“You’ve been Defied,” I said dryly.

He ignored me, squatting down and tying his shoelaces.

“Vicious wants you to do something for him, huh?”

“Don’t worry.”

Like hell. “I’m nothing but worried,” I gritted.

Petrified would be a better word to describe my feelings in that moment. Vicious always came up with stupid shit, and the HotHoles always played his dangerous games.

Watching him walk away stirred something in me I thought didn’t exist anymore. Anger. Rage. Curiosity. I was tired of being led. Into relationships. Into situations. Tired of accepting everything that was handed to me—my broken dream, broken leg, half-assed career and the job I hated.

I sat in bed, alert. I heard the silent engine of the Range Rover purring outside, and that was my cue.

I slipped into my dented Ford and followed his vehicle all the way to the beach.

THERE WAS NO WAY I would be able to hide my car in the deserted parking area overlooking the marina, so I parked at a gas station on Main Street, near the water, and bolted straight into a convenience store. Its windows faced where Jaime had parked his Range Rover. A bell chimed above my head as I entered the deserted store, and faint Indian music greeted me from a staticky radio. A beautiful girl with long black hair smiled from behind the cash register, her gaze returning to her book. Hiding inside the convenience store allowed me to watch him without being caught. Considering Jaime was no stranger to stalking, I tried to downplay my actions, internally justifying myself.

My boyfriend left in the middle of the night without any explanation. I deserve answers.

I watched Jaime’s large body through the glass door, jogging across the parking lot, as he approached Trent and Dean on the edge of the piers at the marina. They slapped each other’s backs, talking animatedly before Jaime broke the circle. Then they strode up the wooden piers where all the famous yachts of Todos Santos were docked.

The penny dropped and with it, my heart. It wasn’t a Defy fight. It was retaliation. It was cooking up revenge and making bad people pay.

Rowland.

The Rowlands had a restaurant on a big-ass boat, one of the most luxurious in SoCal, docked along one of the piers. It was their pride, joy, and main source of income. Hence, it was the sweet spot the HotHoles probably wanted to crush and eliminate from the earth.

Storming out of the convenience store, I ran toward the marina fast enough to leave a trail of smoke behind.

I wasn’t completely opposed to Jaime staying in Todos Santos. The selfish (AKA the biggest) part of my personality wanted him to stick around. I loved him and wanted to make gorgeous babies with him. (I wasn’t crazy enough to utter this aloud. Then again, he was my stalker, so Crazy was a language we were both fluent in.) But it was a whole different ball game—letting him do something insane that could permanently screw up his life. Even Baron Spencer and his peeps weren’t above the law when it came to serious crimes.

And Vicious took his revenge very. Fucking. Seriously.

I ran across the skaters’ ramp overlooking the marina and crept up the pier between two giant yachts. One of them belonged to the Spencers—Marie, after Vicious’s late mother—and the other belonged to a Saudi tycoon who had a summerhouse in Todos Santos but never actually bothered to drop by. It allowed me a good angle on the boys, who, just as I suspected, stopped in front of La Belle, the Rowlands’ boat and exclusive restaurant.

Trent fisted a five-gallon gasoline can while Dean spoke on the phone, his voice inaudible to me. Jaime produced his cell and looked to be typing up a text. A few moments later, my cell vibrated in my pocket. Luckily, I’d silenced it before I got here.

Jaime:

Crashing @ Vic’s 2nite. Don’t wait up.

Fury flowed through my veins, sizzling and consuming. I knew why they were doing it. Jaime hated Coach Rowland for fucking his mom. Trent hated Coach Rowland for laughing when he broke his ankle during football season and his son for breaking it a second time. Vicious…he just hated everyone in general. And Dean? Dean looked like he loved everything and everyone in life, the player with the big, genuine smile, but I saw him. Saw below the perfect, shiny exterior. And what I saw wasn’t pretty. Not by a long shot.

Regardless to how each of them viewed the retaliation, the HotHoles were like brothers. The re-injury to Trent’s ankle—like my fall in the subway—was the final kiss of death to his football career. Someone had to pay for greasing the locker room floor.

The Rowlands’ money was the price.

The HotHoles waited on the pier beside La Belle until Vicious appeared at the top of the stairs leading down from the parking lot to the marina.

He wasn’t alone.

Toby Rowland—gagged, bound by the wrists and sweating like a slut in an STD clinic—was standing next to him. There was a kidney-shaped urine stain over his groin. He didn’t struggle, just glared at the ground, weeping silently.

Vicious was in full asshole mode that night. He descended the stairs behind Rowland, pushing him one stair at a time, beaming like a groom on his wedding day. The marina was well lit, so it wasn’t hard to catch him cracking his neck, his biceps flexing in anticipation.

