Dedicated to Sabrina, for sharing a dream.

And to J, for bringing coffee without me having to ask.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Lemon, Sarah Nicole, author.

Title: Done dirt cheap / Sarah Nicole Lemon.

Description: New York : Amulet Books, 2017. | Summary: Tourmaline Harris and Virginia Campbell, two teenagers from opposite sides of the track, join forces to overthrow the people in their southern Virginia town who exploit them.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016042024 | ISBN 9781419723681 (hardback)
eISBN: 978-1-68335-059-0

Subjects: | CYAC: Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction. | Criminals—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers. | FICTION / Crime. | FICTION / Contemporary Women.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.L4446 Do 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016042024

Text copyright © 2017 Sarah Nicole Lemon

Cover and book design by Alyssa Nassner
Title page illustration © 2017 by Amanda Lanzone

Published in 2017 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.

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“Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it. Where is there a place for you to be? No place . . . Nothing outside you can give you any place . . . In yourself right now is all the place you’ve got”.

—Flannery O’Connor, Wise Blood

Federal Bureau of Prisons Institution Supplement, U.S. Penitentiary Hazelton: Visitors are not allowed to bring property, packages, food, cash money, checks, money orders, lottery tickets, negotiable items, or any other items through visitation. Visitors who attempt to give such items to offenders will have their visit terminated and lose their visiting privileges.

Underneath the hem of Tourmaline Harris’s pink gingham button-up, a pair of wool socks were hidden—one in each back pocket. Coils of silver barbed wire glinted in the sun, and the flags heralding the gates of U.S. Penitentiary Hazelton clanged against their poles.

This was a test.

A dry run. An effort to push back against the guilt shackled to her for pushing a fallen queen into hell—when she’d called the police instead of her father, and they’d taken her mother away. Here the guilt always felt like a thing. A living thing. Like a slick, leaden thing stretched flabby and amphibious across her shoulders, with bitter-tasting fingers hooked into her cheek, leaching sour down her throat.

And on the first day of summer break—while Anna May and all her other friends were sleeping in after graduation, escaping sentimental mothers, and meeting for brunch—Tourmaline walked into a federal prison with socks hidden in her pockets and the taste of guilt on her tongue.

The windowless prison door slapped shut, sealing her inside a small holding room. A corrections officer—CO—sat behind a Plexiglas wall. “ID,” he said without turning, voice hollowed and distorted by the speaker.

Tourmaline dropped her driver’s license into the silver tray, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the elaborately locked wire gate in front of her.

This had seemed like such a solid plan at home—put the socks in her pockets, walk through security, and hand them to her mother when the guards weren’t looking. Now that she could no longer go back, her stomach twisted. This could go so wrong. What had she been thinking? If it were only socks, this would be easy. She’d turn right around.

But it wasn’t socks. It was supposed to be, eventually, the methadone prescription they wouldn’t let Mom have in prison. It was Granny’s corn mint and palmarosa salve for that rattling cough Mom always seemed to have. And Mom wasn’t in a maximum-security federal prison because she was an addict. She was there because of Tourmaline’s mistake.

A buzzer shrilled. The gate unlocked. The wire door opened, silencing the buzzer, and a bored-looking CO waved her forward.

Too late. Tourmaline shook her head and shoved her license into her pocket. Her fingers trembled, but she tucked her long blond hair behind her ears and followed the CO into the abyss, keeping her gaze on the middle distance as she passed the wall.

The wall—a trophy wall, covered in cheap printer ink, copier paper, and clear tape. Grainy mug shots were plastered on the concrete, right inside the gates, greeting each visitor with a pyramid of sullen faces belonging to those banned for smuggling something inside.

Somehow what she was doing seemed different. She was different.

