When I come to, I’m lying on a couch inside a dimly lit living room that smells like coffee and pot. The furniture looks like it was found on the sidewalk—a pair of sagging, orange love seats, a gray swivel chair unfit for the saddest of offices, and a large papasan. The big-screen LED television is new, however. A tangle of black video game consoles and wires spreads out on the floor.
The only other thing that isn’t sad and worn is the spray-painted beast on the wall to my right.
The giant stag image faces me, its eyes wide and watchful, with antlers curling up toward the ceiling. The one on the right is jagged, even more than it should be. Thorns. The left antler isn’t an antler at all, but a curling feather.
I’ve seen the image before—tags on BART station walls and freeway overpasses. Everyone in the city knows the gang’s signs, even if they pretend not to. The wild slashes of the Boars, the curling wings of the Herons, and the pensive gaze of the Stags.
But this one is different. This is art, exquisite and alive.
I get up and scan the room again, trying to keep calm. My hands go to my pockets.
“Where’s my phone?” The light coming through the glass of the front door is a pale blue, so I’ll safely guess it’s morning. If I had a watch, I’d check it, but Dad noticed my thing about time a while ago and gets upset when I wear one, so instead I just keep my phone on me at all times. I pat my pockets again, my anxiety churning. “What time is it?”
“Seven thirty-one,” a voice answers.
The female Stag from last night stands in the adjacent hallway, a cup of coffee in her hand. Her wavy hair is covered by an army-green bandana, while a white crop top shows off a stomach that would make veteran yogis proud. The tips of antlers poke up from her left hip. Her Stag tattoo—dark ink on dark skin.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“Ingleside.”
I place myself on a mental map of the city. Home is in the Marina District—not too far away, all things considered, though nothing in SF is really that far away. “Where’s my phone?”
“Destroyed. We’ll give you a new one.”
“Destroyed?” I repeat. “I had photos on there. Texts. How am I going to call … I mean, you can’t just do that.” Mom. Dad. Lyla. MATTHEW. I need to let them know I’m okay.
The female Stag’s expression clouds into a mixture of anger and amusement. “Jax does whatever he wants. You’d better get used to that or you won’t make it through your year.”
One year. That’s what I’ve agreed to, isn’t it? It’s the same rules that the Herons and Boars have. You serve from the day you turn eighteen to the day you turn nineteen.
“I’m Nianna,” the girl says. She pronounces it slowly—NEE-ann-uh—like I’m too dumb to get it on my own.
“Valerie.” I take a few steps toward her and shake her hand. Another tattoo reveals itself from the underside of her wrist—a slim, finely rendered arrow with feathering at the end. “How long have you been a Stag?”
“Eight months.” She smiles. “Long enough to have seen it all.”
Nianna lets her reply hang in the air as other footsteps sound from the hall. A guy and girl—their disheveled hair and clothes screaming “couple”—step around Nianna. The guy is stocky with tan skin. He’s just a little taller than his companion, though he slouches quite a bit. Locks of black hair stick out from beneath a backward baseball cap.
“Jesus, don’t you sleep?” the guy asks.
Nianna shrugs and sips from her cup. “Coffee’s on.”
“Oh, fuck yes.”
The girl he is with zips up her hoodie. “Valerie, right? I’m Kate.” She shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Kate has long Rapunzel-style hair—a shiny veil of gold that moves when she moves. It reaches all the way down to her waist but in a light, casual way. Like she doesn’t care, and you can’t make her.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say.
“That’s Mako.” She points at the guy. “You hungry? Babe, cook us something.”
“What do you want?”
Kate looks to me for an answer.
“Oh, anything. Anything’s fine,” I say. “Actually, what I could really use is a phone.”
“We told your mom, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your stuff’s here, too. We got it when we drove your car back.”
My car. My stuff. They went back to my house without me.
My heart lurches as I picture Mom in that old robe that she used to let me wear when I was sick—so, so alone—opening the front door and seeing strangers. There’s no universe in which she didn’t cry. No universe in which she did not beg them to change their minds. I suck in my bottom lip. Mom didn’t ask for this. She didn’t ask for any of it.
