11. Vogue

"Can I go now?"

The question is rhetorical. I'm going whether I'm allowed to or not.

Callum nods, taking my hand and linking our fingers together, holding on tightly as he pulls me closer. It's possessive, and when Quentin moves to my other side and places his hand lightly over the back of my neck, reminding me they own me, I shiver with the dark thrill that this foursome brings me.

The drive home, in yet another car that is new to me, I watch the night flash by, consumed with thoughts of my mother. Something is wrong. I know it. She wouldn't just sit by while her phone was disconnected and let me worry. She would've tried to get in touch.

When Thayer escorts me upstairs to the penthouse, closer than ever, almost as if he is seeking my forgiveness for his actions earlier, I smile wearily up at him. He searches my eyes for a moment and then kisses the tip of my nose.

That's all it takes.

And I love that about us.

Sinking into the plush couch, eyes closed, the weight of the day presses down on my chest. It's not even midnight, so this fucking day hasn't ended yet. It started too early and dragged on, even with sleep.

Cal's hand finds my shoulder, a silent offer of companionship. Thayer sits across from us on the coffee table, elbows on his knees. Quen sits at my other side, arms crossed, while Harry gets us all some drinks.

"Her phone has been disconnected," I blurt out suddenly, breaking the silence. My voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears. "She would've made sure to let me know she was okay. I know she would've."

Harry places the drinks on the table, and the room goes quiet. I can feel all their eyes on me, but it's not suffocating. It's like they're propping me up, keeping me from falling apart.

"Who?" Quen asks, turning to me and uncrossing his arms, knowing it makes him look defensive and that I don't need that right now.

"My mum."

"When was the last time you talked?" Cal asks, his voice low and controlled.

"The day I arrived here. Shit happened so fast with you guys, and then with my dad appearing on the scene, being abducted, days slipped by. But I tried to ring her the other day, but it was disconnected. I meant to check in on her earlier. After Leonard."

"Leonard," Thayer growls, but not accusingly, just pissed off in general.

Ignoring him, I rub my forehead, trying to squeeze out the worry that's lodged there like a splinter.

"Could be a billing mix-up," Quen suggests.

"Not a mix-up. This has happened before when she was too broke to pay it. But I was with her then. She had no need to track me down. I just thought she would've now with me so far away."

Something feels very off, and it's eating away at me.

"Let's drive back to Westfield," Cal says slowly, almost as if it is something he hopes we all refuse. "Check on your mum in person."

The worry eases inside me at the thought, a bit of the tightness unwinding in my chest. I nod, because what else can I do? Sitting here, drowning in what-ifs, isn't going to help.

"Road trip it is," Harry says.

"It's a bit late," I murmur, even though every instinct is telling me to go now.

Quen gives me a look, his eyes steady. "We'll set off at dawn. We've got you, Vogue." It's not a promise; it's a fact, and somehow, that steadies me more than any vow could.

Thayer doesn't say anything, but his hand on my knee is a silent pledge, his strength lending itself to me without words.

"Try to get some sleep now," Cal murmurs, kissing my temple.

I nod and glance at Quen. "Will you come with me?"

"Of course," he says, instantly on his feet and taking my hand as I rise.

We walk silently to my room, where I don't even bother stripping off. I take my boots off and crawl onto the bed. Sleep won't come easy, but I'm okay with that. I want to just be with Quen. We have something special, and I want to nurture it before it fades away.

Quen slips off his shoes and climbs onto the bed beside me, not touching at first, just a presence that fills the room with warmth and protection.

I roll onto my side, facing him, and he copies me. The silence isn't awkward; it's comforting. We understand each other on a level that words sometimes can't reach.

"You okay?"

It's a stupid question because I'm clearly not, but Quen asks it anyway because that's what you do when you care about someone.

"No," I admit. My voice barely rises above a whisper. "I'm scared shitless."

His hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers with a gentle squeeze. "We're going to find out what happened. I promise."

I close my eyes for a moment. It's not like I needed reassurance from Quen to know that he means every word he says, but hearing it settles something deep within me.

His thumb rubs circles on the back of my hand, and his quiet strength seeps into me.

A few silent moments pass before I dare to voice another thought. "What if she's..."

