Light of Day (18 page)

“WAKE THE FUCK UP.”

Someone was shaking my shoulders. I was pulled from a dark, swampy place. My eyes opened a crack. It was Bree shaking me. My hope that this was just a vivid nightmare vanished.

“S-top, stop. I'm w-waking up.”

“Finally.” She released me, and I flopped back against the couch.

My head felt like a ten-ton weight on my shoulders, but I forced my eyelids to stay open. An apartment. Fast-food wrappers, empty liquor bottles, pizza boxes. The aftermath of a party, or many parties. I didn't know how long I'd slept, but it was still dark outside.

Why had she brought me here? My brain immediately
shut down the question, because I didn't want to know the answer. Instead I wondered how she'd gotten me out of the bar. For all I knew, I might've walked out on Milo's arm, a drugged-up zombie.

Milo. An icy shiver went down my spine. He wasn't in the room now, but he was close by, I knew it.

Bree's face zoomed in close to mine. “Sorry I couldn't let you pass out for long. But it's eleven already and we have to get started. If your parents are anything like mine, they're already wondering where you are.”

My brain was slowly powering up. Get started on what? What did that mean? And my parents . . . they wouldn't realize anything was wrong. I usually met up with Jackson after the show. As long as I was home by midnight, they wouldn't suspect anything. Even then, they'd probably be in bed and not even notice.

“My mom might've called the police already,” I said. “I told her I was meeting you.”

“How'd you manage that? You stayed on the line with me until you got there.”

Shit.
I hung my head, only because I didn't want to look into her eyes. She was cool and calm—her agitated state in the restaurant had been an act.

Everything about Bree had been an act.

I raised my eyes. “I was only trying to help you.”

“Yeah, I know.” She patted my shoulder. “I wish you'd listened when I said I didn't need your help. Do I look like I need it?”

Even with the fog still in my brain, the answer was clear. Bree looked nothing like the frightened girl in the restaurant; she looked sleek, stylish, and in control. She wore a translucent white shirt with a lacy black bra underneath and black leggings. Bling glittered on her hands, neck, earlobes.

She gave a snort. “You should've backed off instead of siccing your boyfriend and his Destinos on us. Those motherfuckers have been putting us through hell.”

I played dumb. “I don't know about the Destinos, but I never meant to cause you any problems. I didn't realize that you and Milo . . .”

“That Milo's my man? Yeah, I kinda figured. I'm a little disappointed that you thought I was one of his girls. C'mon, do you think I'd put up with that?”

“I thought he'd manipulated you.”

“Don't worry, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said. “It's true that Milo and I aren't your average couple. Just like you and the X man, huh?” She gave me a knowing look. “But isn't that part of the thrill? I can't tell you how sweet it is to have a real man who knows how to treat me.”

I worked up a smile. “I totally know what you mean. How did you meet him?” I was hoping to draw her out. Hoping she
could see me just as Gabby, her old friend.

She blushed. “A dating app, if you'd believe it. Sometimes he recruits girls that way. But he knew right away that I was different.” She smiled at the memory. “Love is such a rush, huh? Unfortunately, you picked the wrong guy.”

I shuddered, terrified to ask what she meant.

“She's awake!” Bree called out, blasting my ears.

Milo came in from the next room, wearing a Dolphins jersey and board shorts. Behind him were his two goons—the ones who'd attacked us at the Phoenix.

Milo stopped in front of me. I kept my head down, fixated on his pristine sneakers. He didn't speak until I lifted my eyes.

“This is how it's gonna go. You're gonna text your boyfriend and tell him to come over. Once you get him here, we let you go. How easy does that sound?”

My gut tightened. It was Jackson they wanted. But I wouldn't lure him here. I couldn't.

Not knowing how to respond, I stalled. “I—I don't understand. My mind's still messed up. I—I can't think.”

He slapped me, sending me back into the couch cushions. I cradled my throbbing jaw.

