I smile as I recall the way his skull wetly popped beneath the force of the falling Kia Rio. Son of a bitch got off too easy.

  After a moment, I cast my eyes around, looking for his car: the lone car in the parking lot—a black BMW.

  "Lets get the fuck out of here," Marcus says as he limp-jogs toward Victor's car.

  Holding Victor's keys in my hand, I follow. "I'll drop you at the hospital once we get far enough away." The keys shake in my hand as I step up to the driver's side door.

  "The hospital? Maybe after. I ain't fucking leaving you to deal with that bitch Alexander on your own."

  "I'll be fine. You're covered in blood and vomit. You're not in any position to argue."

  "Piss, too," Marcus adds, grinning. "Can't forget that one."

  "You peed yourself?" I say as I try one key in the door. "Really?"

  "He just kept hitting me, like, right above the bladder. I couldn't help it. Doesn't matter how hard you fight it, when someone is determined to use your bladder as a punching bag, you're going to pee yourself."

  Finally, I find a key that fits in the door. Holding it still, I hesitate and grin at Marcus. "Almost feels like a crime to let you sit on the nice leather interior of this sweet BMW when you're covered in all that mess."

  "Suddenly you care about Victor's feelings? After you drop a Kia on his head? Just open the fucking door and let's get out of here."

  I twist the key, but the door doesn't unlock. Frowning, I try again. Nothing. "Must've been the fight. Or the falling car. Key's a bit mangled. It ain't working." Determined not to let that stop me, I grit my teeth and bash the window open with my elbow. Reaching inside, I open the lock and the door. "There. Get in."

  We enter. I test a few more keys in the ignition. None of them fit. They are all too twisted and wrecked.

  "Well, that fucking sucks," I mutter.

  "You want to hotwire this thing?" Marcus says.

  In answer, I hold up my left hand, which is wickedly swollen and looks like it's going to grow to the size of a malignant pumpkin. "Not exactly in the condition for the fine-fingered sort of work. You?"

  "My life right now is piss, blood, vomit, and shit," he says.

  "You've added shit to the equation?"

  "Sitting down just now, I found some things may have happened that I was not aware of as Victor was beating me like a piñata at a quinceañera."

  "You really should get to a hospital."

  "After," he says, levelly. "You're my friend, and I'm not letting you face this alone."

  "Fine. We need to find another ride. I see there’s a convenience store about a mile down the road. Let's head there." I'm already out of the car before I finish talking. Marcus is, too. It surprises me how, although his face is contorted in pain, he keeps up.

  The rising sun beats down upon us, heat that's only broken by the calming ocean breeze. The air smells like salt, seaweed, and the blood crusted on my upper lip. We limp on.

  At the store, there are several parked cars and several customers milling about inside. Residents of this remote area, most likely. Before we enter, I take a second to size up myself and Marcus—we're beat to hell and back, we'll have to do this carefully, make sure that whoever we’re carjacking isn't capable of beating our asses. If only toddlers could drive, that'd make the carjacking we need to do a lot easier.

  "Hold on a second, Bullet," Marcus says, reaching out to grab me by the arm and pull me to a stop as I limp toward the entrance to the convenience store. "We need to fix your thumb."

  "I ain't a doctor," I reply. "We’ll fix it later."

  "Let me."

  "You're not a doctor, either, Thunder, unless you pulled some Doogie Howser shit while I was gone."

  "Took a couple of classes at the community college. Thought I was going to be an EMT for a while. I can set your thumb, then we need to ice it. Hold it out, I'm going to count to five, then adjust it."

  I hold out my hand. He doesn't wait until 'five.' I yell like someone's just jabbed a red hot poker up my ass. Then the pain in my hand fades from swelling, mind-numbing throb to dull, teeth-grinding throb, which is a fucking lot better.

  "There. We’ll put some ice on it and you should be good. You know, in a couple weeks," he says. “Maybe. If there hasn’t been any permanent damage.”

  "I hate you so much right now, Thunder."

