Alamort

34. Crew

N othing compares to the satisfying feeling of accomplishment. Well, that’s not true. One of the top items on that list is the jobs we receive from Elijah. My lip curls into a smile as the warmth of the whiskey slides down my throat.

“What’s for dinner?” Bennett unceremoniously jumps on the sectional across from me, disturbing my peaceful inner thoughts. His feet prop on the arm of the couch. The obnoxious behavior makes my nostrils flare. He walks around stepping in God knows what all day. And he couldn’t even take his shoes off before he did it. It’s ridiculous how frequently I have to tidy up after him as if he were a toddler. How difficult is it to place your filthy feet on the floor?

“I’m not your mother. Figure it out.” He sits staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “And get your damn feet off the couch!” I growl. A wide grin lights up his face, just like when we were kids, and he would get caught doing something that would get him in trouble. That’s what he wanted. A reaction. He’s bored.

“Go play with Amber.” I roll my eyes at his childish behavior.

“She’s mad at me right now,” he pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. We both know he doesn’t care if she’s upset. A snap of his fingers and she’d be right where he wanted her. In his bed or on her knees right here in front of us. Time, place or audience is irrelevant. What would cause him to not want to play with his favorite toy?

Quiet footsteps halt in the hallway as Saint emerges, his presence a rare sight after spending most of his time locked away in his room. We should check in on him. Saint’s normally icy blue eyes are dull and hollow. He slumps down next to Ben on the couch, his body moves sluggishly as he rests his head on the back of the cushion.

“What’s for dinner?” He asks.

“What do you want? Do you want to order in? Or I can make something.” The look on my brother’s face is priceless. His eyebrows raise, jaw hangs open, and his arms extended in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me?” He says through maniacal laughter. It takes everything in me not to laugh with him. What can I say? Pay back is a bitch. I rest on the loveseat, feeling the stiffness from not using it often, and act clueless.

My brows furrow with a mock frown. “What do you mean? He’s hungry, Bennett. Am I just supposed to let him starve? What kind of monster do you think I am?” Saint lazily peeks open one eye to observe the show. Bennett jumps up and paces back and forth in front of me.

“ I’m hungry,” he emphasizes. A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth.

“Take out tonight. But can you make tamals soon?” Oh, Bennett is going to lose it.

“Yep.” I reply, taking another swig of my whiskey and releasing an audible sound of satisfaction. The sound of Saint’s snickering in the background is the final straw that unleashes Bennett’s verbal rampage.

“Crew! I’ve been begging you to make mom’s tamals forever! Saint asks one time, and it’s ‘yep’? Why does he get the special treatment? He has a condition, not a fucking disability! You can’t possibly think he’s prettier than me because we share the same face!”

He thinks he’s the only one who can get under my skin. But fails to realize we’re twins. Regardless of the time spent apart, I’ll always know him better than he knows himself.

He obsessively rants about loyalty and food. I’ve blocked him out. There’s nothing he could say that I haven’t heard already. Saint pulls out his phone from his sweatpants to order our food for tonight. Wherever he goes, he knows our orders by heart. After finishing, he lets us know when it’ll be here. Since he’s finally made an appearance out of his hole, I figure it would be a good time to talk about this morning.

“This morning proved to be eventful.”

Ben stops in his tracks. He spins on his heel with a devilish smile in place of his running mouth. Even though Bennett prefers to watch, having an audience turns him on just as much. Throw in someone who is attractive? That’s a wet dream come to life.

“That collar was a nice touch, diamonds?” He praises. While I can hear the questions about my intentions at the same time.

“I won’t have a pet who looks like trash. The entire student body was a witness to our not so subtle claiming.” I wave off his concern. I would’ve been fine with a shock collar around her neck. Then she’d be more compliant. But that would be less appealing to look at.

“Malice did well today, keeping River in line.” Saint nods. Malice is unpredictable at best, so knowing he was able to control his urges was a win.

“Actually, there was one thing I did want to talk about, something I found in her old messages.”

Is that why he’s been absent lately? Looking for more information? My heart swells at the thought of him being able to help and not feel like a hinderance to our cause. He needs to feel wanted and being helpful does that.

For a second, I was worried he had found out about the letter and that was the cause of his absence. Malice has a tendency to push Saint to extremes, claiming it’s his job. Sometimes I’m not sure if we have the same definition of the word “protection”.

Facing him, I give him my undivided attention. His appearance is haggard and drained. Guilt eats at my conscience, at pushing him too hard for more than he’s ready to give. We don’t know what could trigger him to become dormant, leaving us with Malice for who knows how long. He might be helping, but what is it going to cost him? Saint wouldn’t come to us unless he really thought the information he had would be beneficial.

“You know how we couldn’t really find much on her phone? No one has reached out to her since her arrival at Cox.” I gesture for him to continue. “Well, like I said. We couldn’t find anything. We were waiting. So, I decided to go back. Back before the incident and reread old messages. I started with her fathers. The only text she’s received from him that wasn’t a one-word response was something about her grades.” He rubs the back of his neck. “There was some sort of threat there. But nothing to reveal exactly what it was.”

“You think her father made her burn the library down at the academy?” Bennett ponders.

Saint’s head tilts, and he plays with his black lip piercings, something he does when he’s deep in thought.

“Not, exactly. No. I think Robert Carter is a little more messed up in the head than just politics.”

Abuse? I want to ask, but he seems unsure of the answer already. He’ll continue to beat around the bush if he doesn’t have a definite answer.

“The point is, whatever threat was there is directly connected to her grades. I think that’s where we should hit next.”

Tilting my head, “That’s perfect. We’re partners in psych. I’ll put something in place to make her fail. It’ll get a reaction from Robert and possibly a confession.”