“You awake now?” He grabbed the front of my shirt, getting in my face. “If you don't cooperate, Malik's first in line.” He indicated the big black guy, who watched me menacingly. “Then it's Eddie for sloppy seconds.” The greasy white guy's
mouth contorted in a smile. “Then we slit your throat and throw you in a Dumpster. And here's the kicker: we still get X anyway.”

I burst into sobs. How could I send Jackson into an ambush? And yet, if I refused to contact him, those guys would . . . My whole body shook.

“Do you know how much those Destinos have fucked with us?” Bree snarled into my ear. “Did they think we were gonna put up with it? They even got the cops on us. So now we've got the Destinos
and
the cops trying to shut us down.”

I
was the one who'd gone to the cops, not Jackson. Thank God they didn't know that. They'd probably kill me right now.

“Okay, okay!” I shouted hysterically, taking my phone from my pocket. “I'll call him.”

Bree snatched it from me. “Yeah, right. In the state you're in? No, Gabby, you're gonna text him. And if you try to pull anything or put in some secret message, you'll regret it.” She bent close to my ear, whispering, “Eddie's the worst. That's why Milo's saving him for last. He's the one who punishes our bitches for us.”

A tremor went through me. “Y-you do it then.” With her bad spelling, Jackson might catch on that something was wrong.

“How stupid do you think I am?” Bree asked. “You have to text him the way
you
text. And don't worry, I've been looking
at old texts you sent me—I know how you write. I'll read it over before you send it.”

I took a deep breath, trying to get a hold of myself. It was up to me. I'd have to find a way to get a message past Bree and through to Jackson. I had to find a way to alert him.

Finally I reached out for my phone, but Bree held it back. She was going through my contacts, looking for the number.

“It's under Jackson,” I said, “his real name.”

Bree looked suspicious, but then she scrolled through my last few texts, and saw it was true.

“Awww, how sweet,” she said. “‘
Good luck with the show tonight. See you tomorrow
.' Kiss hug kiss.” She handed me the phone. “Go to it. If you send the text before I approve it, you know what'll happen.”

Looking into her eyes, it suddenly struck me: Rory had been right. Bree had slammed our lunch table that day. She was an instigator, not a follower. The difference between her and the others was that she was two-faced about it. She was nice to me in class, then went around bashing me like everyone else.

I only wished I'd figured that out sooner.

“Tell him you're at Caro's dad's place finishing up a history project,” Bree said, “and that the shit car you drive won't start.”

So she'd done her research. She knew that Caro and I were
in sixth-period history class together, and that Caro's parents were divorced. Jackson would know that most of my friends lived in Coral Gables, but he wouldn't know about Caro's dad; I didn't know where he lived either.

I started to text.

Hey hon. At Caro's dad's. Just finished our history project. Car won't start. Come get me?
Bree told me the address. I ended with,
Pretty please Jackie? G xox

I held my breath as Bree read it over, then handed it to Milo. They both nodded, and Bree sent it.

Jackie
. That was the clue. He'd told me his mother had called him that, and he'd hated the nickname. It would be strange of me to ask him for a favor while using a nickname he didn't like.
If
he even remembered he'd told me.

Another part of me hoped that he wouldn't see the text at all—that maybe his phone was off. But that would be rare for him.

We didn't move as we waited for the reply. After five minutes, Bree said, “You better hope he answers.”

Then the phone buzzed in her hand. She read it. “‘
Sure, twenty minutes. Hope you'll make it worth my while. Haha.
'” She looked at me with a grin. “Horny motherfucker, is he? Not as horny as Malik and Eddie, I'll bet. They can go at a
moment's notice. Right, boys?”

I didn't look to see their reactions, but I felt their stares burning into me. I clenched my jaw, fighting back a wave of nausea.

Milo loomed over me, waving his gun in my face. “You're going to answer the door and invite him in. Once he's in, he's ours. If you're smart, you'll get out before the fireworks start. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” I put my head in my hands. I wanted to shatter into a million pieces. If Jackson wasn't suspicious of my message, I'd be luring him to his death.

I couldn't let that happen.

There was no way I was going to let him walk through that door. I would have to warn him. If I got shot instead, fine. Better die that way than face what Milo's goons were promising to.