“Bacon and eggs will do, Mako,” Kate says. “Veggie for me.”
“Fake bacon for the lady.”
Mako gets to work in the kitchen as Kate takes my hand. “Come on. I’ll show you your room.”
She leads me down the short hallway, passing a bathroom and shower. Opening a side door, she starts down a staircase leading into a basement. “You get the den.”
The den is really the garage. It’s about as warm as an icebox and crowded with old lawn furniture and cardboard boxes of who knows what. By the door, there’s a set of heavy weights and a space for working out.
In the corner between two Japanese folding screens is a twin bed with sheets folded on top of it. My suitcases are stacked beside it, a bright orange paper crane resting on top of them. I don’t know what to make of that.
I swallow—I thought I’d be unpacking in a room for a Heron. Clean, safe. Matthew at my side. I push my nails into my palm. The Herons didn’t come for me, but I know they came for Matthew. Should I have turned the Stags down?
“Hey, Kate?”
She frowns, eyes to the ground, as her finger examines a pimple on her cheek. “Yeah?”
“How often do the other gangs, uh, meet up, I guess? Like if I wanted to talk to one of them.”
She shrugs. “All that has to go through Jax. But we don’t usually talk to them so much as fuck with their plans.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
“No prob. I’ll let you get settled. Ooh.” She leans down and rustles through one of the boxes, pulling out a purple vase. She wipes the dust on her shirt. “Feel free to keep anything you find. I don’t even know where all this came from. Come up in a bit, though. The boy makes a mean breakfast.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Kate leaves in a swirl of blond, the stairs creaking under her bare feet as she goes.
The door shuts behind her, and I shiver. My eyes go to my suitcases, and something other than reason moves me toward them. I open the top pocket of the smaller bag and reach into it. My fingers wrap around cool metal.
The pocketknife feels good in my hand. Steady and just there. Underneath the denim of my jeans, a ladder of scars tingles with anticipation.
No. I set the knife back in the pocket. I don’t need that quite yet.
Instead, I find a clean-ish rag and a bottle of glass cleaner. Kicking a box out of the way, I go over to the window and scrub the dirt and cobwebs until light shines through. I hear the steps creak again.
“Breakfast?” I ask Kate. Then I turn. It’s not Kate.
Jax has his hands in his jean pockets. His freshly washed gold hair falls down to his collarbone, and a towel hangs over one of his bare shoulders. He’s at least a head taller than me and walks with his head held high, as if he has no equals. I can’t help but scan his muscled torso—slim but toned, like the guys on the swim team. Plaid boxers peek out at his hips by that V-shaped muscle guys have that I’ve never understood. His Stag tattoo blazes over his heart, proud and unafraid.
I was in too much shock to realize it last night. But Jax isn’t just attractive—he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. The slight brush of stubble against his jaw makes his face more angular, and I wonder how much older he is than me.
“Like the place?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. “Yeah. It’s good. It’s fine. Thanks.”
His eyes go to the rag in my hand and he smiles, bemused. “Down here two minutes, and that’s the first thing you do?”
“They were dirty.” Stunning opening, Val. “And it’s so dark in here. I need all the light I can get.”
Jax takes a step back and flicks a switch on the post by the stairs. White-blue florescent lights buzz to life.
“Oh,” I say. Stupid. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says. He steps closer to me again. “So. You’ve wanted this for a long time, haven’t you?”
I blush—because how can I not?—and try to maintain eye contact while this very attractive, very shirtless guy talks to me. “What do you mean?”
“To join the Wars. I’ve been watching you.” He fiddles with the zipper of my suitcase.
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I didn’t ask anyone to be watching me,” I say. “I’m here for my brother. I want to get even.”
“I know.”
He does? “Can you tell me who it is? The guy who killed him? I mean, was it even a guy? I know most of the members are guys but—”
Jax shakes his head. “I’m not telling you any of that.”
I frown. “But you said you knew who it was.”
“I do,” he replies. “But you’re not ready to know.”
“Yes, I am,” I say. “Please tell me. I have to know.”
“Ah, see,” Jax says. “We have to straighten some things out first.” He lunges toward me, pushing me back until I’m trapped between him and the wall.
