Page 68 of Dreadful

We haven’t used it as much since Bishop put us on soft lockdown. But now that he’s temporarily lifting it, I imagine Cruz or Gage will drag us all back in here soon.

Sparks of adrenaline hum inside my veins, as I wait her out.

Coco pivots on the balls of her feet, swirling her drink a few times. “Troy needs to be handled,” she says finally, her voice smooth and even as her gaze pins me in place.

“Agreed.” I plant my boot against the wall behind me, and fold my arms across my chest. “You should’ve handled him a week ago. What the fuck is he even still doing here?”

She tilts her head to the side, and one silver earring catches the light. “Are we gossiping about who’s warming our beds now, honey?”

I should be desensitized after so many years of her parties. I'm not. There will never be a time I want to hear about who she's sleeping with, and the fact that she knows this—that she's watching my lip lift with disgust and filing it away makes tension tighten my muscles.

A grimace pulls my mouth sideways. “No.”

Her brows briefly lift as she nods. “Thought so. Because then I would have to ask you why your brother’s girl is in your bed right now,” she says, her voice dripping like poisoned molasses.

There it fucking is.

I’ve been waiting for this. For her to slide casual threats and wedge leverage between us for some time now. She tosses little knives into a conversation and sits back to see who bleeds first.

It’s the Coco Calloway specialty.

But she forgot one very important thing: I learned from her. And I graduated from blades to bombs when I was ten.

I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to let the feral feeling inside my chest bloom across my face. I’m nothing if not patient.

Silence stretches between us, and I feel no need to break it. She can sit in it all night if she wants.

The corner of Coco's mouth twitches first.

“Troy’s a mess,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “And I need you to clean it up. For the family.”

For the family. A sentiment that has dictated so much of my life.

I let my gaze move over her face. The lipstick that's still perfect this late at night. The complete lack of concern over the fact that she's apparently decided her boyfriend needs to die tonight.

I close my eyes and drag a hand down my face.

Of fucking course.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, Gage and I buried ten bodies in the desert for the family. Now she wants to add another one to the pile.

“You couldn’t have mentioned this before we left?” I drag my palm over a few days’ worth of stubble. “We could’ve thrown in a two-for-one special.”

“No, honey.” She takes a slow sip of her drink, looking at me the whole time. “This one, we need some information first.”

That changes things.

My hand stills against my jaw. “What kind of information?”

“How much he knows. And who he’s told.”

My brows pull together. “About?”

Coco gives me a look over the rim of her whiskey glass. “He’s been living under this roof for almost two weeks.”

I drag my tongue along the back of my teeth, frustration licking my tongue. “And whose fault is that?”

She lowers her drink, her expression painted with soft strokes of caution. “Careful, honey.”