  "You're welcome, Bullet."

  We step into the convenience store, looking like two men who just crawled out of their own closed-casket funerals. The store is mostly empty, occupied by only a few customers and a single clerk who gives both of us a wide-eyed look and then immediately takes his break and disappears into a back room.

  One customer is a man in his mid-forties, who looks like he retired only a few years ago from a career as a lineman for the Los Angeles Rams. Marcus and I share a look. Then we limp toward the other customer: an older woman taking an inordinate amount of care in trying to decide between two identical-looking packages of Wonder Bread.

  From the look on her face, it's a life-altering decision.

  "Morning, ma'am," I say as I carefully approach her from her left. Marcus slowly moves to come in on her right.

  She looks up from her bread and smiles at me in a way that reminds me of my grandmother, the few times I met her before she died, and makes me wish there were any other options here, but there aren’t.

  "Morning, young man," she says. "My oh my, you and your friend both look horrible. Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?"

  "No," Marcus says. "We'll be all right. This is just a normal Friday for us, ma'am. See, we’re practicing for Burning Man."

  "I think you boys need to re-evaluate your lives."

  "Probably true," I say. "We'll get on that later. Right now, we need a favor from you." I pause, wondering just how to politely ask this old woman to hand over her purse to two bloody and stinking strangers.

  "A favor? What do you need?" She says. “I’ll help you if I can.”

  "We need your car, ma'am," I say with a wince, bracing myself for her reaction. "I know it's a lot to ask, but we're in a bind, and we need to get out of here as soon as possible."

  The old woman's expression changes from one of concern to one of suspicion.

  "Why do you need my car? Did you two boys do something wrong?"

  "No, ma'am," Marcus says quickly, trying to reassure her. "We're not criminals or anything. It’s just, we were in a bit of a scuffle and our car got totaled. We just need to get out of here and get to safety."

  The old woman looks between the two of us, her gaze lingering on our battered faces and blood-stained clothes. For a moment, I think she's going to refuse us and call the police, but then she sighs and nods her head.

  "Alright then. I suppose I can give you a ride. But you boys better not be up to no good." She sets down the bread and reaches for her purse, digging around inside for her car keys.

  "Not just a ride, ma'am," I say, trying to sound as polite as possible. "We need you to give us your car."

  "I'm sorry, but no.“She shakes her head firmly. "I can't just hand over my car to two strangers. You could be anyone."

  Marcus takes a menacing step toward the old woman and she wrinkles her nose the closer he gets. "Look at us. Do we look sane? Normal? Do we look like people you want to piss off?"

  I follow Thunder’s lead, looming over the old woman. It kills me inside to do it, but knowing that Madison is suffering and needs my help is enough to drive me forward.

  "You have one more chance," I say. "Give us your keys and your cellphone, or else we will hurt you."

  "My cellphone, too?"

  "Yes. Now."

  The old woman's hands tremble as she hands over her keys and cellphone. When I look into her eyes, I am struck by the fear that is so plainly visible, and it causes a feeling of disgust within me. But Madison's safety is more important than this woman's comfort. Marcus takes the keys and heads out the door, motioning for me to follow him. I give the old woman a sad smile before I leave, hoping that she'll forgive me one day.

  We make our way to her car. It’s a beat-up old Toyota that's seen better days, but it'll do.

  As we tear out onto the road, Thunder drives at a rapid speed because we are both acutely aware that we have only minutes to get away before the police arrive on the scene. I take out the old woman's cellphone and use it to search for the location of Alexander and Madison's wedding; considering how highly that asshole thinks of himself, there's sure to be some announcement about the event in the major San Francisco newspapers.

  "Bullet, this doesn't feel right," Thunder says.

  I shake my head. "No, Thunder, it doesn't.”

  "When this is over, I'm fixing her car up. I'm going to get her address from the registration in her glove box and I'm going to bring it back to her, as good as new."

