The Roots That Bleed (The Bloodroot Book 1), page 6
But, well. Life’s not fair.
“I did tell you," Snake replies with a sigh.
“You told me to drive left of Mulberry Lane. Who the fuck knows this place as left of Mulberry Lane?"
I park my custom Vyrus motorcycle between two old oaks that I pissed under once or twice before. Shit, I think I’ll have to light a candle for them when they’re gone.
“I do."
Of course he does.
I unwrap my legs from the beast beneath me and stand up on the little patch of grass that’s barely coming out after the winter. Slapping the seat of the bike, I move to reach the saddlebag and open it up.
A folding crossbow peaks out before I even unhook the lid, and I lick my lips when my fingers go to caress the cool metal.
Know what comes in handy sometimes that they don't teach in schools? Fucking crossbows, that's what.
Fifteen pounds of steel and bad intentions. Name a weapon more perfect.
Lately, everybody swings around with pistols, machine guns, shotguns, and shit. I can see the appeal, but those things are for self-defense, not for making art.
Because the real art of killing is making your target scared shitless. It’s convincing them that death will come slowly and painfully, and you’ll justify every single moment of bringing it about. Because you're a damn psycho. A nutjob. An unpredictable artist acting on the whim of the muse.
And nothing proves that more than a motherfucking crossbow.
I strut onto the street with it clutched in my hand, and Snake’s breath echos in my head. The road has so many dents in its paving that my combat boots splash the water with each step, and I inhale deeply, reveling in the calm before the storm.
The firework sparks come back and take root in my chest. I can almost taste the havoc I'm about to wreak. It’s sweet, setting my veins on fire with adrenaline, just like the little kitten did today.
Lilacs, oranges, and musk.
“The van should be there soon," Snake says, his voice ringing among clicking on the keyboard. He’s doing his magic, so I can do mine.
Excitement tingles in my balls, and I run my free hand to cup them. They're too fucking full of cum—almost as much as that motherfucker Ryder is full of shit—and beg to be emptied.
If I had time, I'd jerk myself off right here and now, but odds are that the van will enter the street any second now, and if I've learned anything in my twenty-five years of life, it's that fighting with your dick out and balls flapping is not nearly as much fun as it initially seems.
The screech of tires somewhere upfront makes them tighten in my hand.
He's here.
“Showtime, baby," I groan, rotating my shoulders one last time before aiming the crossbow at the end of the street.
Snake grunts something back, but for the first time since I put the helmet on, his voice completely fades into the background. All I focus on is the blue car drifting on a faraway turn.
The motherfucker steering the van drives just the way that I do—as if each moment might be his last. He goes into the turn with the screeching of his tires, and soon he rides straight at me, positioned in the middle of the street to best avoid the wholes in the road.
Considering the limited light, he probably doesn’t even see me, but if he did, he wouldn’t have time to stop the car before hitting me.
In just a few seconds, he might kill me, and the realization makes the first firework explode inside me.
Oh shit, I love this feeling.
My knees bend as I ground myself to the concrete below me. All sound escapes from reality, leaving only me, my breath, and the clicking of the crossbow when I release the trigger. The bolt flies, and for a split second, I can see it hovering in the air like it's a hoverfly, and I'm watching Animal Planet.
But then it collides with the tire, exploding on impact so strongly that the whole upper body of the van ejects. Adrenaline lights my body alive, and I jump to the side, rolling on the ground. Another firework.
At once, all the sensations crash on me: the screech of the other tires against the road, the static buzzing in my helmet, the tingling in my palms.
Even through the plastic and metal barrier of my headgear, I can smell the stench of burning gum down a few feet away, where the van crashes into one of the old trees, black smore simmering from its beaten-up front.
Yeah, I’ll light up a candle for the fucking oaks.
I rise to my feet and zone in the car, feeling my face stretch into a grin.
“Got him," I grumble, watching the licks of smoke writhing around the trashed metal. In a matter of seconds, the smoke turns into flame, and even more of the stench comes out.
“Good. Cargo intact?" Snake asks, completely unfazed.
“Patience, Snakey," I muse back. “Patience."
I roll my neck and walk toward the van, taking the pleasure in my chest. But it lasts just a moment, enough to disperse when I’m at the car’s front, ignoring the fumes of the engine and opening the doors.
The high never lasts long anymore.
A handful of gray-taped packets with Lionhart logos on the front spill onto the road, not a single one broken. The rest sit tightly in the backseat.
“Don’t have much of that going on," he says lowly.
“Yeah, okay. Cargo’s fine." I open the backseat door and glance at the stacks upon stacks of packets. “And whoever packed it must be good at Tetris, man."
“Fine." Snake scoffs. “I’ll send men for the pickup. Just... make sure he’s unconscious."
“If you thought you had to tell me that, think again." I cock my head to the side as I look at the man in the driver’s seat. He’s bleeding from the forehead, his eyes closed like he’s unconscious.
I squat down, smacking my lips and extending an arm to release the man’s seatbelt. Huh, if he didn’t have it on, he could have died.
