Music comes out of the radio, and it bounces off the walls, hitting me. The blaring sunlight blasts through the windows and warms the garbage in the kitchen, making it stink really bad.

And I know that my dad and the girl will be like this for a while, and I will be alone for the rest of the day.

I don’t like it here, and I want to go home. To my foster family. I lived with them all five years since I was a baby, and I don’t like my dad.

I inch toward them. “What are you doing?” I ask in a quiet voice.

“Nothing.” My father’s voice turns hard. “Go play.”

I don’t know where to play. We don’t have any toys, and there’s no yard. Only a dirty old street outside.

The girl stands up and starts dancing, and my dad smiles at her before sniffling more of the powder.

My eyes ache and burn with tears. I want to scream that I don’t like it here. That I want to go home, but my dad says he’ll hit me again if I say anything bad. I thought I wanted to live with him when he came for me. I thought I’d meet my mom.

But I’m alone, and I’m sad all the time. It’s dirty here, and I don’t like the people that come around. No one cooks. No one plays with me. I cry every day I wake up and remember where I am.

Tears drip down my face, and I try to whisper. “Dad, I’m hungry.”

He looks at me mean, and I back up, my face hurting, because I can’t stop crying. More tears fall, and my shoulders shake.

“Aw, go get the kid some food,” the girl says in a nice voice. “I’ll stay with him.”

“Kid can wait,” my dad grumbles, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her privates. “Show me how good you suck first.”

I stood in the shower, my head bowed and my forearm propped up on the wall. Running my hand over the top of my head, I exhaled breath after breath, releasing shit memories I’d spent day after day trying to forget.

This was why I stayed busy.

School. The Loop. Lacrosse. The club. My computers. My friends. There was hardly any time when I stayed at home—especially alone—and this was why I didn’t get close to people.

Especially women.

I rubbed my hands down my face, feeling the familiar comfort of my hair resting against my back.

To hell with K. C. Carter. She just had to go and get all bitchy again, and why was I even surprised? Jared had warned me, saying she was uptight and whiny, but I still wanted her.

And why? What made her so damn special? I didn’t indulge in nearly as many girls as she probably thought I did, but I could. I could have anyone. Hell, Cameron and I were always on call for each other, so why did I crave K.C.’s piss and vinegar all the time?

Every one of her looks was worth a thousand words. Why did it fill me up so good when she smiled at me or looked at me as if she needed me?

And then last night when I looked into her scared eyes and saw, for once, all the feelings she was so desperate to have but afraid to experience, I knew without a doubt that there was a hell of a lot more to her than what she let people see.

And I knew she’d bring me past the edges of my control.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and shut off the water. Stepping out of the shower, I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my waist, and walked to the vanity. I wiped off the condensation and leaned in, trying to see what I wanted others to see.

I was good enough. I was strong enough. I was powerful enough. And I was worthy enough. I was clean, and no one looked down on me.

I stood up straight and steeled my jaw. Screw her. Why the fuck did I even care?

Sure, last night was the best sex I’d ever had, and I didn’t even get to come. But then she’d looked at me when we stood outside like the dirty shit son of Thomas Trent, and for the first time in a long while, I felt as if I were back in his house. Unclean. Unsafe. And unworthy.

I didn’t let anyone make me feel like that. Not ever again.

Grabbing a rubber band off the sink, I tied back my hair and walked into the office, where the speakers droned on with Three Days Grace’s “The High Road.” Logging in to Skype, I called my boss, Fallon’s father, and after a few seconds, he picked up.

“Ciaran,” I greeted, opting to stay standing and lean over to the screen.

“Jaxon.”

Ciaran Pierce was late forties, early fifties, but he still looked like a James Bond type. You know, the type who ages like a fine wine, whose personality has just as much style as his clothes, and who has chicks on every continent? That was Ciaran.

Fallon’s father was Irish but wore his heritage like an Italian, all suave and confident and shit. We’d met a couple of years ago when Madoc and Fallon first got together, and as soon as I graduated from high school, he approached me.

No guns. No drugs. No meetings. Those were my stipulations.

I could still get arrested. What I was doing for him was still illegal. But I didn’t have any moral hang-ups about what I was doing. I still felt as though I was coming out on the right side of things. Researching shady campaign donations so Ciaran could blackmail a senator for prime real estate or feeding fake info to his competitors was slightly dangerous, and could get me into trouble, but it wasn’t putting drugs on the street or putting me in situations where I’d be a recognized target.

For the most part it was a small-time game with big-time rewards. The work didn’t take up too much of my day, and I was saving enough to make sure I was safe.

“Doc 17?” Ciaran inquired.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Llien?”

“Uploading now.” And I punched a few buttons, finishing the task.

Ciaran and I kept our online conversations short, simple, and in code. Just in case. Doc 17 referred to a warehouse Ciaran bought whose permits needed to be pushed through, and Llien was the last name spelled backward of someone for whom he’d requested the personal and financial history. The jobs weren’t hard, but they were numerous. He kept me pretty busy.

“Good.” He nodded. “I’ll be in town soon. We can catch up then.”

“Sounds good.”

He brought a glass to his lips, which I knew was Scotch, because the first thing I’d done when I met him was research him.

“My accountant will send payment today,” he stated.

“Don’t bother,” I teased. “I already took it out of your account.”

“You little shit.” The hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he plopped his drink down.

I laughed, shaking my head. “You should trust me better. I wouldn’t do that to you. I can do that to you,” I pointed out. “But I won’t.”

He let out a sigh, and I took a moment to observe how much he looked like Fallon. Light brown hair, dark green eyes, skin that always looked tanned, even in winter. Even the small sprinkle of freckles across their noses.

But whereas Fallon sported some discreet tattoos, Ciaran sported scars from bullet holes.

“You look tired,” he observed. “Someone keep you up last night?”

I wish. “You could say that,” I caged, not wanting to talk about Juliet with him.

“To be young again,” he mused. “Have fun while you can, son. Sooner or later one will come along that has the power to fuck you up.”

Yeah, no shit. “I’ll watch myself.”

He jerked his chin at me. “Take care, kid.”

“You, too.”

Logging back off, I walked out of the office and into my room, throwing on some loose black pants. I usually wore jeans, but since I’d be in the garage today, I knew I’d get stained. Black pants it was.

After working out at the gym earlier this morning, finishing a few of the other projects Ciaran had sent me, and showering, I only had about an hour before my house would be packed with people again. I had two cars, other than my own, running tonight with different drivers, and then a few friends usually brought their cars over here on race day to prep. And they usually brought friends and girlfriends with them. It was part of our warm-up. Hang out, chat, borrow one another’s tools … Since Jared had left all of his here, and I’d acquired lots of my own, I had a decent selection.

And while hostilities still ran hot at the Loop, some of us kept it cool enough to stay friends and still race one another.

I ripped my rubber band out and had grabbed my brush off the dresser, about to head out of the room, when a blast of music hit my ear.

What the hell?

I stalked to the window and yanked it up to peer outside. “We played that game last night, remember?” I yelled at Juliet through Tate’s open French doors. “I won!”

I could just make her out through the trees, frantically hitting buttons on the stereo. “I’m trying to turn it off! Just leave me alone,” she hollered, not looking up.

Sliding out the window, I scaled through the tree, trying to step lightly and quickly, since my weight was making the thick branches creak. Leaves swayed as I grabbed onto parts of the tree, and I made it to Tate’s only-for-show balcony and swung my legs over the bars, hopping into the room.

“Get out.” Juliet’s wide-eyed, defiant expression zoned in on me. “I can handle this, Jax.”

Reaching behind the TV stand, I yanked the cord out of the wall, and the room fell silent. My heart thumped in my chest, and Juliet’s chest rose and fell in heavy breaths. I didn’t know what it was about her, but my blood always rushed hot whenever she was near me. I wanted to either break shit or fuck her crazy, and it weirded me out. Not the fuck-her-crazy part, but the break-shit part. There was a violent urge around her, and I wasn’t sure why. I wasn’t sure if I should be scared of it, either.