“Hey!” I try to shove him back, but he pins my wrists to my sides and heat rushes to my face—there’s nowhere safe to look. So I look at him right in the eyes.
“First thing you need to know,” Jax says, “is that you don’t give the orders. I do. And you will obey every command. You will never go against me.” He lets go of one of my wrists and runs two fingers down my cheek. “You’re a Stag now, Valerie Simons. Now tell me you understand.”
I wish I weren’t shaking. I nod.
“As for your brother—yeah, I know who killed him. It wasn’t right, and I want you to be the one to kill him and get your revenge. But if I told you now, you’d run off, do something stupid, and get killed on my watch. Not gonna happen.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah you would. Or you’d go to Weston and have him take care of it. Either way, you’d run. And yeah, I know about Weston.”
I swallow. Is he right? I’m not completely stupid—I don’t know how I’d find this person once I knew who it was, but I’d sure as hell do something.
Jax leans back, easing the pressure off my wrists. “I’m a man of my word, Valerie Simons. I promise to tell you when you’re ready. When I know you’re loyal to your crew and that you won’t run. Until then, you’re mine.”
Shit. I want to say many things, like how long he thinks it’ll take for me to be ready, or what if I promise not to run, but I’m smarter than that. Jax is a leader of a gang—one wrong word and I could wind up on his bad side and then he’ll never tell me. Do this, do it for Leo.
“I understand,” I say finally.
His shoulders drop, and he steps back from me. “That wasn’t so hard, right? You’re one of mine now. I’ll take care of you. You get your tattoo tonight.”
“Tonight?” I knew the tattoo was coming—one thing all three gangs agree on is that their members be tattooed. I guess that’s standard gang MO, but I think it’s a mental test, more than anything. Once you’re in, you can’t back out.
Jax answers my questions with a nod. “You’re in for one year. If you change your mind and try to run anyway, I’ll alert the other leaders. Then anyone is green-lit to kill you. And even if you get away, there’s nothing that says a gang can’t make things rough for your folks. And I couldn’t protect them.” His implication is clear—he wouldn’t protect them if I’d been disloyal. “Understand?”
Mom and Dad. They deserve so much better than to be added to the Wars’ crimson tally. If my staying here protects them, then I would stay for the rest of my life.
“Yes,” I reply firmly. “I understand.”
“Good girl,” Jax says. “We’re not so bad, Valerie Simons. And no one’s going to mess with you now that you’re one of mine.” He smiles. “You hungry?”
Mealtime is … surprisingly organized.
Kate and Nianna get the silverware while Mako sets down platters of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and even fresh fruit. On top of that, there’s coffee and a pitcher of orange juice. My stomach rumbles. The last thing I ate was cake with Mom.
“Sit.” Jax points to a seat.
Not forgetting our exchange a minute ago, I do as I’m told. The others jostle around me, and I’m feeling more than a little useless when I hear the slow shuffle of someone who just got out of bed.
“The best of us awakes!” Jax exclaims.
The guy behind me is lanky with short, black hair. He’s in faded jeans and a loose green sweatshirt that says BOLINAS, which I know is north of the city but I’m not sure where exactly. His arms and hands are covered in tattoos.
“Hullo,” he says, taking the seat next to mine. “Micah.”
“Valerie.”
We shake hands. His skin is warm from a cozy sleep. As the Stags take their seats, I count them. Five, just like last night. I lean over to Micah.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Everyone else?”
“Aren’t there more of you?”
“Just one more here. Jaws. You won’t see him much. But you’ll know when you do.”
“So … six?”
“Seven, with you. The other Stags are at different safe houses.” He moves his head from side to side as he thinks. “Plus, I guess a few more that are technically out, but we could call on them if we needed to.”
“Oh. Okay.” That’s … unsettling. I knew the Boars were the largest group—the reports I’ve read estimate that there are between seventy and a hundred Boars. The Herons are harder to pin down since they’re more careful, but I guess there’s at least fifty or so. I would have thought the Stags were at least as big as that.
Looking back at Micah, my eyes travel up the tattoos on his hands and forearms. “Where do you want yours?” he asks.
