Wasted Lust - JA Huss Page 0,63

my body begins to tremble.

“I met Nick Tate when I was fifteen. He was fifteen too. I guess, from what you said earlier, that was the same year you met him?”

“Probably.”

Jax clears his throat. “I knew him as a teen in the Brooklyn neighborhood I was living in as a foster kid. My foster brother and I came out of juvie together, escaped social services, and both ended up getting adopted by Max. We were friends with Nick for a couple months. He appeared out of nowhere. But I was young and didn’t have any idea what lurked beyond my small world. I had no idea powerful people might use children to do the dirtiest work imaginable.”

I shake my head. “No, he was with Harper back then. She told me. They’re twins and she said they were inseparable. He was never away from her for long because she had panic attacks and she needed him. It was a big deal when she left the Company and went out on her own. And that wasn’t until she was eighteen.”

“I have no idea what he did when I wasn’t with him, Sasha. If he was with his family, it was sporadic. Because I’m telling you, he was a regular fixture in my neighborhood for months. He’d appear for days, then disappear for a week or more. He was almost never in school even though he was registered. So maybe he was going home.”

“How could he just go home? They lived on a superyacht on the ocean, Jax.”

“I don’t care, Sasha,” he says back, sneering my name. “I’m fucking telling you something. So stop trying to make excuses for him and listen.”

I force myself to shut my mouth. Mostly because I’d rather look at the pictures on the wall than argue. Nick. Finally I get to see what became of him.

“My brother Jacob and I had another little brother too. Michael. We were all fostered with Max Barlow. Jacob and I found Michael in the youth center one day. This was before we knew Nick. Before we even knew Max Barlow existed. And we were a team, ya know? Jake and me and Michael. Michael was just a little kid, but he was tough, man. Like super fucking tough. Jake and I latched on to him because of it. We were orphans, street kids. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to dream about. Life sucked.

“Max came into the picture not long after the three of us teamed up. He wanted to adopt Michael, and Michael said he didn’t go anywhere without his big brothers. So that’s how Jake and I got the luckiest break a foster kid can get. A permanent home.”

“What happened to your brothers?” I’m stuck in his story now. Picturing his life as a kid.

“Jake is…” He hesitates. “He’s…”

“What?”

“Never mind Jake. It’s Michael I want to tell you about. Because a little while after we all settled into our new lives, Nick appeared. Nick Tate. He didn’t even use a fake name. And I have to wonder now why he did that.”

“We have no birth certificates. Harper never had one either. She didn’t really exist, she said. I already had fake papers but we had to get fake papers for her. An ID, a passport. Everything.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Jax says. “But I’ve come up with my own theory over the years. And I think he used his real name because he wanted us to know who he was.”

“Why?”

“Pride? To boast?”

“Boast about what?”

“Assassinating Michael in his own bed.”

My stomach turns as I process those words. “What?”

“He came into our house as a friend. He cased us for weeks. Got to know us. Played with Michael. Sucked up to Max. We had him over for dinner. And then one night, he came inside, shot my little brother assassination-style, and disappeared.”

“No.” I say it forcefully. “Did you see him?”

“No, but it was him.”

“How you do know? Because Nick Tate is not that—”

“Kind of guy?” Jax laughs. “You have no idea who Nick Tate is, Sasha. None. But I’m gonna spell it out for you right now. Because we’ve had someone on the inside of Mara Perro for decades. Ever since that gang’s inception, there has been a rat watching every move. That’s what Max Barlow does. He’s the king of infiltration. He’s got men in every Westernized gang in the US, Mexico, Canada, South America, Central America, Russia, Moldova… you name it, if it’s not Islamic, Max Barlow runs the rats.