Her eyes fall to Brielle’s little red shorts, high up on her waist and nice and fuckin’ stretchy around the backside.

I laugh, spin, and whisper one word.

“Virgin.”

The grins on all their faces fall flat, a harmonized ‘oh shit’ following.

I turn around and make my way to the others, one thing playing in my mind.

Oh shit is right.

Virgins and me?

We don’t get along.

I’m not a good guy, I know this, and to fuck me now is to get what they’re after in the day’s since, but it doesn’t last. There is no ‘if things go sour or to shit’, it’s when, and guess what the first thing is they’ll want back but will never again have?

That flashing V-card.

Bad guy or not, a girl’s first time isn’t the one they should regret.

I can do nothing about the other times, I’m not a saint, but I can at least refuse to ruin the one memory they’re unable to erase

But this is perfect.

She’s here to piss off her brother, to get into some trouble and strip herself of the good everyone’s forced her into.

That’s it.

A nagging little voice in the back, I’m talking way, way back, of my mind calls me a damn liar.

I tell it to fuck off.

Brielle

I had no clue what I was asking when I said use me, and I still don’t. But walking through the junkyard-looking gate and entering a small, confined walkway of dirt and tarps with barking dogs in the distance, I’m not convinced he didn’t bring Micah here for some kind of underground gang ritual that I just threw myself into.

I take slow and steady breaths when the aisle ends and hold it as we wrap around to an open clearing of rottweilers and rocks.

When I stutter step, Royce laughs, sliding his hands in his pockets with ease.

Not one of the dogs come closer, but they each continue to bark until Andre calls out for them to ‘silence’. He tosses them out one by one, and then the big ol’ beasts wag their tails and trot along like sweet boys.

The four of us keep forward, a gang of Brayshaws only steps behind, and we’re quickly in full view of the hidden space.

The yard is wide open and goes on for miles, cypress trees from one edge to the next, completely boxing the giant square in. From the outside, it looks like some sort of old salvage yard, but it’s clean and neat, not a hint of junk to be found.

There’s a huge tin building to the left that has long windows lining the top, ‘Brayshaw’ painted large and proud along the door.

I look to Royce. “The jet?”

He doesn’t look my way, instead down the landing strip. “When we brought you here, we came in and went out on that end. You couldn’t see any of this from there.”

“Was that purposeful?”

His eyes slide my way. “What do you think?”

Of course it was.

I follow his hand as he points to the right. “First row is off-limits, second is where you’ll look.”

I turn to find two parallel lines, the first a line of at least three dozen vehicles, makes and models of all kinds—trucks, Jeeps, SUVs, even a hearse—with a common theme of black on black.

Black paint, rims, and almost completely blacked-out windows.

If someone were to be sitting in any one of them right this moment, you would never know it.

The second row is a mix of more and of no particular style.

There’s everything from a poor kid’s fixer-upper to a rich man’s midlife crisis, silver, blues, and browns, the first being the familiar white car he was driving when he showed up at my aunt’s.

We take a few steps closer and Royce nods to the small house in the front right. “We’re checking out the hangar and then going in. Find a ride and be quick about it. Remember the number on the front and meet us inside. Andre will pull it up when we’re done, and then we’ll tell you where you’re taking it.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, walking his family over to where the jet is and then it’s just me and dozens of plateless cars, cars that have likely seen more than a nightmare could show me.

I start down the aisle, but I only make it past the first few vehicles when my attention is pulled to one stored right behind them.

Sitting against the back gate, tucked into a corner with a tarp lazily thrown over it, is the dented-up front end of a 1972 Cutlass. I’d recognize the rusty red anywhere.

My feet carry me right to it, and I stumble along the rocks, falling before the crushed in bumper.

The license plate hangs by a thread of a single busted bolt, and scrapes the ground beneath it.

I reach out to touch the custom lettering, and it falls face down, hiding the words I’ve read a solid thousand times.

I pick it up, my knees tremble as I grip the microfiber material hiding the rest of the car and tug it back. It gets hooked on something somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. I can see enough.

The passenger side is smashed in, the front tire completely bent beneath it. The windshield is busted, but holds on near the bottom, the upper half pushed in and shattered, hanging low inside the car.

I run around to the driver’s side door, a heavy growl leaving me as I pull on the handle. I lift my foot, planting it on the back door for added force, yanking and jiggling the thing until it finally wrenches open.

Quickly dipping inside, I run my hands over the cool leather he must have had redone without my knowing, but that’s not what has my lungs closing in or my head growing dizzy.

Blood.

Everywhere.

On the seats and the door and the smashed-in windshield.

On the driver and passenger side, the airbags hanging and torn.

I begin to hyperventilate, fumbling to get my phone from my pocket, and dial my brother, but after two rings it goes straight to voicemail.

“Shit.”

I try again, my hand tapping furiously against my knee. “Come on, Bass. Where the hell are you? Pick up the phone.”

This time it doesn’t even ring, and a low growl leaves me.

“What are you doin’?”

I scream, swiftly reaching for the door and yank it closed, locking it only seconds before Royce’s hand slaps against the outer handle, and I jump over the seat into the back.

“Unlock it.” Royce’s voice is calm, controlled. “Now.”

I cut a quick glance over his shoulder, at his family who stare at the car rather than the crazy girl hiding in it.

“There’s no way in hell.” I look back to Royce.

Royce’s entire face hardens as his hands grip on to the roof and he leans down to steal my focus. “I will bust this fucking window the rest of the way, and every other one on this thing. Get out.”

“Get away from me.”

He hits the old metal with the base of his fist, and I jolt.

“Fuckin’ funny, girl.” His eyes narrow slightly, quickly flicking to my legs. “You’re bleeding. Don’t fucking move.”

With angry, heavy steps, he makes his way around, but I quickly lock this side door and his palms come down on the window.

“Where is my brother?!” I shout, hardly recognizing my own voice. “This is his car. There’s blood. He wasn’t at the warehouses when we were, he hasn’t been at the house since I got here, he’s not answering my calls. Where is he?!”