  "I'll help you get it back to her," I say, my eyes still on the phone. At last, I find it. "But that'll have to wait. We need to get to San Francisco first, because in less than an hour, Maddy and Alexander will say their vows."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Madison

  There's no one else to look out for me. It’s just me. In the face of the terror that Alexander threatens me with, there’s only one thing I can do: step up, fight back, and take control of my future.

  Even if the way I have to do it is so frightening I want to run away screaming.

  With each step, my trepidation grows as I approach Alexander's dressing room. The door is heavy, solid, engraved wood and my hand hesitates on the handle.

  This is where I have to take control. Fight.

  With a deep breath, I push the heavy wooden door open and enter a room that makes the opulence of my dressing room seem like a tawdry tent on the side of the freeway. The walls are covered in thin slabs of marble held together by gold swirls and an enormous mosaic crosses the floor from wall to wall, depicting some middle ages scene of a king lording over his subjects.

  Inside, Alexander and his younger brother, Nathaniel, are adjusting their tuxedos to make sure that everything is perfectly perfect according to their father's demands. They both stand in front of separate mirrors, their faces furrowed in intense concentration.

  I can feel Nathaniel's eyes on me as I walk in. He radiates an air of menace, hinting at a troubled past I've only heard whispers of in my time around the Covington family. My hands tremble slightly at his presence. No, not just at his presence, even though he looks like he could be dangerous, it's because everything—every thought, every emotion, every ounce of adrenaline—racing through me right now has me so nervous I feel like I’m outside my body.

  Alexander shoots Nathaniel an icy stare, his thin lips pinch together in a silent warning. “Leave us.”

  My gaze darts between the two of them as a tense silence descends on the room.

  Nathaniel mutters something. I can't hear it, but I know it's dark, threatening.

  Alexander smiles. "Care to repeat that, little brother?"

  Nathaniel stays silent, petulant and fuming.

  Finally, Alexander waves his hand in dismissal and, after another moment's stare, Nathaniel leaves.

  I take a deep breath and face Alexander. He looks surprised to see me standing here, but there's no turning back now. It's time for me to get what I deserve for once in my life: freedom.

  "Hi, husband," I say, tersely.

  "Madison, why are you here?"

  "Can't a woman want to see her future husband before she's about to speak the most important words of her life?"

  He rolls his eyes and scoffs. "We both know that's a lie. Though, if you speak wrong, they will be the last words of your life." His gaze returns to the mirror, which is probably where he prefers it, and his fingers return to his bow tie. "Tell me what you want and make it quick."

  "You know what I want."

  "We're not even married, and you're going to start with these ridiculous games? Haven't I taught you enough of a lesson? Or are you just too stupid to understand your position?"

  I step in closer, my hand resting just above my dress pocket. "Do you want help with that tie, Alexander?"

  "Do I look like I want help? What I want is for you to tell me why you are here interrupting me before our wedding, Madison."

  "What I want is to get a few things straight before we become husband and wife, that's all," I say, noting that he still hasn't turned his attention from his tie to me. "Will you at least give me that?"

  "Will it get you out of here without making a ridiculous scene?"

  "Yes, it will."

  "Fine."

  I clear my throat, making sure to articulate. I know I don't have to worry about Alexander speaking clear enough. With his upbringing and the money his parents spent on his private education, I wouldn't be surprised if he had at least an entire semester's education in enunciation. "How long have you been fucking Ashley?"

  "A while. She approached me. It was clear what she wanted—sex for career advancement—and, while I don't normally care for her type, she's far too much of a common slut for me to publicly associate with, I was happy to have another set of eyes to keep watch over you. You've always been such a disobedient bitch, Madison."

  "I see. And my parents? What did you have to do to get them to show up at my apartment with Ashley? Did you threaten to hurt them the way you threatened me?"

  Alexander laughs. He sounds so full of himself, so proud of this masterwork of manipulation of his. "I would've loved to, but I didn't have to threaten physical violence against them, not like what I've had to do with you, or what I am most definitely going to do to your precious Jackson. Oh, I cannot wait until I can finally kill him. No, all I had to do to your parents is remind them of the money they would lose if they didn't follow through on their deal. Then they were only too happy to make sure their daughter got in line."

