Page 72 of Black Sheep

The man, now moaning again, is tossed in with her, and Ronan slams the trunk shut. The camera stops recording.

The next shot flickers into life, and the remote drops from my numb hands to the floor. Regardless of how many times I watch, the agony and rage and remorse are as fresh as the first time Finnan made me watch it.

A deserted parking lot behind a block of boarded-up properties in a shitty part of Bridgeport. Troy leaning against the Camaro, once again manning the damn camera.

I step out of the SUV driven by one of my father’s security guards. My expression is beyond pissed. “What the hell are we doing here? I thought I was supposed to drive the Ferrari back to Greenwich?” Having to hand over that sweet ride to one of Finnan’s goons to run yet another errand is frying my last nerve.

“Don’t worry, this will be quick,” Ronan says. He nods to the driver, who steps to the back and returns with a jerrican.

I smell the kerosene from five paces away. “What the fuck are you doing? That car is worth seventy thousand. Easy.”

“Not everything is about money, baby brother. This is about principles,” he replies.

I back away when the driver silently holds out the fuel to me. “Fuck no. This is a ’69 Camaro. If any of you ignorant assholes want to torch a piece of prime American art, you do it your goddamn self.”

“For fuck’s sake, Axel. Torch the damn car and let’s get the hell out of here already.” This from Bolton, who’s been finding reasons to head to the restroom every chance he gets. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to in the last ninety minutes, and he’s twitchier than a jumping bean.

“Yeah, Axe-hole. All this bitching is keeping your piece of ass waiting.” Troy.

I look at the car. At my brothers. I shake my head, wondering for the umpteenth time if I’m adopted. I grab the kerosene and head for the car.

“Wait!”

“What the hell for? Isn’t this why I’m here—?”

I stop when Ronan holds up his hand in warning. He turns up the illegal police scanner we all carry on outings like these. Then curses under his breath. Troy jerks to attention, his glib mood gone.

“Two patrol cars are headed to a property on the next block. A bonfire is sure as shit going to get their attention.” He turns to me. “Change of plan. We’re getting the hell out of here.” He tosses something to me, and I catch it mid-air.

Keys. “I’m driving? Why me?”

“Because you’re the fucking petrol head with a hard-on for ‘prime American art,’ apparently. And because I said so.”

Again, I want to argue. But this whole errand thing has already taken too long. And Cleo has been sending me increasingly descriptive texts in the last hour. The last one was particularly dirty, involving my bed, my favorite baseball T-shirt, and a heavy hint that she wasn’t wearing anything else.

I yank open the door and slide behind the wheel.

“Head to Bearwood Lake. We’ll follow,” Ronan says.

Bearwood Lake. Damn stupid place to torch a car but also the most likely place to be deserted at this time of day—just after sunset when it’s too early for the nocturnals and the mosquitos are out in full force.

I put the car in gear, take a second to appreciate the sweet engine, and drive out of the parking lot. We arrive at the lake twenty minutes later. The weeping willows provide good cover as I circle to the far side of the large lake. Rarely used because of the steep banks surrounding it, it was nevertheless a good make-out spot during the summer but deserted at other times of the year. Behind me, the SUV rolls to a stop. I follow suit a little further on the bank, my nape tingling with fuck knows what as I get out. Troy’s camera is still trained on me.

When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I jump. “Yes?”

Troy. “The big man says we’re not going to torch it. You’re going to drive it into the lake.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“Hop to it, brother. Time and tide and all that.” His tone sounds forced, the usual resident assholery lacking.

I take a moment to admire the car’s classic lines, and silently mourn its impending demise. Then, after putting it in neutral, I give it one giant push and watch it roll toward the brackish water.

A second camera that I hadn’t been aware was filming from the SUV tracks Troy and Ronan as they walk up on either side of me. Troy’s camera is trained on the sinking car. His face is devoid of emotion, his jaw rock hard. I start to frown. A second later, grim resolution tightens his face, and he turns the camera on me.

I step away. “I’ve done my part. Can we fucking go now?” I snap.

Ronan watches the bubbles swallow the car until it’s almost submerged. Then he turns to look at me. “Yes, brother. We can go.”

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