But he’s alive. Diggory Mason in the flesh—a street boy with a military haircut, stubble, and arms that are almost as big as mine and the key to our plan—is breathing in front of me. I can see his chest rising and falling under his dirtied wife-beater.
And that face…? I feel like I’ve seen it before. Interesting.
But it doesn’t matter. As long as he comes with me, we could have been meeting in dreams for all I care. He could be my long-lost brother, and I’d still make him black out.
I take off the helmet and give him a once-over.
He looks to be in decent shape. There's room for improvement, sure, but he seems strong. His shoulders are wide, and his chest is thick. I’m sure he has a deadly right hook. Too bad he wouldn't be fast enough to land a hit on me.
But there might be more than just one use for him.
Throwing the helmet onto the ground, I grab him by his bloodied top and drag him onto the street. Barely conscious, he mumbles something under his nose.
At first, it’s just moans and groans, incoherent enough for me to understand him. But when the first understandable whisper leaves his mouth, I stop in my tracks.
“Lo… Lorelei." His head moves from one side to the other. “Lore… Lorelei."
My body tenses. Every single muscle inside me springs to life. Even my cock does, as the scent of lilacs, oranges, and musk appears around me.
Lorelei Reily.
Diggory Mason is whispering the name of the kitten.
I look at him from above with something weird getting a hold of my body. I’m not smiling this time; I just watch as his eyes squeeze with a single question pushing through my mind.
Does he want her too?
Is she swirling in his mind just like she swirls in mine?
Slowly, almost gently, I drop to a squat and look at his mumbling face. I don’t know if I want to kill him or hug him, but something explodes in my chest, and I never want it to stop. I was never good at feelings, and I can’t point out what it is exactly, but I run a finger alongside his jaw and watch as his eyebrows twitch at the touch.
“Oh, Diggy," I say finally, my own voice shaking. “I think you’ve just given me fireworks, too."
CHAPTER SIX
I haven't slept a damn wink.
The sun is already rising behind the window when I plop my ass down on the taped-up bed and close my eyes. I’d like to get at least twenty minutes of sleep before walking to my classes, but just a moment of trying is enough for me to know it’s futile.
I won’t make it.
It requires too much calmness and too few rapid thoughts rummaging through my mind for it to work out. So, I sit up, my eyes squinting and my head pounding as I stare out the window.
It’s bright, with the early-spring birds singing in close proximity to my room, like it’s their mating season. I mean, maybe it is... Who cares? But the trees haven’t even bloomed yet, and the little wingflappers are already on the loose. It seems hardly fair in this moment. I didn’t sign up to have my migraine boosted by their need to make eggs.
Really, where are the cats when you need them…?
I've spent all this time cleaning my room, tossing out irreparably damaged items, or mending everything else. The first category of things—those beyond saving—definitely outnumbered the rest.
So, I'm not only exhausted; I'm also frustrated. And to add to the mess, whoever trashed this room last night obviously didn't bother to pick and choose. Margot's stuff ended up getting wrecked too.
The whole night—in between cleaning up spilled pasta sauce with toilet paper and taping up the broken bed frame—I waited for her to come home. She never did. It must be at least six o'clock in the morning by now, and given that neither Ryder nor Dig ever called me back either, I'm balancing on the thin line between a panic attack and insanity.
With each passing moment, this situation gets worse. I'm not getting any sign of life from anyone; the room is still a mess; the classes start in less than an hour; and the memories of last night still flash through my mind.
Right, the memories...
I let out a deep sigh, sitting on the fixed-up bed as I bury my face in my hands. The tall, dark-haired man pops up in my head, and this alone seems too much for me to handle.
The feeling of his body pressing against mine, the spikes of pleasure at how well he fit with me—like he was a statue carved for me alone—pressing into all the right places and putting my whole body on fire, the still-present tingling of my skin, that fear... It all pushes on my buttons all the more.
I try my hardest to push it away, but the faint smell of cigarette smoke and danger still linger in the air and make it close to impossible.
I've only ever thought that Dig alone could pull off smoking as a sexy thing. Usually, it’s too Ryder-coded for me, reminding me of the boys and their meetings I’m not allowed to attend because the whole Hideout always reeks of it. But for some reason, I never hated it on Dig. Always on everybody else.
And now, apparently, the mysterious crazy guy got that privilege too, by nearly swinging me out of the window and killing me on the spot.
Shit, my heart rate spikes just by thinking about it, irritating my headache. It’s like my own body punishes me for wanting that guy.
I rub my fingers against my temples, soothing the pulsating scalp and releasing the ponytail I had put on for the cleaning. With my hair falling down my shoulders, I can only hope the worries fall away too.
The thing that matters is getting in touch with the crew. No matter who the crazy dude was, boys will figure something out once they hear of him.
I search for my phone somewhere in the covers of the bed. I swear, I put it just next to me moments ago. My face wrinkles when it takes me more than just a single hand movement to find it, but I finally get it, my throat clenching.
I've made around twenty phone calls since last night. And text messages? Probably just as many. There is not a single person belonging to the crew that I didn’t try to contact, but to no avail. I didn’t get a single response back.
Sure, Ryder has a track record of going AWOL whenever on the job, but this is the first time Dig and Margot have gone silent as well. Not to mention actual people coming to Highmont, trashing my room, and… doing other things with me.
