I’ve been thinking constantly about how I snapped on Liam—in front of Brayden—two nights ago. It was stupid of me, and now Brayden looks at me differently.
Where before he was quick to follow, irritating me with his smirk and his stupid questions, now he keeps his distance.
Considering I don’t like him anyway, it doesn’t bother me.
What bothers me is the fact he’s practically moved in and become another extension of the Westerly family. He’s just always around, hanging out with Zeke or whispering things into my sister’s ear, and when he isn’t with either of them, he’s doing runs for my dad, collecting dues from businesses or helping keep our low-level dealers in line.
My father seems to have zero issues trusting him, which, quite frankly, blows my fucking mind because my dad is notoriously paranoid. He always has been, and that increased tenfold when he got out of the pen and realized Nessa had changed the landscape of our name where he failed the first time around. He’s hesitant to bring on new people or partners and even more protective of who gets direct access to him. And to Dorothy.
Which is why I end up doing everything that involves more than a simple thought process.
So there’s something off putting about the way he’s allowed a complete stranger into his fold. I know Zeke vouched for him, and it’s not that I don’t trust Zeke’s word, but I don’t trust others, and Brayden could be lying to Zeke just as easy as the rest of us.
I’m in the back room of the greenhouse, protective gear on, my goggles over my eyes and a KN95 mask over my face when my phone rings.
I almost don’t answer, but at the last second, for some reason, I rip off the yellow glove on my hand and snatch it up.
“I’m busy,” I hiss into the phone, setting it on speaker and placing it on the table. I stare at the fifty-five-gallon oil drum across the room sitting on a steel platform with a burner underneath.
“Okay, but I’ve got that info you wanted,” Cody says. “Guess I’ll call back later.”
“Wait.”
He chuckles. “Shit, you’re eager. What are you doing anyway?”
I sigh, walking over to the oil drum, pressing a button to start the fire underneath, and then I move back toward the table and cross my arms. “I’m making sure he’s trustworthy since no one else in my family seems to give a shit.”
“Well, he checks out.”
My brows rise. “He does?”
Bending over, I pick up the fifteen kilograms of raw opium I bled from the seed pods, my muscles aching as I carry it toward the drum and drop it in the heating water.
“Yep. Brayden Walsh. Born thirty-two years ago in Chicago to a single mom who died from cancer when he was eighteen. No other relatives.”
“Interesting,” I murmur, although I’m sure Cody can’t hear me.
“Probably for the best. Not many families would be proud of the rap sheet he’s racked up. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”
Smirking, I walk back toward my phone and move the mask down to my neck. “Or embarrassing to be caught so many times.”
“True. But he either keeps his crimes petty or he’s not bad enough to get caught for the big ones. He’s never spent more than a few months behind bars.”
I run my tongue ring against the back of my lip. “So that’s it? Nothing seemed… off or weird?”
“Nope. You know, Evie… not everyone is out to get you. One day maybe you’ll realize that.”
My chest pulls.
Honestly, I thought I’d feel relieved that Brayden is who he says he is. After all, it means that he isn’t lying to my family. But on the other hand, it makes me irrationally angry he lied to me when we first met. Like I was the desperate one.
He doesn’t have much, but he does have the fucking audacity.
“Hmm.”
“What’s that mean?” Cody asks.
“That means ‘hmm,’ Cody, it doesn’t always have to mean something.”
“Why do you sound so muffled?” he continues. “I don’t know where you always are that has your phone breaking up like this, but honest to god, your cell service sucks.”
My muscles tighten, annoyed that I answered the phone in the first place. It’s times like these where I wish we wouldn’t have wired the greenhouse with technology, because I’d give anything to be out of contact completely while I’m here.
“I told you, I’m busy.”
Reaching over, I press end call before he can say anything else, and slide my fingers back into the yellow glove, letting the rubber snap against my skin. I move back to the oil drum, grabbing the stick I use to stir and drop it in the boiling water, swirling it around.
Out of all the things I do for my dad, this is my favorite. It takes skill and precision to create heroin, and even more so when you’ve crafted a flawless process that yields a drug so pure no one else can match it.
I mastered the art when I was just a kid, back when Nessa was in charge, tired of watching her get shitty deals from shitty men who treated her differently because she had a vagina. And while Nessa was a lot of things, my mentor and my best friend, she was too soft spoken when it mattered. She didn’t make people fear her enough, and as a result she got manhandled.
But when she failed, I learned.
And when our dad got out of the pen, he realized he had a goldmine at his fingertips. Spent three years building this underground greenhouse for me and we’ve never looked back. Well, he’s never looked back.
A thick knot surges into my throat, the grief rising like a tidal wave and threatening to capsize my control. My gloved fingers grip the rod until they feel like they’ll shatter. I close my eyes and count back.
Ten. Nine. Eight…
Blowing out a slow breath, I peel open my lids, ignoring the sharp burn behind my nose as I swallow down the pain. Slowly but surely, it dies down, allowing me to shove it in the dark where I can keep it hidden, even from myself.