“Oh.” I look down at my body. “You know, I’m not sure.”
I wanted the Heron tattoo on my back. The wings spread out on my shoulder blades. Elegant and eternal. I guess the stag’s antlers could do the same.
Micah reaches toward me. “Lean forward.”
When I do, he touches the soft skin on the back of my neck, right below my hairline. Goose bumps shoot down my spine.
“Here,” he says. “That’s your spot.”
“How do you know?”
“I always do. Artist’s intuition.”
“It’s true,” Kate says as she sits. She unzips her sweatshirt and tugs up the loose fabric of her tank top, revealing the stag emblem on her rib cage. “I didn’t know where I wanted mine either, but I love having mine there. Micah has a gift.”
“Yeah, okay,” Micah replies sarcastically, but he’s smiling.
“You do the tattoos?” I ask. “I figured the gangs had, like, an outside guy.”
“Nope,” he says, smiling. “I’m the guy.”
Jax sits down at the head of the table and lifts a glass. “To you, Valerie Simons. Welcome home.” The others raise their glasses. Next to him, Nianna sips hers without taking her eyes off Jax. Their chairs are close, but neither seems bothered by the proximity.
The five of them tear into the food. I fill my plate once and then a second time. With each bite, my determination returns a little more.
This isn’t so bad. It feels kind of like summer camp. Only with older cabin mates who may or may not have killed before.
I can do this, I remind myself. Besides, this isn’t about me. It’s about Leo. And if I have to play along until Jax is satisfied, then so be it.
After breakfast, the group dumps their plates in the sink and goes to do their own thing. I set my own plate in the dishwasher and rinse the rest. When I’m done, I turn to the others for instruction.
“I guess I’ll unpack, then?” I ask Micah, who’s the only one still in the kitchen with me.
He finishes the text he was working on and tucks his phone in his pocket. “You want help unpacking?”
“Oh.” That’s nice. “Sure. Thanks.”
We go downstairs. A set of drawers just beside the bed doubles as a nightstand. Even when all my clothes are unpacked, there’s tons of extra space. I hurry and tuck away all the white and off-white clothing I packed, tags still on them. How could I have never even entertained the idea that I’d be recruited by another gang?
I take out the rest—my makeup, my best jewelry, and all the other absurd things I thought I’d need as a Heron. Micah slides the big suitcase under the bed and gives the smaller one a final shake. My last two possessions thunk around, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Just some books,” I lie. “Just leave them in there.”
“Okay.” He slides it next to the other one then sets his hands on his hips. “That it?”
“That’s it.” My eyes scan the chaotic room, and my anxiety rises in turn. “Do you think … I mean, can I clean up some of this?”
“I don’t think anyone’ll care, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Micah retrieves some Hefty bags from the kitchen. I stuff handfuls of junk into the bags and break down boxes. There’s a little bit of everything—a pair of tennis shoes with dirt caked on the bottoms; a down comforter without a duvet cover over it; a framed photo of some girl with short black hair smiling with the Golden Gate behind her, the setting sun casting light across half her face. I set the last of these in the garbage more reverently—probably some poor girlfriend of a Stag long gone. I wonder if that Stag lived in this very space, and threw out someone else’s memento. Will someone throw out mine someday?
“So,” I ask Micah. “How long have you been in the Stags?”
“Since the beginning,” he says. “About three years.”
“What?” I say. “I thought gang members just did one year.”
“Most do, but I won’t leave until Jax does.”
“Why not?”
He smiles. “We go way back. He’s basically my brother. He asked me to join, and I did.”
My mind buzzes with questions, but from his tone I can tell he’s done talking about it. Picking up a strand of Christmas lights I’d found earlier, we string them along the wall. It’s like decorating a dorm … if decorating a dorm was done with strangers and that dorm was actually a basement in a house of criminals. I watch as Micah shoves a pushpin into the wall and drapes the strand of lights over it. Frowning, he takes out the pin and moves it down half an inch.
“Thank you for helping,” I say. “I … I never really thought I’d be here.”
“You didn’t think you’d get recruited?” Micah straightens a corner of my new bedspread before sitting down on the edge.
