter was messing with Juliette, Duke’s out, too. And I’d never ask it of Lennon. So. I’m the best candidate we have, even though I want to throttle him for touching Lennon and just be done with him. I blow out a breath and get up, leaving Hunter’s phone on the table next to the couch and head downstairs to go visit the latest in our series of prisoners.
As I walk past the kitchen island, a Priority Mail Express envelope catches my eye. I frown, then pick it up, turning it over to see who it’s for. It’s literally addressed to The Bastards of Bainbridge Hall, and the return address is a post office box. No name. What. The. Fuck. My eyes crash shut for a moment as I steel myself. My gut clenches over and over like it’s attempting to alert me to something.
Pushing down the sick feeling, I pull the tab so I can examine the contents. There are two things in there: a bunch of eight-by-ten photos … and a white nightie. I drop everything to the counter, my vision tunneling. No. No, no, no. A rough swallow works down my throat, and I’m afraid the spit that’s traveled down to my stomach is going to come back up.
The images are of Lennon … laid out on some sort of table. In the first few photos I glance through, she’s wearing the nightie—the one I’m staring at—that’d gone missing the night of the auction. But then they get progressively worse—hands touching her and her skin glistening as if it’s wet. Oh Jesus. The last few, she’s completely nude, her legs splayed wide. Fuck. Fuck!
Rage burns through my veins as I shove everything back into the envelope, my heart ramming around behind my rib cage. It threatens to crash right through and spill onto the floor. My mind spins back to the way Lennon had described feeling. Dirty. Sticky. Unclean. Fuck, fuck, fuck. With my jaw clenched so tight it might shatter from the pressure, I storm from the house with the evidence of Lennon’s assault under my arm.
Inside the pool house, my eyes land on the fucker directly responsible. I slap the envelope on a table before stalking over to him where his head hangs. We left him tied to a chair (we’re getting good at that), and I lift his face with a few fingers, then slap him hard across his cheek with the other hand.
He sputters and moans as he comes to. His face is a swollen mess, and he looks at me through eyes that are hardly capable of opening. “Wha—?”
“What do I want? You’re going to answer some fucking questions for me right now.”
He glares at me, despite the fact that he’s completely at my mercy. “Fuck you,” he spits.
I don’t hesitate, and he doesn’t see my retaliation for that comment coming—maybe he thinks I’m the fuckin’ nice guy. Well, fuck that. I grab him by the throat and squeeze. Hard. I’m capable of gripping and holding a football with one hand. I will do him damage if I apply pressure. I’m this close to snapping. “Let’s get something straight, right now. If you don’t talk, don’t tell me what I want to know, I have no problem with your corpse joining Quincy and Arik’s where I left them.” I give him a violent shake that has his eyes bulging. “Now, fuckin’ get ready to answer every question I have.” I let go and begin to pace as he gasps for air. His eyes watch every move I make, and I feel better knowing he’s scared shitless.
He should be. Those photos. Fuck! I rake my hands into my hair, finally whirling to face him again. “You no longer needed Elliot because knowledge of who Mase was—and who he wasn’t—would be … a more effective way to get Murdock out of prison. Yes or no?”
He nods.
“What were you going to do with Elliot?”
“Take h-her. B-back room.” Every word from his mangled mouth is a struggle for him.
“The fuck are you talking about? What back room?” The place in the photos, obviously. But where the fuck?
I lunge at him, getting right in his face, and the slimy bastard straight-up whimpers before opening his mouth to speak. “Off-office. Behind b-books.”
My brows dart up. Oh, shit. Are we talking about a motherfucking room in our goddamn house that we never knew existed? Like a war room? Or some sort of sick red room like in that Fifty Shades of Grey movie? Hidden. In Bainbridge Hall. My head is close to exploding with the thought of it. Fuckin’ focus, Gideon. “And were you going to do to her what you did to Lennon?”
He huffs out an uneven breath. Nods.
“Photos, am I right? Send them to her uncle, the lawyer. To threaten him.”
Hunter looks baffled at how right on the money I am, so he obviously wasn’t the one to send the motherfucking care package to us. But I don’t give a fuck. He doesn’t need to know how I know.
He heaves out a breath. “Got a call from the prison. M-middle of the fucking auction. Dad wanted to know m-more about the contents of the journal.” His jaw clenches. “And you all f-fucked up my move on Elliot while I was busy.” His eyes roll around crazily in his head.
My stomach threatens to eject its contents. “So you took Lennon instead.”
“N-never go back to the OGs empty handed. That b-bitch needed a fuckin’ l-lesson, anyway.”
“There’s a special place in hell for people like you, Hunter.” I slam my fist into his face. “I hope you enjoy the ride down.”
