Page 42 of Insurgent

“Why?” I look over at her. The moonlight reflects blue against her pretty face. I should have fought harder for us. I want to kiss her now, but I’m afraid it’s too soon.

“I don’t know.”

I exhale, looking away so I won’t be tempted any longer.

“You didn’t come to the wedding,” she says.

“I was busy.”

“Right,” she replies, like she understands what I’m not saying.

Of course, I didn’t attend the wedding. How could I watch that? After they were married, I faded away into the dark world I chose to live in. I kept an eye on Moretti and I did what was natural to me and I started to be okay.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Bones

2019

I tap my foot to the beat of the music as I sit back on my couch with a lit joint between my fingers. Norman Greenbaum croons about spirits in the sky as his record spins on my record player. Bringing the weed to my lips, I think about past days.

That little gem, time, has changed several things over these last four years. The more days that pass, the more sins we commit. The more weight gets stacked on top of our shoulders.

My brother and Bexley were married a few months after their engagement and that was that.

I started traveling a lot with the boys, throwing myself into this lifestyle. I’ve done things over these last few years that can’t be forgiven, but let’s face it, I’ve been doing inexcusable shit all my life.

In the back of my mind, I’ve always known who I am. Known who I wanted to be.

On top, in charge of my own. I have that now.

She’s with him.

I’m married to the streets.

A few months back, we headed to Atlanta to meet up with the cocaine man Mickey was working with before he died. He was right when he said he was crazy as hell. The man, Simon, has a fucking tiger in his backyard. Every time we go down there, he’s always playing his music so loud you can hardly think, and it’s eighties shit. Simon has a pile of cocaine sitting on his bar, like olives ready to be plucked from a dish.

Trig took advantage of that and got fucked up. He started shooting his gun off in the goddamn house. It was a shit show. But we ended up working out a deal, and now we make runs there once a month.

There’s this club down there called Red. It’s something else, man. Huge gambling business going on below it. Unfortunately, we ran into a little cheating issue and had to handle it accordingly. Nothing worse than a fucking cheater.

An old friend of Sweep’s and mine from church does security work for the man who owns the place.

Bryce Grant is the owner’s name.

He’s impressive. Started the place from the ground up and turned it into a moneymaker. Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Moretti got word that Bryce was about to get busted and he saw the perfect opportunity for us to sweep in and take it.

Moretti called me into his office.

“Kid’s no older than you and making more money than Elon Musk.”

“I know,” I say, sitting back in the brown leather chair, enjoying a glass of bourbon and a cigar. Moretti’s got gold rings on his fingers and a belly rounder than that purple girl from…what’s that fucking movie?Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Yeah, that’s the one. Because all his fat ass does is eat, shit, and fuck.

He’s lazy and it bothers me.

“I want a piece of it,” he says.

“That why you called me in here?” I ask. I never mentioned getting out again after he let Nugget put a gun to my head. I’ve made him a shitload of money and I’ve made myself a shitload of money. And I’ve watched. Everything. Carefully.

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