Saint stands ready to go back to his room. “I’m working on one more thing. I have a theory, but I need a little more time to research it before we can use it.”

Perfect, everything is finally coming together. Let’s see what makes our pet tick.

Mrs. Warren has a reputation for being quite solemn. She reminds me of the social worker that was on me and Bennett’s case after our mom died. No room for nonsense, a very straightforward woman. Told us we were more than likely to be separated, giving us no time to grieve our mother while losing each other.

Mrs. Warren’s crow's feet tell a story of a life filled with smiles, though their presence has diminished over time. Cox Academy has drained her spirit, like it does to everyone. Elijah had different intentions when he saved this place from ruin. He was determined to offer teenagers a fresh start and a chance to make positive changes in their lives. A means to break free from home and the burdens that are tied to money, allowing us to simply enjoy our youth.

With Elijah grieving for his son, he’s been MIA from the school. Everyone grieves differently, and for him, his way of coping is to avoid places that remind him of Tyson. No one can blame him. The happiness that Ty brought with him is irreplaceable.

This woman is the only one who is not desperately trying to suck Bennett’s dick. The reason for that is her joyful marriage to her wife, Lauren, of nine years. She is the most competent out of all the teachers’ here.

The sound of her heels clicking on the other side of the door pulls me out of my musing. Abruptly ceasing when she unlocks the classroom. One of her brows raise, the only sign that she’s surprised to see me. Her outfit exudes sophistication, a charcoal grey pencil skirt, and a blouse crafted with the finest silk. Her wardrobe consists mainly of a pencil skirt suit, the classic attire often seen on women in corporate settings. She looks every part of the word “professional”.

The empty room amplifies the sound of her heels as she sets her glossy black briefcase on her desk in front of me. The classroom arrangement mimics a college like setting, featuring a series of desks that gradually rise, resembling steps. However, the only exit is the entrance. Relaxing back in her chair like we’re old friends and this isn’t our first interaction.

“Mr. Demonio, to what do I owe this pleasure of yourself in my seat? Have I warranted your wrath?” The air is thick with her mocking tone, fueling the anger within me that strains to break free. She is not to blame for this. Keeping the same indifference I always wear.

“I think we may be able to help each other, Mrs. Warren.” She doesn’t look at me, instead reading today’s lesson. When she leans over to arrange her computer, the scent of maple drifting in the air. She’s pretending that my appearance hasn’t unsettled her, but I can see through her act.

“And what could possibly give you that idea?”

“I need you to fail Priya Carter. Mark this upcoming assignment as a zero.” It sounds like I’m casually inquiring about her career in the field, rather than unjustly failing a student. She stands there for a few seconds staring at her computer screen, unblinking, trying to process my request.

“Why would I fail Miss Carter? She’s an excellent student. Her work is almost always one hundred percent in my class. It’s common for her to complete her assignments early, sometimes by several days. She participates and is more knowledgeable than half of my students.”

What I am hearing is “no”. That answer doesn’t have a place in this conversation, nor in my vocabulary. Fortunately, I hold a high regard for her as a teacher. It took Saint longer than usual to find something I could use to get her to consider my offer. There are some minor things from her teenage years, but as a woman of 40, she’s clean. At the end of the day, everyone has a price.

“How’s Lauren?” Her hands freeze on the keyboard.

Composing herself, she clears her throat and shifts her weight from side to side. “Are you threatening me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then what are you implying, Mr. Demonio?”

“I know about her diagnosis. Cancer, stage 3?” It’s rhetorical. She purses her lips and nods, subtly avoiding eye contact.

“What if I told you I could get her into one of the best treatments? A trial treatment that’s been promising. Dr. Kahn’s.”

“I would know you’re lying. I’ve pulled every string and called in every favor I have to get my wife into that treatment.” The tension in her body reveals her anger.

“Dr. Kahn owes me a favor.” Leaving it vague, it doesn’t matter to her or her wife the schematics, only that she’s accepted with a chance of surviving a silent killer.

“I can’t live without my wife,” she whispers guiltily, peeking at the picture of the two of them on her desk with their Golden Retriever. I agree with her putting on a sympathetic face. I don’t know, not truly. I know what I would do to protect my brothers. She takes a step back, searching for the truth in my face. I’m not sure what she sees, but she agrees reluctantly.

“If I do this, she’ll have a place in the trial?”

My eyes lock on hers as I utter, “You have my word.” A deal with the devil is a dangerous game to play. It’s not like she has much of a choice. I don’t want Mrs. Warren to be a casualty in this war, so I gave her the illusion of a choice. Something that would benefit her, the one thing she holds dear in her life.

She sniffs and her deep brown eyes gloss over. She’s seemed to age at least 6 years since we’ve started talking. Her wrinkles are more prominent than they were before, even through the Botox. Her bun isn’t as meticulous as usual. The lines of worry etched on her face and her cautious movements betray her frazzled and wary state.

Personally, I’ve never witnessed someone battling through cancer. Most people glimpse its impact on someone’s appearance or even in a brief encounter. Still, few people have the chance to see firsthand the day-to-day effects on their loved ones and themselves. I’m not sure what’s worse, watching a loved one wither away and die or a sudden passing with no goodbye.

Getting up from the comfortable chair, it groans in protest. I take a moment to straighten my freshly dry-cleaned school uniform. “I’d like results today, if possible.”

She’s quiet until I reach the door. “What is your issue with Miss Carter?”

She wants to justify her choice in picking her wife over a student. Not bothering to turn around to show the resentment I drag around with the mere mention of her name.

“Worry about Lauren, Mrs. Warren. Priya is not a concern of yours.” She’s mine. In every sense of the word and meaning.