“Oh. No, I hoped to be. I just thought … well, I wanted to be a Heron.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“It’s just … I always thought I’d be one,” I stammer. “My ex—he’s the son of a big Heron family.” He told me he loves me, and I love him.
“What’s his name?”
“Matthew. Matthew Weston.”
“Alex Weston’s brother.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s him. How’d you know?”
“The Westons are Herons, through and through.” Micah shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Valerie, but he’s definitely a Young Heron by now.”
Somewhere in my heart and head I already knew, but knowing something and being told it’s true are different. It’s like hearing about a car accident versus being in one. I hug myself at the elbows and try to remember the warmth of Matthew’s body, his kiss. I wish we’d had more time before I left …
The upstairs door opens. “Jax wants you,” Nianna calls to Micah.
“All right.” He gets up. “See you later, Valerie. Pick a place.” He taps the back of his neck—one of the rare areas on his body that’s not tattooed—and disappears up the stairs. Nianna comes and stands in front of me, her hands on her hips.
“All unpacked?”
“Just about.”
“Good. Look at me.” She raises her chin as I do. “I’ll say this once: I don’t think you should have been recruited. But Jax insisted. So I’m going to insist on a few things, too.”
“Jax already went over this.” I wish I didn’t sound so defensive.
“This is different.”
I grit my teeth. “All right, fine. Shoot.”
“First, never cross me or I’ll gut you like a fish.”
I have to force myself not to laugh. Gut me like a fish? Who says that other than old mobsters in the movies? “Um, okay. Sure.”
“Next, don’t do anything that could get another Stag killed. Don’t be reckless, but don’t be a coward either. Do what you are told.”
“Okay.”
“Last thing.” She exhales like an angry bull. “Don’t fall in love with Jax.”
This time I don’t have the control to stop myself from laughing. Sure, he’s hot, but the guy is insane. Volatile—it’s not one of my favorite words.
“That won’t be a problem, Nianna.” I tack on her name with bite.
“It better not be.”
She goes back up the stairs without another word. The door shuts behind her, and I finish my laugh. Fall in love with Jax? No way. There’s someone else in my heart already, thank you very much.
I pull a sweater from my new drawers and start to tug it on when the scent hits me. Pausing, I bring the soft fabric to my nose and inhale. It smells like lavender detergent. Like Mom and Dad and home. I shut my eyes as my heart crumples like an old newspaper.
I fall back onto the bed, springs creaking with every movement. Somehow, it makes everything worse. This is not my bed, not my room. Only it is. It is for the next 364 days. I sob into the sweater, letting it muffle the sound.
What’s Mom doing now? Dad isn’t home yet. God, I hope she’s with someone. One of the fundraising ladies, like Tita Patty. As long as she’s not alone.
My knife beckons from its place underneath the bed, but I fight the urge. Instead, I take out the smaller suitcase and open the main pocket. I root around until I find what I told Micah to leave inside. Pulling out the photo album from a side pocket, I place it in my lap like a gift from some unnamed deity.
I try and steady my breath as I flip through the glossy memories. Mom, Dad, and a seven-year-old me in front of the carousel at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. A selfie of Lyla and me at a Giants game. Backstage pix with the theater club. Matthew and me with Leo after his Little League team won their playoff game—Matt had coached him. Then another photo of Matthew and me at Ocean Beach, just a few weeks before we broke up. He has his arm around me.
One final photo, hidden in the back. Leo’s smile always was too big for his face. Once, when he was still a toddler, Leo ignored me for a whole day. No talking to me, no trying to tug my hair. It was like I didn’t exist to him.
Until, as I was leaving to go to a movie with a friend and her parents, he took my hand and laid it on his. My palm to his palm. My wrist to his wrist. The lattice of our veins pulsed our shared blood in time with each other. An hour later in a darkened theater, I could still feel the whispery magic of that moment.
The ache batters around my rib cage then tumbles from my throat. Leo.
I put the album back under the bed then curl onto my side. Tightening further into a ball, I wipe my eyes and nose.
I loved my little brother more than I have loved anything before or since.
And then I killed him.