Bury Me Before You Go (Pandemonium Book 1) Read online

  I have to process this.

  “No, I’d rather walk. Good night, Quentin,” I huff out breathlessly, lifting my headphones on and pressing play. “She Thinks of Me” by Landon Tewers fills my headspace as I take my left and walk past him.

  Or try, anyway.

  Quentin hops in my way, making me almost bump against his chest. He snatches my headphones off, and I stare at him, eyes wide, unable to move as he lifts those next to his head, listening with one ear. His thick, nearly black brows lower, casting shadows over his sensual eyes as he takes in the lyrics. Now when I get to observe him closer, I can see the dark circles under his eyes, but not the kind that comes from after a moist weekend at the parties. More like… the similar I see from the mirror every morning after a sleepless night in my parents’ house.

  “I must admit, Cierra”—he places the headphones on my neck, and I almost expect him to touch my skin, waiting for it even, but he doesn’t; only looks down at me—“this is not what I expected to hear.”

  My personal space is filled with the exotic, mouthwatering scent of him, and my head is filled with ten thousand questions. There’s a thin line between sexy self-confidence and just being a freaking jerk, and I’m not sure yet which one applies to him.

  “What did you expect then?” I step past him to make room between us, and he turns with me, holding me hostage with his gaze. Damn, those eyes.

  “Taylor Swift,” he answers with a smirk, and just when I’m about to roll my eyes into another dimension, he lifts his hands up. “Just kidding. But, seriously, let me take you out for a tea, at least.”

  “How do you know I drink tea, Mr. Coffee with Extra Cream?”

  “I’m a clairvoyant like you.”

  Quentin bursts out laughing when I glare at him, my jaw ticking.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” Those disarming dimples wash the fight out of me as he continues, “Saw you drinking it earlier.”

  I tilt my head, biting my cheek because his essence is really getting under my skin. Lingering inside me like a tempting wave, luring me below the depths. Hayley’s hint about them makes me intrigued about what kind of depths I’d be drowning in if I test the waters.

  But at the moment, I feel like getting wet isn’t the wisest option.

  “Listen,” I sigh, my mind one damn blurry mess from the exhaustion, from the dizziness his alluring presence causes within me, and well, from everything. I can’t think straight. “I’m extremely tired, so right now, all I want is to sleep. Tomorrow, if you still feel like taking me out, then okay, I’m in. My shift ends at four, and I’m free the rest of the day.”

  Quentin offers me a delicious grin, almost making me regret turning him down now. “Tomorrow it is, then. I’ll be right here waiting for you, princess.”

  5

  My phone makes yet another buzz in my pocket but ignoring it for a while longer, I let my eyes linger on her backside as she walks away from me.

  Cierra.

  A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.

  Which she is, there’s no denying it. Her almond-shaped mercury eyes with a hint of light blue felt like two laser pointers on my skin as she studied me while I did the same to her. The naturally bronzed skin is a telltale of the outdoor lifestyle, but what now caught my attention was her pillowy lips which made her look like she was pouting all the time. Maybe she was, who knows. Guys might have a point about my current charm since it wasn’t biting her in full force; I admit it. But Cruz was wrong about one thing.

  She’s not a colorless wallflower, not by a long shot.

  But in her loose, gray windbreaker, black jeans, and practical sneakers, not to forget the backpack on her back, she doesn’t draw attention. There’s nothing in her appearance that calls you to look closer to see how cute she actually is.

  She has confidence in her steps, and she carries her shoulders straight. Is it her choice not to pull attention to herself?

  Shrugging the thought off, I walk around my car and settle myself in the driver’s seat. I don’t really care about her motives to do or not to do something, but Cruz got fucking fooled by her.

  Little mousey?

  Fuck that.

  Her innocent and untouched vibe might whisper submissive doll, but this girl is smart.

  Too smart for what I need her for, but the clock is ticking.

  The feeling of getting squeezed around my head multiplies as I start my Audi and roll it on the road. I pick the bottle of pills from my pocket, swallowing two down with a gulp of water while driving since I know where it leads if I don’t react to it immediately.