I suddenly remembered the quote from Bree's Instagram page, written in blood.
Would you die for him? If you hesitated, you're not in love.

Yes, I would, I realized. I would die for him. And the weird part was, there was some peace in that.

“It's been twenty-eight minutes.” Milo stared down at me. “Where the fuck is he?”

“He's always late,” I said quietly. But Jackson was never late.
It gave me hope. Maybe he was talking to the police right now.

The minutes had passed with excruciating slowness. Bree had insisted on brushing my hair and cleaning up my face. If I looked like I'd been crying, Jackson would know right away that something was wrong.

Thirty-five minutes. The goons were restless. I felt Milo's anger rising, directed squarely at me.

Forty minutes.

Then the buzzer rang. I moved to get up, but Bree pushed me back down. Milo went over and pressed the release button to unlock the building's main door. Then he came over to me, pressing the barrel of the gun to my temple as everybody took their positions. Eddie headed for the kitchen, while Malik slipped into the bathroom. Bree took refuge in the bedroom, closing the door.

Then Milo went into the front closet, keeping the door open just a little so he could watch me.

There was a knock at the door. Taking a breath, I got up from the couch and walked toward it. As I reached for the handle, a stillness came to me.
This is going to be over very soon. And whatever happens, it's going to be okay.

I opened the door. Jackson was there, a warm smile on his face. My chest tightened.
If this is the last sight I see, I'm good with that.

“I told you that car was gonna break down one of these
days,” Jackson said. “It's a write-off.”

But I wasn't listening to him. Milo was creeping up behind the door, gun raised.

“Run!” I flung myself forward, trying to push him away from the door. But it was like pressing against a brick wall; he didn't move. Jackson grabbed me and pushed me to the ground.

Bullets sprayed the air.

I covered my head. Heavy feet trampled over me, squeezing the breath out of my lungs. More shooting and shouting. Someone was crushing me into the carpet, and I knew it wasn't Jackson. I didn't know who it was, but he was protecting me.

Then I felt myself being yanked to my feet. We ran down the hall into the stairwell. “Stay down!” the guy in black barked, as a stray bullet shattered the glass in the door and ricocheted off the wall.

More gunfire. I covered my head and my ears.

“How many in there?” the guy demanded. I dared to look up, and saw that he was familiar. He had a scar running down his face. I knew he was the Destino named Matador.

“Three guys,” I said. “Bree's hiding in the bedroom.”

“Okay. Stay here.” Gun in hand, he reached for the door.

“Wait. Bree's probably got a gun too. Be careful.”

“Thanks.” Then he was gone.

Gunfire kept blasting. I hunkered down, staying clear of
the broken window. Had Jackson actually gone into the apartment? Had he been shot?

The shooting stopped.

What was happening? Screw Matador's command to stay put. I needed to know that Jackson was okay. Cautiously, I got up and opened the door. The hallway was littered with glass. I approached the apartment and looked inside.

My eyes swept over the scene. Jackson was standing in the middle of the room, gripping Bree's arm. She was sobbing and struggling like a crazed kid. There were several Destinos standing around, black bandannas over their faces. Milo, Eddie, and Malik were dead, sprawled on the floor.

Jackson's eyes met mine across the room. I saw relief in them. He said to the Destinos, “Time to head out. Gabby and I'll greet the cops.”

Without another word, the Destinos rushed past me.

“I can hear the sirens,” Jackson said, a sense of inevitability in his voice. “I'm thinking two minutes.”

No. You can't do this
. “Get out of here, Jackson,” I said. “Don't risk it. They might think you . . .” I gestured toward the bodies. He probably
had
killed them, I realized. He'd been the first one in the apartment. But he wasn't carrying a gun that I could see; he must've slipped it to one of the Destinos.

Jackson wasn't fazed. “I can defend everything I've done here. I'd do it all again. For you.”

That was Jackson, always doing the right thing. His refusal to lie in the past had resulted in two years of juvie instead of a short stint in rehab. But this was different—his entire life was at stake. Did he really think the cops would hear his explanation? The truth was, the moment he admitted to these shootings, it would be over for him.