“How do you know it was Preston?” I ask. “I’m sure you don’t get where you are without making enemies.”
“It had to be a Darling,” Baron says. “No one else would dare fuck with us.”
I bite my lip, not about to fess up on that one. Not when Royal’s in a rage, and Baron’s actually being semi-decent tonight. In the commotion the day I keyed their cars, I forgot all about it. They nearly killed Colt, and then me, and a little scratched paint was the last thing on my mind. I know I’m being a coward, but I don’t know this Preston guy or owe him any loyalty. Dixie pretty much said he was evil, and I’d rather them trash his house than my face. I know when to shut my mouth and live another day.
A few minutes later, we pull up to a fancy neighborhood on the north side of town, though nowhere near the Dolce neighborhood. This one is all big modern houses, unlike the antebellum style in the Dolce neighborhood. Royal punches in a code to enter the gated community with a big stone sign reading Windemere Estates. Damn, these people are rich. Even their neighborhood sounds posh as hell.
We enter on a narrow asphalt road, Gloria’s car right behind us, and behind that, a parade of cars as far back as I can see.
“I’ll text Cotton to park in the road,” Baron says. “We don’t want cops getting through.” His fingers fly over his phone as he texts. He starts explaining to me without looking up from his phone. “Everyone who can’t get into the neighborhood will park in the road, blocking both lanes, so no one can get in. These pussies will squeal like pigs the second we show up.”
There must be a hundred cars behind us, so there’s no way the cops will be able to get through if everyone parks on the shoulders and then in the road. It’s pretty brilliant, in an evil genius kind of way.
Royal pulls up a winding drive to a mansion that’s even bigger than the Dolces’, since it’s not constrained by trying to look antique. It’s three stories high, with huge glass windows, grey stone siding, and wooden supports and trim. It’s a pretty house, if ostentatious, the kind of mansion little kids dream of when they still think that when they grow up, anything’s possible. It even has a fountain out front, and I can see a blue glow behind it from a swimming pool.
“Let’s wreck this bitch like the pussies who live here,” Duke shouts, throwing open the door and stumbling out.
The other cars are screeching to a halt behind and beside us, filling the entire narrow drive and blocking us in. The lights in the house go on, as well as outdoor lights on the top two floors. I spot a security camera above the door and a sign saying they have an alarm system, and my instinct is to get the fuck out. I played enough Ding-Dong Ditch to know you don’t mess with the houses that can identify you later.
Duke stumbles up to the porch and starts clowning in front of the camera. The three of us get out of the car, and Baron jogs over and boosts Duke up with his hands. Duke yanks the camera off the wall with a rebel yell that must wake the whole neighborhood. Beside us, someone else hollers, and I turn to see Cotton and DeShaun swinging a keg back and forth between them. They let it loose, and it sails like a battering ram through the picture windows with a splintering crash.
The Dolces don’t give a fuck about consequences.
Of course they don’t. They’re above consequences.
The inside of the house is suddenly flooded with light, but no one is deterred. Duke throws himself at the door with the abandon of a drunk who can’t feel pain. Other partiers smash windows, and a stream of people climb over the landscaped flowerbeds and onto the bushes to dive through. In under a minute, it’s utter chaos.