Page 79 of Vile Bastards
I only know the most basic details about their newly forged sexual relationship because Bohnes told me and, much as I dislike him, he’s the only person I talk to nowadays. Just Kellin Bohnes and these people, these scumbags with their scheming and their plots.
I grab my drink and down it, just enough to dull my irritation and fit in here, not enough to scramble my senses. It’s not safe to get drunk with these people. Loose lips sink ships, and I can’t trust myself not to talk with a British accent, not to speak in Japanese (which Scarlett seems to drag out of me), not to slip up and make a mistake that could cost us everything.
Us. Me and Scarlett. Our future.
It’s the only thing that brings me joy, the possibility of living with her someday.
For now, I sigh, and force my mind back to my current reality.
I’m sitting beside Cody, Chet Archer’s oldest son, and listening to Ernest Bolin talk about his own son, Bryson, the one that Alexei Grove shot in the head. Not that I care. He was a waste of life, but the fact that I helped bury him is an impossible reality to ignore.
There are search parties, BOLOs, missing posters.
Ernest is beginning to lose his temper, ranting about the supposed shortcomings of his own officers, complaining about the missing cop that Widow killed, about the epic failure of that night, about the mob and all the bodies he had to clean up because of Ralph Shipman.
“They’ve got him, I know they do,” he murmurs, and I sigh, the doki-doki of my heart slowing to an impossible slog, barely enough beats to keep me alive. It’s all about survival now, my heartbeat.
I sit there, one elbow on the arm of the couch, head in my hand.
I’m bored out of my mind. That, and simultaneously disgusted. I used to think when I was younger that I wanted to be Aspen, to have my father’s good graces, to be an insider for all of his schemes and plans, to have my sins written off and erased under somebody else’s name.
Now that I’m living this life, I can almost understand why Aspen was so fucking unhinged.
This is torturous.
Part of me toys with the idea of telling Ernest that his son is dead, that Alexei killed him, that Bryson deserved to die because he raped a girl in a school bathroom and got away with it whilst bragging online and uploading a video of the incident.
Pure scum.
“If the mob had him, we would’ve heard about it by now,” Chet says, sounding annoyed. God forbid his friend discuss his missing child, how banal. Fuck, I’d give anything to shed my skin and run from all of this. I almost did it last night when Jonas was on a rant, picked up my steak knife and stabbed him with it.
I’m starting to wonder, though, the more time I spend with these people, if it isn’t Jonas that’s in charge here but Chet.
“Have we heard anything from our mob guy?” my father asks, pouring himself another drink. That gives me pause. I lift my head up from my hand and do my best to seem uninterested. Everything these men talk about is said in vagaries or half-truths, and they all just assume I’m familiar with all of their shit, so it’s hard to fully grasp what’s going on at times.
But this? Mob guy? What mob guy?
I knew that they ratted out Pavel to the mob, but I wasn’t aware that they had a guy. Or am I reading too much into this? It sure sounds like my father’s referring to an insider.
After ‘Ralph’ murdered all of those men (with Bohnes’ help), Ernest and his boys cleaned it up, and there was talk of whether or not this would come back to bite anyone involved in the ass. Mobsters don’t just go missing without serious repercussions. And yet, thus far, radio silence.
Does that have anything to do with Alexei and the call he was going to make?
I hope so.
I hope that Alexei is right, that his father was innocent, that the mob sweeps in and slaughters everyone involved in this coup. Of course, I’ll probably die, too, but what does it matter? I can’t live as Aspen for the rest of my life.
“Nothing.” Chet slams his drink down and stands up, pushing up the sleeves of his dress shirt. He glances over at a man in a suit, waiting by a side door, and nods almost imperceptibly. After a moment, the man opens it and in walks another nameless goon.
“Hey.” Cody whispers, trying to capture my attention. His real name is Chet Jr. while his middle name is Cody. Think about that for a minute: Chet Jr. Cody Archer. Is that not the most tragic name known to humankind? His father clearly hated him from birth. “You want to hit the Prescott track on Friday?”