  If I’d let it go that far and embarrass my father in front of the Order, he’d send me to Switzerland without thinking twice. When the first panic attack hit me a month ago, I was ready to pack my bags and check myself into the asylum Cruz’s family owns there. Of course, when it passed, and my brain got back to work again, I knew it was a fucking horrible idea.

  With my head cooling down little by little, I drive to the Pandemonium house. The road lingers between tall and thick redwood trees, leading me far away from the bustling city. Quieting my mind, I focus on following the road illuminated by my car’s headlights while the night grows darker by the mile.

  My pulse stays steady until I reach the giant gates guarded by the demonic gargoyles. The iron gate remains still until I open the window and reach my hand out to place my finger on the detector, then it slowly slides open—welcoming me to the nest of the devil. The gates to Pandemonium house are always locked, save for New Year’s Eve, when we throw a party in here. I hope I’ll live to see the next party.

  When I drive past the rose labyrinth, I see two figures leaning against a low Maserati that’s parked on the line with other cars, which are just as extra as it is. Veering my Audi next to it, I can basically feel my brothers’ gazes burn holes in my skull.

  “Well?” Lennox rushes to ask the second I step out of the car, his feet tapping nervously.

  Cruz’s ocean blue eyes observe me much calmer, one brow cocked to question the same Lennox did.

  “I talked to her,” I tell them, rounding the car.

  “And?”

  “I’ll take my chances with her. We’ll go out tomorrow.”

  Lennox throws his hands in the air, eyes wide. “Chances? What the hell, man? This is not gambling.”

  I shrug, trying to play it off, even though I know he’s right. She is my only hope right now. Fuck, why didn’t I act earlier?

  “You got a picture and a name?” Cruz asks, rolling a lighter in his hand.

  “Yeah, of course.” I’m fucking glad she didn’t realize I snatched a photo of her the second she turned around on the BB’s door because that’d been hard to explain. My plan wasn’t masterminded from the beginning, so I’m riding my luck here.

  “Dude, you better get her hooked, so she’ll be with you the next three weeks,” Lennox murmurs, not sounding very convinced of my skills at the moment. Truthfully, neither am I.

  We get inside past the security guard, and no one says a word as we get closer to the hall. The cold from the stone walls bites into my bones, giving me full-body shivers, but it might as well be the presence of the Order that’s waiting for us behind the double doors. Lennox stops in front of those, turning to glance at Cruz and me.

  “You guys ready?”

  “As always,” Cruz grunts out, but I take a deep breath, feeling the need to take another Xanax.

  “Quentin?” Lennox looks at me under his brows, concern coloring his face. “I can make a scene to push this forward.”

  Cruz huffs, rolling his eyes. “No, you fucking can’t. Q has a name and a picture to offer, and he’ll go with little mousey. It’s gonna be fine, so stop being a bitch, or I’ll fuck you like one.”

  “Joke’s on you ‘cause your fat pierced dick would rip in two for trying to penetrate my petite ass.”

  “Guys, let’s just fucking go. I’m ready.” Scrubbing a hand over my face, I take a long inhale, ignoring their banter. Lennox pats my shoulder before pushing the door open, revealing a view to the round table.

  Nine pairs of eyes turn to look at us, and I feel nausea lingering up my throat. We’re not late, but seeing that the rest of the Reapers are already here, sure makes us seem like we’d be.

  That might also be my father’s piercing gaze as he glares at me as if I’m ten days late for the meeting.

  Our steps echoing from the stone walls can only be heard in the room as we take our places on the right side of our fathers. The irony wasn’t lost when our ancestors decided the sitting order at the round table ages ago. Considering how much power these men hold around the world... maybe referring to themselves as some kind of gods has a point.