  I want to hit him. Not for what he's telling me—all stuff that I know, or have guessed at well enough—but for how pleased with himself he sounds. In the beginning, I thought him simply a stuck-up rich man who might mellow if I worked on him enough. Never could I have fathomed he'd be so ruthlessly evil. It sickens me how naïve I was not to see it.

  "Are you about done?" He says. That statement makes him turn, so he can blast me with what I'm sure he thinks is an intimidating glare. "Because I am about running out of patience, and the second that happens is the second I have my men peel the skin from Jackson's body. They'll work slow, and they'll keep him alive long enough for me to have plenty of time to rape you, just so he can watch on the live feed I have set up for him. Then, once I’m done with you, I’ll bring you along so you can watch me kill him."

  I swallow. Those words of his come out icy cold, as if he's simply stating a fact and not threatening to commit rape and murder.

  "No, that's all. Thank you, Alexander."

  "Now get the fuck out of my sight."

  Turning, I head for the door, eager to put distance between myself and the sickening man who is my fiance.

  As the door shuts behind me, I lean back against the heavy wood, grateful for its solid support. Then I smile. A proud smile I allow myself to relish for nearly a minute as I catch my breath against the heavy door.

  Then I move.

  My destination is the main event hall, and my target is the family patriarch, Jonathan Covington.

  My heart swells with power as I stride into the main event hall. My masterpiece of a wedding gown swirls about me like a cloud, as if I've risen above every person in this measly, opulent hall. I find Mr. Covington at the center of it all, the conductor of this symphony of decadence; His head is inclined slightly, and he's surrounded by several older men, one of whom I recognize as the mayor of San Francisco.

  I approach without hesitation and he spots me even before I make the outer edges of the circle of hangers-on and grovelers that surround him. With a raise of his eyebrow, he beckons me forward. With a gesture, he dispels the surrounding crowd.

  "Madison," he says. "What is it?"

  "Mr. Covington," I begin, my voice steady despite the nervousness within me. "We need to talk about your son."

  Jonathan Covington's piercing gaze meets mine, his brows furrowing in regal confusion. "What the hell do you mean?" he demands, his voice laced with a mix of annoyance and curiosity.

  "Perhaps we'd better speak somewhere more private."

  With a slight nod, he agrees, and we move away from the bustling crowd into an empty chamber, away from prying eyes and eager ears.

  Once we are alone, my hands tremble with a mix of anxiety and anticipation. I reach into the subtle pocket of my wedding dress and pull out my cellphone. My fingers glide along the screen, and my smile rises just a little higher.

  Jonathan Covington regards me with a mix of disdain and curiosity, his eyes narrowing. "What is it?"

  With a steady hand, I hold up my cellphone. The screen is illuminated with the interface of the recording program I've had running for the last ten minutes.

  "I recorded an interesting conversation with your son earlier. He had quite a lot to say, things that the press and your esteemed company's investors might find rather captivating. Captivating, and exceedingly costly. So much so that I'm sure you—or someone who works for you—might be tempted to act with force to get it erased. But don’t worry, I've already backed it up to the cloud and sent a copy to a trusted friend for safekeeping. Do you follow me so far, Mr. Covington?"

  The weight of my words hangs in the air, tension stretching taut between us. I meet Jonathan's gaze. This is my moment, my opportunity to demand justice and freedom from the clutches of manipulation and torment. I stand proudly in front of him. Proud and commanding.

  "What are you getting at, Madison?"

  Jonathan Covington's response is so much more than a question. So much more than a demand. There's a threat behind it which he doesn't even need to speak. Because, unlike his arrogant and childish son, Jonathan Covington possesses the wealth, the calculating intelligence, and the brutal will to entirely erase from existence me and everyone I ever cared about without a second thought.