I couldn’t help myself. My head bobbed along to her speech. “I can’t deny what you’re saying. I’ve never wanted to be anywhere other than Bedlam and the farm, but I’m not blind to the things that drive people out. We could stand to shake things up around here—”
“Yeah, okay,” Paris sliced in. “I can’t play like I don’t get what you’re saying. I want something bigger than this life too.” She leaned in, dropping her voice. “But can we agree that Bedlamites should do it? Not a bunch of rapists, dealers, and brother-lovers? Yes?”
“Yes,” Zara said. “No doubt we can’t trust the Crows.”
“Agreed.” Amy bold as ever helped herself to a slice of my bacon. “The Crows and their rich daddies won’t have anything to do with it, but they have people thinking. If we can form a separate town, we can make it into a place people actually want to live in. The mayor and the town council won’t keep us in the past, and we don’t give up our home.” She smiled that sweet Amy smile. “Best of both worlds, right?”
And that’s the soup the Crows are selling. It’s no wonder people are slurping it down. Although the message might be going down harder after Roan’s little video.
It might not matter, another voice said. Sounds like people still want this even if they’re not doing it at the Crows’ lead. But with Foundry buying up half the town, their new landlords get what they want either way.
The Bedlam Boys’ dilemma was all too clear for me. The town can’t split while Foundry has an ounce of control here. The only way was to force them out at all costs.
To protect a secret they’re hiding from me. From everyone.
“You need to discover the secret that started this all, because they’ve got the whip, baby, and that just may be your safe word.”
Roan was right in more ways than one. While I was in the dark, I was everyone’s plaything to be pushed around and manipulated.
No more.
We steered the conversation toward light topics and broke apart with most of my breakfast in Amy’s belly, not mine. I grabbed a butterscotch muffin on the way to bankruptcy class. The lesson was as fun-filled and interesting as you’d expect. All the same, I noted every dry word out of Professor Stein’s mouth. Midterms were coming up and they wouldn’t stop for Letter Men, Crows, or my hot jailers.
“I love your hair today, Julie,” I told the TA on the way out. “Blonde highlights work for you.”
“Thanks, Rainey. But nothing looks as good as those Jimmy Choos.” She whistled. “Let me know the next time you want to trade for an old sweatshirt. I’ve got a whole closet of them.”
Laughing, I waved myself out, sticking my headphones in. I was starting to get a reputation as the girl trading designers for Target brands, i.e., I was every girl’s new best friend. Let that reputation get back to the Bedlam Boys. Maybe then they’d let me wear regular clothes again. As long as it wasn’t “farm girl chic.” Cairo was serious about that hatred hard-on.
I headed out of the Communications building, one eye getting me through the crush of students, the other scrolling through recordings. I tapped on the one from the night before.
“Hello, hello, hello, Bedlam.” Dante’s too-deep-to-be-real voice filled my ears. “How’re you all doing tonight?”
Dante did his shows live, but helpful people recorded and posted them on their sites. No one could miss a thing.
“I know what’s on your minds. So should I do the song and dance? Talk about the murder and kidnapping investigations that are going nowhere— Get off those flabby asses, Bedlam PD!
“Or should I get into the name on everyone’s lips? Crows.”
Homer Green was a peaceful spot these days. It would be seeing as Dean Banks posted no less than five security guards patrolling the place. I stretched out on a patch of grass. My next class wasn’t for two hours. I had nowhere else to be.
“None of us saw it happen. One second, we’re sipping our frappés, noses buried in our own lives, then an ear-splitting crash yanks everyone’s heads up. Are we mad those assholes ignored the stop sign? Or we just interested to see what would happen to the fools who dinged the Bedlam Boys’ ride?”
I frowned. It was hard to be sure of a man behind a digitally altered voice, but the Dante I listened to weeks ago sounded different from the metaphor-dropper I was listening to now. Was there a new Dante?
“You can admit it,” he teased. “We all sat back, interested to see what would happen. Was someone finally going to knock the Bedlam Boys off their pedestal? Did we get front-row seats to the coup? Seemed like it with those whispers of building a new town—freeing ourselves from our lords and masters.