  I sit down on the wooden throne-like chair, adjusting my coat, as I wait for my father to get this shitshow on the road. On my right is Lennox’s father, Landon Rinaldi, who’s still looking just as boyish as his son even though the man stands in his forties. Owner of one of the biggest transport companies in the US, and also runs a drug cartel as a side hustle. Naturally, though, no one knows about it outside this room, save for the families. Besides Cruz, on the other side of my father is his old man, Oscar Christian, who shares nothing in common with his son. Oh, except for the minor detail they’ve both got a bucket full of alpha genes when they were created, and that’s the reason they clash like fucking titans every other day. Oscar owns multiple private prisons around the world, as well as a few mental institutions, and needless to say, he’s excellent at making people disappear.

  Then there are the foreign members of the Order.

  Conor “the Irishman” Moore, and his son Cillian. Crazy motherfuckers, both father and son.

  Viktor Vasiliev, the one who’d put a target on Judge Semen
ov’s head. Obviously, it got him somewhere, but where? I’m not that interested. His son, Michail, is still a bit of a mystery to me even though I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s the guy at the party who stands in the corner, doesn’t speak to anyone, and then boom, turns the party into a Scream remake and sells the snuff film just for shit and giggles. Or at least, that’s the vibe he gives out.

  Who knows what he’s into?

  And then the Germans. Karl Kaiser, and his son Xander. Nice guys in general, very hospitable and easygoing. But as said, in general. Cross them, and they might carve your eyeball out with a dessert spoon just to make a point. Kaiser’s connections go all the way from the mafia to Interpol.

  Vincent reaches to the middle of the round table and picks the secespita from its pedestal. The iron blade of the long sacrificial knife catches the light from the chandelier, bringing up its coppery shades. Then, with a slow, unhesitant move, he cuts his palm deep enough to make it bleed effortlessly, bringing his hand above the silver chalice in the middle of the table. As he curls his fingers into a tight fist, the dark drops of blood fall into the cup, and he speaks, “Fraternitas as vitam aeternam.”

  Order forever.

  After wiping the blade clean, he hands it to Oscar, who repeats the act and the words. It goes clockwise, from one Order member to another, until it comes to me. I feel the small droplets of sweat breaking from my back under my overcoat.

  The secespita is heavier than modern knives, and I’m not sure if it really is, but it also feels colder. Like numerous times before, I make my sacrifice quoting the words spoken in this room since the 18th century. My palm stings, but it’s nothing compared to the twisting in my gut as the knife moves along, meaning the time for the naming is very fucking close.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve all been around this table,” Vincent says in a calm tone when Lennox places the cleaned knife back to its pedestal. He sounds all carefree, but I know he’s far from that, not knowing if I have the offer or not. “Since the meeting had to be pushed back once, I suggest we’d get to the point straight away. Or is there anything someone wants to say before the naming?”

  He glances around, his shoulders slightly tensed as if he expects me to blurt I’m short. Everyone shakes their heads, and it makes him relax visibly.

  “Okay, then”—he nods toward Karl, who wears a casual smile on his broad face—“as you all know, Kaiser is the jury this year, so you’ll send your offers to him.”

  Karl picks a black business card from his pocket, handing it to his son first. “Here is the number, and I don’t probably have to remind you, boys, but I will anyway. You will be disqualified if you don’t bring the lover you offer to me now to the Pandemonium.”

  My heart rate reaches the point where it might make the whole fucking organ explode any second now as I take the card from Lennox and type the numbers from the card on my phone.

  Press send, you fucking idiot.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Only biting my tongue hard enough to make it bleed, I keep my hands from trembling as I hit the send button. The headache blasts from nowhere into my skull. Clearly, it had just been lurking in the background for the perfect moment to terrorize me. White spots twinkle in my eyes, a telltale that this might go south and fast if I don’t get to calm my shit down.

  Happy place.

  Find the fucking happy place.

  My throat burns from the pressure within; all the fucked up images of what will happen if this won’t work, bombarding my brain, turning it into a warzone. Happy place.

  Find it, find it, find it.

  Fuck, I’m too slow.

  Bile rises up my throat, and I already taste the acid in my mouth, but then I catch it.

