Pretty Little Savage (Sick Boys #1) - Lucy Smoke Page 0,2

my knuckles. New blood pours freely from his nose where it only trickled from mine. The man whimpering in my fists had only managed to land one hit, but I can tell that that single hit has angered my father.

I’m doing everything right. I do not show hesitation. I pummel the man with my fists until sweat beads at my brow and slides down my face. I let blood coat my knuckles and stain my clothes. Yet, still, I can feel his disapproval radiating from across the room.

I don't have to look at him now to know that his arms are crossed over his chest and his dead gaze is piercing right through me.

"Please," the man gasps, his hands latching onto my shoulders as he tries to get his feet under him once more.

I kick his knee and send him sprawling. "Just say the words," I order.

He whimpers again as I grind my foot into his groin and press down. Hard.

"I'm sorry!" he bursts out, tears sliding from his eyes. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Okay? You want to hear me say it. I will! They offered me so much money. I c-couldn't … it wasn't because I'm not loyal. I am! I swear it! I’m working for you. I always work for you. They’re nothing. I’m doubling for you—I’ll bring you any information you want."

I look over my shoulder. Nicholas Carter nods once. There is nothing this man has that we want. Reaching back, I touch the cold metal of the gun strapped to the holster against my lower back. As soon as the man sees it, he scrambles back, looking from side to side as if anyone here can or even would help him. A part of me wants to look at Braxton and Abel—I want to know their reactions. But I don't. As soon as I do something like that, I know I won't be able to pull this off. I might enjoy a little bit of the violence. I might crave something to quell the rage inside me. But I don’t particularly want to see what they think of me as a killer.

This is what we were born for, I tell myself. The words are an echo of my father's. We live the lifestyle of the rich and powerful and we need to pay for it. This is our restitution. Lest we never forget that we are on top for a reason. Not to become the chaos but to rule and control it.

I step forward and put the gun to the man's forehead. His cries and pleas are like white noise in my ears. There are no clear words. No comprehendible anything. Just static. I take a breath and without another thought, I pull the trigger.

2

Avalon

14 years old…

The trailer smells like shit when I wake up. With mold in the walls and bugs crawling through the green carpet, it always does. I get up and change for school. Patricia’s soft snores filter out from the living room as I brush my teeth and hair and hurry through the morning routine. Some people look at me and assume I’d be like any other teenager, more than happy to play hooky or get out of doing homework. But not me. I don’t mind school. I’ll do just about anything to get out of this hellhole and away from her.

Patricia is like a broken doll. Her face cracked or caved in. Her skin marked with age and from too much sex and drugs. Mother or not, she's dead inside. A rotting corpse that just doesn't know how to fucking quit. I’ve never believed in God a day in my life, no matter what the religious freaks at school preach—and there’s always a horde of them down here in the South, well meaning churchgoers who want to save everyone—but sometimes, I pray that He’ll fucking send a lightning bolt, a hurricane, something to strike her down. It never happens, though.

Other kids got moms who at least tried. Sure, they failed. Maybe they were mean. Maybe they hit their kids, but at least they acknowledged they had one. Sometimes, I wonder if Patricia even remembers that she gave birth to another human being. It’s kind of difficult to reconcile the woman lying stretched out on our futon for a couch with her tits hanging out and stinking like last night’s puke and booze with the traditional idea of motherhood.

I stop just inside the main hull of the trailer, and the scent of