The wall did not differentiate between honor roll teenage girls who hid socks in their jeans with nothing but good intentions and people who stuffed little beige balls of heroin in saran wrap up their asses. Having her picture taped up right alongside the bad and the actual worst would be almost as terrible a consequence as not being allowed back to see her mother. Tourmaline did not want to bring any record or reminders of where she came from along to the University of Virginia in the fall. She did not want to see her student ID and think of that picture on this wall, as if she existed here first.

The guard turned down the hall.

Tourmaline followed.

Everything was quiet, save for the wild heartbeat slamming in her ears. The floors were freshly mopped, and the odor of bleach was in every breath. The hall led away in both directions, alternately dark and light with the kind of fluorescence that was supposed to resemble daylight.

The CO waited behind the metal detector. Lauren Hayes was her name, not that Tourmaline would ever call her that. It was hard to get used to the guards, the gossip, and the feeling of a small, suffocating town crammed inside the concrete.

Tourmaline fought the urge to nervously swallow, stepping through the gates as Hayes waved her forward.

The alarm stayed silent. Only a few more steps to go. Tourmaline held out her hands.

Hayes grasped her fingers—blue gloves powdery on Tourmaline’s skin as she swiped the cloth across her palm and down her trigger finger. The chemical checking for gunpowder didn’t trigger, and the CO tossed the gloves in an empty trash can.

This was it. All Tourmaline needed to do was stay calm and sign in, and she would have the safety of standing with her back to the concrete wall. The first major hurdle would be over. She waited, fighting to look as if she weren’t fighting at all.

Hayes tugged on new gloves. “What’s in your pockets?”

At first the question didn’t register. But the creature on her shoulders whispered and Tourmaline heard. She knows.

Tourmaline tried to breathe, but there was no air. Her cheeks grew hot and she opened her mouth, shaking her head because no words came out. Why hadn’t she thought of this? Why hadn’t she thought about what to say if she was caught?

Hayes’s boots thumped a heavy step closer; leaning in so close Tourmaline could see sparkles in her purple eyeliner and taste the hint of onion from the bagel Mom said Hayes always ate for breakfast. “This is a serious offense,” she said, so low it might have been a whisper.

“I—” Tourmaline took a step back, drawing in a deep breath. “I couldn’t get hold of anyone. I called fifteen times last month, and no one would even talk to me. I tried to ask.”

Hayes’s features remained hard.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to.” Tourmaline pulled the socks out of her pockets and shoved them away.

Hayes pinched them between her gloved fingers and tossed them into the garbage.

Thirty-dollar no-itch merino wool socks with reinforced toes and heels dropped into the plastic liner.

“Per the guidelines, your visit today is now terminated.” Hayes peeled off the gloves and tossed them into the can on top of the socks. “You will be receiving an incident report detailing this event, at which point you can appeal to restore your visiting privileges.”

What? Just like that? Tourmaline looked wildly to the doors beyond the gates. Mom was expecting her. Expecting the graduation pictures and the change to buy snacks and a Diet Coke while sharing prison gossip she’d stored. “I’m banned?”

“You must leave the premises, immediately.” Hayes pointed down the hall.

“No. No, this can’t. I just graduated. She’s—” Tourmaline’s breath caught.

“Generally, minor violations will result in a banned period of three to six months.” Hayes clamped fingers around Tourmaline’s upper arm, guiding her toward the exit.

Tourmaline wrenched away automatically, not thinking she was resisting, though she realized too late that was exactly the word they would use for it.

“Please.”

Hayes stopped, her voice lowered. “Honey, if you do not allow me to escort you out of the building right now, I’m going to have to arrest you for trespassing on government property.”

The creature cinched its webbed fingers around Tourmaline’s throat, choking her. How could she have done something so stupid? So stupid. And now she wouldn’t see her mom before college.

Her body followed her thoughts, and Tourmaline didn’t realize she was moving backward, toward the gates, until Hayes reached behind her back.

The world slowed to a stop.

“Interlace your fingers behind your head.”