  Fresh air. The smell of the foggy forest. The sniffing sounds as Bullet goes through every bush. I’m okay. This is good. Calm, deep breaths.

  “Party at your house, Rinaldi?”

  I snap back to the moment from the quick trip to the forest at the back of my house, sweat breaking from my forehead as I try to read the situation. No one is looking at me. They’re chatting in ease, the card already burned to a crisp on the table, all the formalities handled.

  The relief washes over me as I realize the preface of a panic attack didn’t draw anyone’s attention to me. Fuck, that was close.

  “Hell yes. Mi casa es su casa,” Lennox answers to Cillian. The smirking psycho claps his hands together with a manic gleam in his eyes, getting up from his seat. Every one of the Reapers follows his example, me included. The Order will continue their meeting, but thank fuck we don’t have to be here any longer.

  My father places his hand on my arm, and my fucking blood runs cold. I glance down at him, keeping my face stoic.

  “Stop by at my office tomorrow,” he states quietly, his eyes hard as stone. “We need to have a little chat.”

  6

  In these few days I’ve been in Preston, it’s been raining eighty percent of the time. The smell in the air is entirely different from what I’d suspect when I arrived. It’s fresh and clean, not polluted like bigger cities usually are. There is a small-town vibe, even though it’s anything but.

  Maybe it’s because of the way people are.

  Gossiping and prying.

  Mom’s visitor last night was a perfect example of the nosy parkers living here. I can still feel the way her perfume made my lungs sting as I accidentally walked into her and Mom’s conversation in the dining room. Her intrusive eyes checked out every inch of me in the sixty seconds I spent with them while she went for the original: “You must be Cierra! Your father talked so much about you; his pride and joy.” At this point, I always feel physically ill, imagining him talking and bragging about me to strangers. It follows the same path every damn time. Then they give their condolences for my loss and tell me what an exceptional man my daddy was.

  And I bite my tongue hard enough to almost fork it in two.

  What does my mom do?

  Fucking sniffles into her napkin, pretending to be heartbroken. It makes me want to vomit all over her Louboutin’s.

  Clutching the umbrella tighter, I push the memories from last night’s chilling encounter away from my mind and focus on the upcoming workday as I walk down the puddled sidewalk. My combat boots keep my feet dry better than my sneakers would’ve, and I hope wearing those at work is okay with Hayley. She’s not exactly the one I’m worried about; Dean is. He is still just as grumpy as he was when we first met, so I’ve come to the conclusion he’s either in a desperate need to get laid, or he is a shitty person in general.

  Maybe those are linked, and he doesn’t get company because he is such a pain in the ass.

  It takes less than a second for my caffeinated brain to jump from Dean to Quentin, and a colony of butterflies tickles my stomach, making my skin blossom with goosebumps. The mixed emotions about him don’t change the fact that he is like gravity, pulling me toward him. There is something utterly alluring in him, not only that he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen live, but something in him makes my soul intrigued.

  I’m not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing, but I’m definitely going to find out about that today.

  Old, cream-colored Oldsmobile veers to the side of the road beside me, and the door flies open. Nash’s face, decorated with a happy smile, peeks from the driver’s seat. “Get in!”

  He doesn’t have to ask twice since the raindrops are turning into more vicious ones. Folding the umbrella, I jump in and let out a relieved sigh as I sink on the soft seat.

  “Thank God you drove by.” I glance at him as he gets the car back on the road. “You’re going to work too, right?”

  Nash nods, his face literally beaming. “Yeah. I admit it, I don’t live in this neighborhood, but I heard you saying to Hayley you don’t have a car. The weather really sucks ass this morning.”

  My brows arch from the surprise. “You drove here just to pick me up?”

  He lifts a hand up, slightly flustered. “I’m not a creep. I just wanted to help you out since you don’t seem to know many people from here. This city is”—he turns to look at the road, hesitating a bit—“well, you need to be careful who you make friends with.”

  “How did you know where I live in the first place?” I ask, though Nash seems a really genuine guy, and not for a second, I’d believe him to be a creep.