“Look who’s decided to join us.” His voice was low, taunting. It sent chills down my spine. I sometimes wondered if Vicious’s parents conceived him on Hitler’s tombstone or if his mom had a freak accident involving poison and voodoo while she was pregnant. He was too scary for a teenager. Too dangerous for someone who grew up in pretentious luxury. Too dead for a living human.

Rowland and Vicious stopped at the last stair, where Vicious pushed him headfirst to fall to the pier. Toby winced into the gag in his mouth, coughing. Jaime and Dean picked him up and tore the cloth from his face.

“Oh, man, your mouth is bleeding. Here, let me help.” Jaime’s hand reached toward Toby’s face before he swung his arm back, throwing a punch from hell right into his nose.

Toby’s head flew backward, landing against Vicious’s chest.

Vicious clasped Toby’s arms, hissing into his ear almost erotically, “Don’t worry, I got you. I won’t let them hurt you. No. I’m planning to do all the hurting myself.”

Trent stepped forward and blocked my view with his broad back. All I saw was the three HotHoles’ backs. Vicious and Toby were well-hidden behind the other guys.

I heard Toby crying and whimpering, clomping his feet, begging, wailing, trying to break free. Then Dean stepped aside, allowing me a first glimpse at Rowland’s new face.

Bloated.

Bleeding.

Destroyed.

Seeing the welts—smelling the blood—in person, felt so much worse than looking at it on a Monday morning. The four HotHoles were so troubled. Each had their own reason to be. I knew what ate Jaime…but I didn’t know why the others were so hell-bent on feeding and consuming so much pain.

Jaime was now grasping Toby’s hair while he was on his knees. Vicious slouched down to sit on a step, lighting a cigarette nonchalantly and pointing his Zippo at La Belle. His knuckles dripped blood, and his pale cheeks were flushed pink. Yet when he opened his mouth, calmness flowed out with every word.

“Nice boat your parents have. How many years have they put into that floating banquet room? Mom used to say your pasta tasted like stale balls.”

Toby sighed in defeat, barely shaking his head, while Dean and Trent laughed.

“Okay, you’re right. She didn’t really say that. She wouldn’t have known what stale balls taste like. But your mom does, right? Rowland is a nasty piece of fuck.”

I was sure I saw Jaime’s face twitch, but maybe it was because I was privy to his secret.

“Last words before we burn this beauty down?” Vicious puffed smoke, toying with his lighter.

“Please,” Toby sniffed and coughed. “Just…please.”

“You ruined my career,” Trent said through a clenched jaw, fists tightening. “And didn’t give me the option to beg for my leg before you greased the locker room floor. Was it your dad’s idea? Or did he just look the other way?”

“So s-s-s-sorry.” Toby’s words were drenched with red saliva.

Vicious stood up, slapping Trent’s shoulder. “The kid says that he’s sorry. Does that cut it?”

Trent shook his head slowly, eyes trained on Toby. Vicious swiveled to Rowland and shrugged. “Apparently, sorry isn’t gonna do it. Guess we’re back to plan A.”

Trent took a long stride toward La Belle, unscrewed the cap on the five-gallon can, and climbed the steps leading up to the yacht and the restaurant inside. The stench of gasoline filled the air. Vicious still played with his Zippo, thumbing it teasingly.

Light.

Out.

Light.

Out.

Light…

Normally the marina was patrolled regularly. I had no doubt the HotHoles had something to do with the absence of security. Trent poured gasoline from the restaurant’s entry door along the wooden deck and back down the steps to the marina in a fuse-like line. After he threw the empty gas can into the water, he walked to Vicious’s side and planted a hand on his shoulder with a little nod. This was Baron Spencer’s cue.

“Goodbye, La Belle. You’ll be missed…but not by us.” Vicious chuckled darkly, flipping the lit Zippo toward the trail of gasoline.

A whoosh of flames erupted. Fire raced up the steps and across the deck to the restaurant door.

“Let’s go!”

The boys turned around, holding Toby like a prisoner in both arms, and dragged him back to the parking lot. They made sure his face was toward the marina so he could see the destruction of his family’s most precious possession. Flames leaped high, and black smoke engulfed the yacht in a choking hug.

I had to escape. To turn around and run away.

Why didn’t you stop them, Mel? I knew the answer to that one. The retaliation was justified. The Rowlands deserved the HotHoles’ wrath.

Running up the stairs, hysteria taking over my body as the heat of the fire licked at my legs, I heard the clank of something dropping behind me. I didn’t have time to pick it up. Not even to turn around and check what it was. I fled the scene and bolted back to my apartment.