Watching him walk away stirred something in me I thought didn’t exist anymore. Anger. Rage. Curiosity. I was tired of being led. Into relationships. Into situations. Tired of accepting everything that was handed to me—my broken dream, broken leg, half-assed career and the job I hated.
I sat in bed, alert. I heard the silent engine of the Range Rover purring outside, and that was my cue.
I slipped into my dented Ford and followed his vehicle all the way to the beach.
THERE WAS NO WAY I would be able to hide my car in the deserted parking area overlooking the marina, so I parked at a gas station on Main Street, near the water, and bolted straight into a convenience store. Its windows faced where Jaime had parked his Range Rover. A bell chimed above my head as I entered the deserted store, and faint Indian music greeted me from a staticky radio. A beautiful girl with long black hair smiled from behind the cash register, her gaze returning to her book. Hiding inside the convenience store allowed me to watch him without being caught. Considering Jaime was no stranger to stalking, I tried to downplay my actions, internally justifying myself.
My boyfriend left in the middle of the night without any explanation. I deserve answers.
I watched Jaime’s large body through the glass door, jogging across the parking lot, as he approached Trent and Dean on the edge of the piers at the marina. They slapped each other’s backs, talking animatedly before Jaime broke the circle. Then they strode up the wooden piers where all the famous yachts of Todos Santos were docked.
The penny dropped and with it, my heart. It wasn’t a Defy fight. It was retaliation. It was cooking up revenge and making bad people pay.
Rowland.
The Rowlands had a restaurant on a big-ass boat, one of the most luxurious in SoCal, docked along one of the piers. It was their pride, joy, and main source of income. Hence, it was the sweet spot the HotHoles probably wanted to crush and eliminate from the earth.
Storming out of the convenience store, I ran toward the marina fast enough to leave a trail of smoke behind.
I wasn’t completely opposed to Jaime staying in Todos Santos. The selfish (AKA the biggest) part of my personality wanted him to stick around. I loved him and wanted to make gorgeous babies with him. (I wasn’t crazy enough to utter this aloud. Then again, he was my stalker, so Crazy was a language we were both fluent in.) But it was a whole different ball game—letting him do something insane that could permanently screw up his life. Even Baron Spencer and his peeps weren’t above the law when it came to serious crimes.
And Vicious took his revenge very. Fucking. Seriously.
I ran across the skaters’ ramp overlooking the marina and crept up the pier between two giant yachts. One of them belonged to the Spencers—Marie, after Vicious’s late mother—and the other belonged to a Saudi tycoon who had a summerhouse in Todos Santos but never actually bothered to drop by. It allowed me a good angle on the boys, who, just as I suspected, stopped in front of La Belle, the Rowlands’ boat and exclusive restaurant.
Trent fisted a five-gallon gasoline can while Dean spoke on the phone, his voice inaudible to me. Jaime produced his cell and looked to be typing up a text. A few moments later, my cell vibrated in my pocket. Luckily, I’d silenced it before I got here.
Jaime:
Crashing @ Vic’s 2nite. Don’t wait up.
Fury flowed through my veins, sizzling and consuming. I knew why they were doing it. Jaime hated Coach Rowland for fucking his mom. Trent hated Coach Rowland for laughing when he broke his ankle during football season and his son for breaking it a second time. Vicious…he just hated everyone in general. And Dean? Dean looked like he loved everything and everyone in life, the player with the big, genuine smile, but I saw him. Saw below the perfect, shiny exterior. And what I saw wasn’t pretty. Not by a long shot.
Regardless to how each of them viewed the retaliation, the HotHoles were like brothers. The re-injury to Trent’s ankle—like my fall in the subway—was the final kiss of death to his football career. Someone had to pay for greasing the locker room floor.
The Rowlands’ money was the price.
The HotHoles waited on the pier beside La Belle until Vicious appeared at the top of the stairs leading down from the parking lot to the marina.
He wasn’t alone.
Toby Rowland—gagged, bound by the wrists and sweating like a slut in an STD clinic—was standing next to him. There was a kidney-shaped urine stain over his groin. He didn’t struggle, just glared at the ground, weeping silently.
Vicious was in full asshole mode that night. He descended the stairs behind Rowland, pushing him one stair at a time, beaming like a groom on his wedding day. The marina was well lit, so it wasn’t hard to catch him cracking his neck, his biceps flexing in anticipation.