"Don't," Quen cuts me off firmly but gently. "Don't torture yourself with those thoughts until we know more."

I nod, swallowing down the fear and forcing myself to believe in the best-case scenario despite how difficult that feels right now.

In the quiet darkness of my room, my thoughts swirl, and the cold hand of dread chokes me.

What if my dad did something to her?

He was pissed when he found out about the money. It wasn't an act. He was surprised and angry. But Mum must've had a good reason for keeping it. Maybe she is a secret gambler and had debts to pay. Christ knows these mafia guys don't fuck about when it comes to their business. That Jones guy drifts into my head, and it turns into my mum battered and left for dead somewhere.

"Fuck!" I gasp, sitting up, feeling sick.

"Hey," Quen murmurs, sitting up as well and wrapping his arms around me. "We'll find out what's happened, I swear."

I nod, not wanting to tell him my fears. He might take offence, or maybe he knows something I don't, and I'll see it written all over his face.

Settling back down, the knot in my stomach is painful, but I turn into him, resting my head on his chest and hearing his heartbeat, lulling me into a state of less panic. I'm being ridiculous. This is all some big misunderstanding.

"I can't," I say, shaking my head. I climb off the bed, shove my boots back on, and grab my backpack. "I need to go now."

"So we'll go," he says, following me.

The rest of the guys are still in the living room and look up when I storm in. "We're going now."

"We'll arrive there in the early hours," Callum points out.

"I have my key. I'll let myself in, make sure she's okay."

With nods of agreement, we leave the penthouse, a unit of purpose, descending in the elevator. The silence isn't awkward; it's charged with the support of four guys who stand with me against whatever messed up stuff life throws at us.

Thayer's SUV sits like a beast on the drive, next to the sedan we drove home in, dark and formidable. He slides into the driver's seat, bringing the engine to life with a growl that vibrates through the concrete underfoot. Harry takes shotgun, while me, Cal, and Quen pile into the back. The doors slam shut with finality, sealing us inside this bubble of determined tension.

As we pull out onto the street, the city lights streak by like fleeting thoughts. Each mile takes us closer to Westfield, to answers, or maybe to more questions. I can't predict which, but with these guys, I don't have to face the unknown alone.

"Music?" Harry asks a simple offer to fill the weighty silence.

"Sure," I murmur, though I'm not sure I'll hear it over the pounding of my own heart. Something's waiting for us in Westfield, something crucial and possibly ugly.

The B roads turn into A roads and then motorways. Thayer keeps a steady pace—not too slow, not too quick—which is exactly what my flip-flopping mind needs.

I must nod off at some point because I wake up with a jolt, leaning against Quen. Blinking, I swallow back the sudden attack of nerves.

The familiar cracked sidewalks of Westfield swim into view under the streetlights. It's like watching my life rewind, each turn a flashback to a time before scholarships and Crestmont's ivy-covered walls.

"Almost there," Thayer murmurs when he sees me awake in the rearview mirror. His voice is quiet but sure as if he senses the whirlwind inside me.

Buildings rise, worn but resilient, holding memories of scraped knees and dreams too big for their narrow alleys. The SUV slows, crawling now, past the corner shop where I watched my friends buying sweets, but I had no money for any, past the park where I'd bury my nose in books, trying to imagine a world beyond these streets.

"You okay?" Quen murmurs.

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah."

But am I? This place is my past, and it's where I wanted to keep it, but now I'm here twice in two days, and it's like I'm going around in circles.

The SUV stops outside a rundown block of flats, the engine idling softly. No one rushes to get out. I don't ask how he knew where to go. Of course he knows.

It stands unchanged on the outside, the windows like eyes that have seen too much, the door chipped at the edges, wearing its history without shame.

"Let's go and see what's going on," Harry suggests, his tone all business now. He has gone on high alert, as have the rest of the guys. They're not used to the seedy side of town and are looking for signs of trouble when mostly all there is now is silence. Had we rolled up in this fancy car a few hours ago, things would probably have been different.

We exit the SUV, our collective presence a small force against the silence of the street. I lead the way through the main door and up the stairs to the first floor, rooting around in my bag for the key, Each step is heavier than the last, bracing myself for what I might find inside.