A sob hitched in Tourmaline’s throat and her hair fell over her shoulders, sticking to the sweat on her forehead as she obeyed. The handcuffs clinked cold, but loose, on her wrists.

“I’m not arresting you, but if you don’t walk out like a lady, I’ll have no choice,” Hayes said. Knuckles dug into the middle of Tourmaline’s back and they began a slow, awkward walk down the same quiet and bleach-tinged hall.

“I can’t be banned,” Tourmaline whispered. “I’m leaving for school.”

“Your visiting privileges are terminated for attempting to smuggle contraband into the facility.”

“It was just—” Tourmaline started.

Hayes’s mouth twisted into something almost sad, and she talked over Tourmaline crisply, avoiding her eyes. “The Facility Unit Head will provide a written explanation to you and a copy to your mom, including notice of the length of the ban. If you desire, you may submit a written request for reconsideration to the Facility Unit Head within thirty days, providing additional information of extenuating circumstances. They’ll schedule a hearing.”

That would take weeks. Everything to do with prison went slowly. She wasn’t going to get to see Mom until Thanksgiving break, unless she made a special trip and missed school. And how was she going to help now? If she got caught again, she’d be banned for life. Tourmaline tightened her jaw and tossed her hair out of her face, trying to keep from crying.

“You can’t claim you didn’t know and expect to get by,” Hayes said. “If I were you, I’d start paying attention to what’s around you.”

Tourmaline froze.

Hayes leaned close to Tourmaline’s ear, whispering onion into each word. “I hear Wayne Thompson is looking for you.”

Wayne had gotten here? Heart racing, Tourmaline twisted in the cuffs.

They stood at the end of the empty hall. Alone. Facing a closed door cut out of the concrete block.

What did Hayes know? Was it something Mom needed to tell her and couldn’t, now that Tourmaline wouldn’t be there? The guards seemed to know everything that went on—except when it had anything to do with administration. “He’s locked up,” Tourmaline choked out, trying to catch her breath as Hayes unlocked the cuffs. “In Virginia.”

Hayes swiped her badge and pushed open the door. The breeze gusted inside, thick and smelling of hot asphalt, ruffling her short ponytail. She gave Tourmaline a pitying smile. “Careful.”

Something told Virginia Campbell that Tourmaline Harris was the type of girl to arrive even to prison exactly on time, which meant Virginia was late.

Keeping a hawk eye turned to the thin streams of people flowing into the prison, Virginia sat on the truck bumper, thighs perched off the broiling chrome. If she had to wait until visiting time was over, she might as well get breakfast. Frowning, she glanced at her phone, looking up just in time to catch Tourmaline huffing against the flow of people in the parking lot.

The moment was so perfect it was as if Virginia hadn’t planned it. “Tourmaline?”

Tourmaline—pretty, blond, blue-eyed Wonder Bread–with–margarine girl, despite her father’s reputation—turned and gulped like a goldfish wearing Lilly Pulitzer. “Virginia?”

Virginia smiled and pushed off the truck.

In all her years working for Hazard, Virginia hadn’t once crossed paths with the Wardens of Iron Gate, but she knew plenty.

When motorcycles roared past her on the road, she’d seen the empty-eyed stare of the horned and crowned skull sewn on the backs of the riders’ leather vests. She’d heard their stories told like ghost stories—cloaked in fog, late into the drinking hour. She’d heard of their appetites. How their tires ate up the road and spools of darkness tangled in their spokes, sucking up damned souls and women alike, like air for the engines.

Thanks to Hazard, the secretive motorcycle gang was now her secret to gather. Make friends was the order. For what, Virginia didn’t know. She’d been too focused on the how. Hazard hadn’t said outright, but he’d sucked his lip and looked her over in a way that was plenty clear enough. It was a testament to Hazard that he’d waited this long to use her to her best advantage.

Maybe he’d waited too long. A year ago, she wouldn’t have balked, and she wouldn’t have ended up six hours from home, trying to lie her way into Tourmaline Harris’s life.

