console. That car practically drove itself anyway.
The girls wanted to give Hendrix this boyfriend moment—driving his girl to school—so they were meeting us there.
I was looking forward to getting back to classes, routine, some semblance of normalcy, but I knew all eyes would be on us instantly, and I wasn’t sure I was looking forward to that. We hadn’t been to school for about a week with everything going on between our families and the police. Plus, Hendrix had needed time to heal from his injuries.
The EMT and the two separate doctors his aunt had insisted he see all said he was very lucky. Nothing was broken or permanently damaged, but he did have some internal bruising, and his ribs were black and blue. It made me wince every time he took his shirt off. While the bruises did finally seem to be fading, the cut on his lip was going to leave a scar. I’d told him “chicks dig scars” and distracted him with a BJ, and he hadn’t seemed too put out by it after that.
His parents hadn’t even bothered to fly over to check on their son. I’d overheard a stilted phone conversation with his mom while he was waiting in the hospital to be x-rayed and tested, but he hadn’t spoken to his dad once. His parents really were trash, and I was glad he had his aunt. Hannah had been frantic with worry and pissed Hendrix hadn’t told her what was going on, but in the end, she admitted she was proud of him—for the way he handled himself and the way he stuck to his values throughout the whole terrible ordeal.
We pulled into the student parking lot at the busiest time. People were arriving, walking up to the entrance, some hanging out and talking—it was still a good twenty minutes until the bell.
The lot was filling fast, but my spot right near the front was empty. Hendrix rolled to a stop and looked at me over the top of his sunglasses, the sun glinting off the frame. A lock of hair fell over his forehead, and I resisted the urge to sweep it back, run my fingers over his scalp, pull him in for a kiss . . .
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “I’ll allow it. But only because I’m in the car with you.”
He laughed low, the sound sending a shiver down my spine, and pulled into my spot.
Amaya’s purple Jag was on one side, and Drew’s matte black Audi was on the other. They were all milling around on the path in front of us, chatting, leaning against the hoods of their cars.
Shady’s men had released Drew as soon as Will and his dad were taken into custody. Apparently, they’d picked him up on his way to school the morning of the fight and had been the ones replying to anyone who texted his phone. Drew had been nearly out of his mind with worry, but they wouldn’t let him leave the suite at the Hilton they’d stashed him in. They’d actually treated him pretty well, hadn’t gotten violent—much—and had explained the whole situation before letting him go.
He was so relieved that Will and his dad had been arrested—that his nightmare was over, that we were all OK—he hadn’t even reported Shady or pressed charges. I tried not to think about what would’ve happened to him in the hotel room had things gone sideways and the police never showed up.
The Frydenbergs’ arrests had shaken the Devilbend community to its core. No one had suspected Mr. Frydenberg of being involved in anything illegal, let alone the extent of what the police discovered.
His lawyers put up a good fight, but ultimately, the evidence was too damaging. They’d managed to get Will out on parole by arguing he was a victim of his father as much as anyone, but he was being strictly monitored until his trial date.
As we’d hoped, the info Harlow had dug up was enough for the police to launch a massive investigation. Joseph Frydenberg was practically running a crime empire while moving about in California’s high circles and pretending to be an upstanding citizen. It appeared he had some legitimate businesses, but he’d also been at the helm of an operation responsible for multiple fight rings across the state, drug dealing, prostitution, all kinds of things.
He might have been able to get away with a slap on the wrist—he was, after all, filthy rich and not above buying his way