It's unsettling, and my instincts are on fire.
“Fuck it," I mutter as I stand up. This shit cannot go on like this. I won't let it. I'm going to hitch my ride all the way to the hideout and confront whichever rider I’ll find there. Someone must know what's happening, and I don't give a shit about orders anymore.
I grab the essentials—room keys, some money from my brick-made safe, and a jacket—and aim for the door. My head whirls a little when I move like a sudden hurricane, but I bite my lip and power through it, unable to sit still for one second longer. I open the door and step onto the corridor, but my breath hitches when instead of an empty hallway, two figures stand in my way.
“Going somewhere, Miss Reiley?"
I freeze in my tracks. Slowly, I lift my head to see a taller-than-me woman with a scrunched-up nose and blond hair cut into a bob. She stands right in front of me, with Martin, our dormitory supervisor, just to her right.
My heart pounds against my ribcage, and the air feels thick, charged with a tension that clings to my skin like a second layer. It’s my tension, no doubt, because these two look like nothing is really happening except for Martin’s sour-looking face.
I get so blown off track that my composure breaks, and I can’t slip on the usual mask I’d put on for the Highmont teaching staff to see. Instead, it feels like all my panic releases at this very moment.
“Um, yeah," I mutter, trying not to look at either of them. Maybe if I avoid eye contact, they will just move the hell out of my way. “I have somewhere to be actually, so if you excuse me..."
“Actually," the woman says, placing a hand on my shoulder and stopping me in my tracks. The touch is just as unpleasant as it is invasive, and it forces me to look her in the eyes as a small gasp escapes my lips.
Who the hell is she? I don’t recognize her as one of the Highmont teachers, and I know all of them after living here for eight years. And what is she doing in front of my room, anyway? It’s not time to check the attendance yet.
“That somewhere is in your room, Miss..." She glances briefly at the notebook and cocks her brow. “Reily. Leaving your dormitory during school hours is against the rules and can result in detention. As one of our senior residents, you should be aware of that. But surely, that’s not what you were just trying to do?"
My heart plummets all the way to my stomach as our eyes meet. I take in her round face, water blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, that were either blushed too much or are very prone to early spring chill. She looks young—way too young to belong to the Highmont teaching staff.
Kids in here eat young people like her for breakfast. Everybody knows that unseasoned teachers are too soft for their own good.
I glance at Martin with what I only hope to be a neutral-looking face by now and notice that the sourness deepens on his features until he opens his mouth discreatily to mouth something at me. I try not to squint my eyes as I read his lips.
Co..ver..men. Cover men? Co..ver..ment. Ah, Government.
This woman was sent by the fucking government. Shit, no wonder I don’t recognize her. She’s external. I would never guess it by her age. She looks like she’s in her mid-twenties.
“My classes don't begin for another hour, Mrs…" I pause, glancing at the name tag on her blue blazer. “Cassidy. I'm free to go wherever I want."
I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow, the sudden need to oppose her getting the best of me. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m doing it; it’s not like defiance can earn me anything useful in this situation, but it’s just natural. It comes out like the sun does from the clouds in the courtyard outside.
“Your school hours encompass all your classes and the curfew, Miss Reiley," she points out, raising a brow of her own. If I weren't so on edge, I’d notice a slight curve in her lip. “You're free to try leaving the school premises, but be prepared that there will be consequences. There are many kids who'd kill for the opportunity to stay in an institution that not only schools them but also gives them accommodations. If I have any say in the matter, I'd rather host them than the ones that are hell-bent on breaking the rules."
I can't escape the scoff that leaves my lips. “Lady, are you threatening to kick me out?" I ask, feeling my stomach tighten at the thought. “I haven't even done anything yet."
If only Dig or Ryder listened in on this conversation... I doubt that being government-sent would help her much if her car got covertly stolen from the parking lot the next day.
“I'm not threatening you. I'm merely stating the facts, Lorelei." The sound of my name on her tongue makes my belly contract. It’s surprising. So much that I blame it on the worry about the boys. “This isn't a private institution. It's a public facility designed for children in need, like yourself. We don't demand much from you except good behavior. It's not too great a request."
She tilts her chin up and looks at me down the slope of her nose. On a different day, with different thoughts banging at the sides of my brain, I might have found this funny. Maybe a bit cute, even. But today, all it does is make me grit my teeth in frustration. My tension migraine attempts to kill me, too, which doesn’t help.
I glance at Martin. He knows, as well as I do, that this institution is far from public. It might be written as such in the official books—a place for all the poor kids to get their hopes up for a better future—but it's bullshit. The headmaster of this shithole milks the money from the taxes so he can sunburn his ass somewhere in the Pacific Ocean with his secretary bending in front of him. He steps foot here as often as Margot sleeps in her own bed.
And this Cassidy woman here... I don’t know what she’s been sent here to do, but if I know anything about this school, it's that the corruption runs deep. She’s wasting everybody’s time, including mine.
But I can’t outright tell her that, can I?
“Right. It's not." I take a deep breath. “I'm sorry for being rude. It's just that I have a situation here and..."