The cold metal of the key pressing against my fingertips reminds me this is real, not just another stress dream where I wake up tangled in sheets and gasping. I fumble, clumsy, the key clinks against the lock before it slides in, a soft metallic sigh. My hands tremble, and I have to steady them with a determined breath.

I turn the key, hearing the tumblers fall into place, an old familiar sound that now seems out of tune. The door swings open to expected silence.

We step inside, straight into the living room. It doesn't look right. The same walls, the same floor, but the furniture is different, and someone is sleeping on the sofa that doesn't belong there.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask, my voice steady despite the storm raging in my chest.

The stranger—a man with close-cropped hair grunts and opens his eyes. I can see the empty bottle beside him and recoil as he sits upright, rubbing his hand over his head.

"Who the fuck are you?" he growls, coming to remarkably quickly for someone who was recently passed out. I guess he's used to the need to be alert on demand.

Cal steps forward, flanking me, while Thayer and Quen hang back, their eyes scanning the room, every muscle poised for action. Harry moves subtly, positioning himself where he can see every angle, every possible threat. It's clear they're ready to defend, to fight, if need be, but I don't want things to escalate—not yet.

"This is my mum's flat. Where the fuck is she?" I spit out, fear taking over logic.

"This is my fucking flat, bitch, and you just broke the fuck in!" He rises, grabbing the empty bottle to wield as a weapon.

Thayer is there instantly, his hand clamped over the guy's wrist. "Don't," he says quietly.

The guy takes notice, knowing he is vastly outnumbered, and even booze isn't going to make him that reckless.

"Where is my mum?" I press, needing answers, the urgency is a burning fire in my veins.

"Fuck knows. I rented this flat on the up."

"From who?" I swallow, but my mouth is dry.

"Some woman. Meg something." He shrugs. "Get out of my place before I call the police."

My blood runs cold. What is he saying?

Cal's hand squeezes my elbow, a silent reassurance. Thayer's jaw sets, his gaze never leaving the stranger as if he's ready to pounce at the slightest provocation when he lets the guy go.

"Fine," I bite out, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "We're going." My mum is clearly not here. She has left without a word and sub-let her flat to this stranger.

"Vogue," Cal whispers, guiding me with a firm grip that tells me it's time to bolt. Thayer, Harry, and Quen follow us out, and Quen closes the door behind him.

"Keep walking," Thayer mutters, low and steady, as we make for the stairs.

I move, legs shaky but spurred on by the urgency in his tone.

The chill of the early morning bites at my skin as we stumble out onto the street. I throw a glance back at the building that houses my mother's flat, the place where I grew up. The windows are dark, lifeless. The stranger's words still ring in my ears and my gut twists with foreboding.

"Where is she? Why did she leave?" These questions claw at me, each one hooking into my flesh and refusing to let go.

Harry steps closer, his eyes searching mine. "We'll figure it out, okay?" His assurance does little to slow the spiralling dread.

"Why did she leave without a word? Is she in trouble? Danger, even? Dad! Take me to him. He has to know or be able to help."

Quen nods once. "Okay. Let's go."

We climb back into the SUV, and the engine roars to life under Thayer's hands. We peel away from the curb, this time with much more urgency than when we rolled up only a few minutes ago, leaving behind the place that no longer holds the warmth of family, just the cold echo of abandonment.

The SUV chews up mile after mile, night still surrounding us as we head back the way we came. I don't even know where they're taking me exactly.

"Where are we going?" I ask eventually.

"Your dad's house," Callum murmurs.

"Oh." I don't even know where he lives, yet these guys do. That seems wrong on so many levels I can't even count them.

Thayer turns onto a tree-lined street in a very fancy neighbourhood not far from Crestmont and pulls into a driveway. Aaron's mansion looms on the horizon, an edifice of wealth and might. It rears from the landscape, all sharp angles and sprawling grounds, so different from the cramped quarters of my mother's flat.

"Fuck," I breathe as Thayer presses the buzzer to announce our arrival at a little before 4 AM.

No one replies, but the massive electric, wrought-iron gates open, and Thayer slowly drives up the red-bricked driveway, taking me into a world that I couldn't have possibly imagined was so close to me until now.