Page 29 of Vile Bastards
It’s plausible, seeing as the mob is also looking for Alexei. That’s why my father wants him after all, to kill him so that he doesn’t talk. It doesn’t seem entirely unreasonable that Shipman would’ve wanted to make a deal that benefited him more so than my father.
Finding the man’s body on our back porch did little to assuage Jonas’ rage. His theories seem to be running the gamut from Alexei Grove must’ve killed him and dumped him here all the way to the mob is plotting against me; they killed Shipman.
Only, the idiot has no idea what’s actually going on.
I suppose the universe isn’t entirely cruel, now is it?
Oh, and Chet Archer, Chief Bolin? They were over here, too, screaming and cursing and panicking. It’s not possible for me to ask direct questions without giving myself away, but from what I understand, they’re the ones who tipped the mob off about Pavel’s possible dealings with the feds.
That’s as much as I know.
All I care about is keeping Scarlett out of the conversation.
Thus far, they don’t seem to have realized it was a group of high school students who fucked their plans up.
“Get in here and sit down,” my father grinds out, and I do, sitting beside Trish Edelman (the publicist) and Denis Rattray (the deputy mayor) so that we can figure out how best to address Aspen’s death, how to turn public sympathy toward us and away from the actual details of both the suicide and Lucy Hall’s disappearance.
I do as he asks, taking my spot across from Jonas, and trying to act as if it doesn’t bother me that this meeting is actually about me and the impact my death would’ve had on my father’s plans. That is to say, a mere inconvenience and little else.
Only Scarlett would’ve mourned my death.
My one, true thing, the only treasure in the world left for Ash.
I keep hold of that thought, and I worship it.
After all, that woman is quite literally the only reason I’m still bothering to breathe. Without her, I’d just as soon follow Aspen to a watery grave.
I can’t stand the smell of strip clubs. That unique and torturous twist of alcohol, sweat, desperation, and sex from the back rooms always reminds me of my brother. Now that Aspen is dead—a reality that I’m still coming to terms with—it’s even more unpalatable.
But, for all intents and purposes, I am Aspen Kelly now.
My father sits with an elbow on the table, a girl young enough to be his daughter shaking her ass in his face while he nurses a Scotch.
It’s a fascinating thing, to be able to see how one’s death might affect the people around them. Thus far, I’m less than impressed with my father’s ability to cope.
“That stupid boy,” he says again, letting out another sigh, and then he’s sitting up and downing the rest of his drink. The last few days have been more eye-opening—and much more difficult—than I ever could’ve imagined.
Jonas Kelly—and by extension, his clone of a son—have their fingers in many pies, more than even I knew about.
“Don’t let it get you down,” Chet Archer says, flashing his big, white teeth—obviously the man has had extensive cosmetic dentistry work performed—as he pats my idiot father on the back. “We won’t let this derail us. Actually, it’s a good thing. The public loves a sappy suicide story.”
Jonas lets out a snort, eying a new girl from across the room as he gestures for another drink. When I first revealed the text message—a suicide note that I wrote for Aspen, as if I were writing it for myself, with all the words and truths I would’ve used had I actually gone through with this long-held dream of mine—his response was to panic over his career.
Somebody leaked that info before Jonas was ready to share.
My bet is on the reporter. Journalist. The reporter/journalist.
That makes me think of Scarlett, and I smile. Then I remember where I’m at and what’s going on, and my perpetual frown returns with a vengeance.
“This could cost me the gubernatorial election,” Jonas had muttered, pacing and back forth with his phone in his hand. Then he’d called all his best people, his aides and his publicists, to clean up Aspen’s mess. Because, despite everything, this is truly my brother’s fault.
If Aspen hadn’t tried to rape Scarlett, he might still be alive.
Now that I’ve become him, I’ve learned so fucking much, more than I ever wanted to.
Lemon aka Lucy Hall was handpicked to die.
Because, as per usual, if my father is ever told no, he works ten times as hard in the shadows, scheming and plotting and bleeding people until that answer is a yes. Aspen was in full agreement with the plan.
Scarlett’s best friend is dead because of my family.
I’ll do my best to make that up to her.