Virginia tossed her waist-length dark hair behind one shoulder and drew herself up to her full five feet ten inches. “Well, you’re the last person I expected to see. What’re you doing? Some church thing?” As if she and the rest of their small high school hadn’t followed along on that whole fiasco Tourmaline went through with her mom.

“No. I—What are you doing here?”

“What else? Visiting unsavory relations.” Virginia pulled a cigarette out of a pack and squinted in the bright sun. She lit the smoke, giving the moment space to breathe as she looked Tourmaline up and down. “You’re Tourmaline Harris, right? As in, the Wardens?”

If asked outright, everyone in Alleghany High could say who Tourmaline was, but Tourmaline seemed to do her best to make everyone forget it in the day-to-day—where all Virginia had ever seen was a studious, preppy blonde passing by in a clump of church kids in the hall. Whatever might have been dangerous in Tourmaline’s prettiness was always fast asleep underneath prim day dresses, or jeans and blouses. Her hair was the only thing that seemed to fit—long and languidly unstyled, where the Lilly crowd would have a shiny blowout. “I always forget. You’re not what I would expect,” Virginia said over a long exhale.

“The leather bikini top and assless fringed chaps aren’t really dress code approved,” Tourmaline said. “What are you doing here, again?”

Virginia turned to the prison complex as her hair whipped across her face. Hooking a finger, she dragged the hair back behind her ear. Everyone in her class would be shitting around at boring jobs all summer, hoping to get laid and wasted before they went off to school. Except her. She would be doing the Wardens. Suddenly, she wanted to run. Instead, Virginia exhaled a long breath of smoke and glanced at Tourmaline. “Can I trust you to keep a secret?”

“About as far as I can trust you.”

Virginia bit down on the smile. “My brother is here,” she lied.

“You have a brother?”

“Half.”

“You have a half brother no one knows about?” Tourmaline put her hands on her hips. “Did you just discover him?”

“He lived in Tennessee. Made it easier.”

“I need your skills,” Tourmaline said, stuffing her hands into her pockets and scuffing her pristine white slip-ons against the asphalt. “I mean, do you really not know why I’m here?”

Virginia pulled the cigarette from her mouth, a sudden and real smile stretching across her face. “I know.”

“Exactly.” Tourmaline sighed.

“What are you doing out here already? I was just on my way in,” Virginia said.

Tourmaline lifted her chin. “I got caught attempting to smuggle in socks. I was escorted out in cuffs, so you can take a wild guess how that went for me.”

That was the most basic, dumbest shit Virginia had ever heard. She put the smoke to her mouth to hide the lurking laughter. This could work. “Why socks?”

“I figured if I got caught with socks, I could explain my way out of it easier than say . . . methadone. It probably would have been fine if I’d made it past the CO. But . . .” Tourmaline shrugged, cheeks sucked in like she was biting them.

Pure kitten. “Why didn’t you just give it off to someone?” Virginia asked.

“What?”

“Give it to someone . . . ,” Virginia trailed off. She’d heard rumors about the Wardens beating a man nearly to a pulp in state prison, but on the off chance it was solely a rumor, Virginia wanted to tread carefully. If Tourmaline couldn’t get to her mom—or get things to her mom—she would need Virginia.

Tourmaline narrowed her eyes, staring at Virginia as if trying to figure out what language was being spoken. Suddenly, her eyes widened and she gave a bitter laugh. “Shit, you think because of my dad? Oh, no. No, honey. You been watching too much television.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant. Your dad?” Virginia frowned, shifting and crossing her arms. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Her face stayed clear, but her chest burned hot and panicky. “What are you talking about? Oh my God, did you think I was talking about your dad’s motorcycle gang?”

“Yeah, um.” Tourmaline rubbed her forehead. “First of all, it’s not a gang. It’s a club.”

“Oh. