Page 3 of Foxx
“Mia.” My mother interrupts my memory, her hand on my arm as she calls me by the nickname my father gave me.
I’ve relived Nic’s last day so many times since she died. It’s what led me down the rabbit hole I’m stuck in now, how I learned all about the two clubs that could be responsible for her ruin. It’s what drives me to discover the truth. To gather the proof I need so my brother can gut the last demon who stood by and allowed Nicola to be brutally assaulted.
“Hmmm?” I answer, nausea creeping in as the air grows warmer in here. So many people.Too many people.
“Aunt Vi asked you how school is going.”
What the fuck does that matter right now?“Oh, I have one more year left,” I offer with a tight-lipped smile.
“Shouldn’t you be finished?”
My aunt’s question is valid. I should’ve been done last month. “No, I lost part of the first year,” I reply. I don’t tell her I spent that time helping my sister stay sober while trying to deal with my own crushing guilt.
“And you’re planning to work in forensic investigation?”
“Yes. Hopefully the FBI.”So I can become the woman who searches this country every fucking day, hunting the kind of people who turned my sister to ash.
“That’s the kind of job you really take home with you, isn’t it?” she comments. I shrug.
“Not as much as the victims take the memory of their rapists with them every time they close their eyes.”
Her mouth falls open, and my mother nudges me with her elbow.
“I mean… I really like helping people,” I add under her glare before looking away.
The truth is, I don’t care what my mother thinks. It took her four fucking weeks to come home after we told her Nic was dead. Mason and I had our baby sister cremated and grieved her death together as we waited for our mom to show up. Typical. Since our dad died six years ago, she rarely puts us first.
It’s not that she’s a bad mom. She’s just selfish. And she’s already told us she can’t stay here because my dad’s ghost is here, and now Nic’s is too. But what she forgets is, so are we.
“Can I get you anything to eat, Emilia?”
I gulp back the lump in my throat and turn to meet the pretty blue eyes of Wolfe’s wife, Brinley.
“I could fix you a plate?” she offers kindly, pushing her long black hair off her shoulder and straightening her dress over her growing baby bump.
I shake my head and swipe away the tears. “Thanks, but I think I’m just gonna change my clothes and go for a walk.”
“Is that necessary, dear?” my mother asks, overhearing. “We still have so many guests coming through.”
“I’ll be back,” I say, giving her no room to tell me otherwise.I’mthe one who found Nic after she injected enough heroin into her vein to kill a horse.I’mthe one who has to live with the image of her laid out on the bed, needle still in her arm, eyes fixed on the ceiling, devoid of life. So yeah,Mom, some fresh air is feeling really fucking necessary.
Chapter 3
Mia
There’s no midday rush in our small town, and the streets are quiet after lunch as I walk. It’s only May, so the tourists haven’t quite arrived yet. I meander slowly under the tupelo tree canopies that coastal Georgia is famous for and that our town, Lakeside, is full of. Turning out of my neighborhood, I head downtown.
With each step I take toward my goal, the better I feel. I’ve changed into my most comfortable distressed dark jeans, a black tank top, and my Chucks. I pulled my hair back into a long French braid, and my face, as usual, is free of makeup. Maybe I should have made myself up more for where I’m going, but fussing with my appearance is something that I haven’t really bothered with in the last two years. I used to be more girly, taking time to do my makeup and curl my hair, trying my best to attract boys. But now, there’s no damn way I want to draw that kind of attention to myself. I knew after the night I left Nic, the night she was attacked, that I needed to focus on making myself stronger not prettier. I was so hell-bent on neverbecoming a victim, I even started training with my father’s Desert Storm comrade, Lieutenant Michael Briggs, two years ago, working with him three days a week so I could turn my body into the weapon it is now.
The warm breeze blows wisps of hair off my face as I slowly make my way onto Scout Road. It’s one of Lakeside’s busiest areas. This street is where the night crowd hangs out. Pubs and bars line one side, and the other has restaurants and an old-fashioned movie theater, the kind with the big, white sign lit up overhead. I stuff my hands in my pockets as I walk, hashing out my backstory and my plan, when shining chrome and cherry red catches my eye. I freeze.
In front of Lavish, the local strip club where the Disciples and the Souls hang out, is the same bike I saw parked out front of the Yard the day Nic died. I’ve scoped this place out for the last couple weeks, though I haven’t seen it here until now. I know immediately that it is the same bike Nic and I saw that day. A vision of the man I couldn’t look away from, the man I’ve fantasized about more times than I’d like to admit, rushes through my mind, and I hate that I still remember the way a single lock of his hair trailed his forehead when he took a drag of his cigarette. The way he tucked it behind his ear with two big, inked fingers while I wondered if it was soft, and if he smelled like leather and smoke.
Anticipation rolls through me, but I convince myself it has nothing to do with that man. It’s only because I am getting closer to the answers I’m looking for. I’ve done my research and know that the Wretched Souls spend just as much time at Lavish as the Disciples of Sin. Which means, if I’m here for any length of time, I’ll figure out exactly who Nic was pointing at that day.
There are no warning bells running through my head asI cross the street, no pangs of fear telling me not to cross into enemy territory.
I pull open the heavy wood door of Lavish. The handle is black wrought iron and shaped like an ornate L. As far as strip clubs go, this one is supposed to be high-class. Standing in the entryway, taking in the dimly lit space, I eye the black leather chairs surrounding small tables with tiny touch lamps on them. The chairs are all angled toward the stage, which runs the entire length of the space; it’s lined with pink neon lights and stools that park right up against it. Everything is spotless and surprisingly quiet. A man kneels on the stage, scrubbing it with a rag and a bucket of water. With his back to me, I can clearly see that he wears a Disciples of Sin prospect cut. Just the sight of that cut sends rage coursing through my blood.Fucking scrags—
