Page 2 of The Prince of Broken Crowns

“Maddy!” he calls after me. “Don’t run! You’ll only make it worse!”

I’ve been avoiding Drew since my dad outed his gang of friends and got half of them arrested. I knew once I ran into one of them, I’d probably get dragged down an alleyway and get my butt beat. And that’s the best-case scenario. The worse is that I’ll end up in the smelly canal with northside’s discarded trash and the people that overdose.

I take off into a full-on sprint, heading in the wrong direction of my house, meaning I’ll have to backtrack. I round back around the corner, only to find that the drunk guy from earlier is still lurking nearby. When he spots me, he gives me a huge, yellow-teeth grin.

“You’re back.” He flicks his cigarette onto the ground then stumbles toward me.

Cursing under my breath, I hurry across the street. But halfway across, I slam to a halt at the sight of three of Drew’s friends heading toward me. I reel back around, but Drew is right there.

His arms circle around me. “Just stop fighting it, Maddy. You know you’re going to have to pay his debt sooner or later, so just get it over with.”

“Never!” I try to slam my head against his face, but Drew manages to dodge it. Then, using his strength, he pins me against him as the other people reach us.

Elli, who’s the tallest and bulkiest of the bunch, stops right in front of me. “I’d like to pass along a message to your father, Maddy,” he tells me with a grin. “He will pay his debt when he gets out of jail. And if he doesn’t, his punishment will be worse than the one you’re about to get.”

I try to wiggle my way out of Drew’s grip, but he’s way too strong. “I don’t even talk to my father,” I insist. “I hate him more than you guys do.”

Elli lets out a hollow laugh. “Your father is the reason my brother’s in jail and why my mama started drinking again, so trust me when I say that’s bullshit.”

Now I’m the one to hollowly laugh. “Yeah, well, my father beat me and my mother for eighteen years, so eat shit, Elli.”

His lips twitch in annoyance, and then he slips on brass knuckles. “I don’t give a shit about you or your mother. You father’s debt needs to be paid, and either your mother or you are going to do it for him.”

While I’m not a fan of my mother, I don’t hate her; I just pity her. She’s been married to my abusive father for twenty-plus years. It’s a sad, tragic life that I’ve tried to convince her to leave, yet she always stands by him.

But I’m not about to stand here and let this guy beat me up. I’m a fighter. I had to be since the day I came into this world kicking and screaming. According to stories my grandma used to tell before she died, I was the loudest, angriest baby she’d ever seen. I don’t think I was angry, though. I think I somehow knew what was waiting for me in the future and was absolutely terrified.

I push up on my feet, lift up, and slam my boots into Elli’s face, hitting him right in the nose. He cries out in pain, and Drew lets out a string of curses, his grip around me loosening. I seize the opportunity to elbow him in the gut. He grunts, hunching over and letting me go. Then I swing right and run down the road.

“Get her!” someone shouts.

Footsteps hammer after me.

I run as fast as I can, which is pretty damn fast, for about thirty seconds, and it feels like I have a chance of getting away. But then red and blue lights illuminate the street. A split-second later, three police vehicles are blocking my way. I’d be relieved, but my past experiences with police haven’t been fantastic.

My worry becomes justified when an officer gets out of his car and yells, “Stop right where you are, Maddison, and put your hands up.”

Great. I know the officer. He’s the one who arrested me the last time and who seems to be besties with my vice principal. Plus, he loathes my dad.

Dammit, I’m screwed.

Maddison

All jails smell the same, like urine and body odor, but with an over-masking scent of pungent lemon air freshener. Someone is usually coughing, too, either because they’re sick or they smoke too much—it could be either or.

My dad used to get arrested frequently, for all sorts of various things, like public intoxication, assault, and drug possession. My mother would bail him out, and he rarely got much jail time. However, three months ago, when he was arrested, he apparently had enough drugs on him that police were able to give him a trafficking charge. My father insisted he was being set up, and my mother wasted what little money we had on a lawyer for him. It didn’t work, and the only thing he could do to not spend a long time in jail was narc.

“What’re you in here for? Wait, let me guess, you stayed out past curfew,” a woman with overly bleached hair and wearing a tight, neon pink dress mocks me as she scoots closer to me on the metal bench I’ve been sitting on for the last several hours, waiting to get my one phone call.

“Nah, it was for killing a hooker.” I scoot away from her because she smells like my house, and that’s not a good thing.

She stares at me with her bloodshot eyes, confused at first, but then she laughs. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” I mumble, putting more distance between us.

Her eyes narrow at me as her lips part. “You really don’t want to start something with me, little girl. I got people out there that can make ya disappear.”

“They’ll have to get in line.” With that, I drag my ass off the bench and wander over toward the bars at the front of the cell.

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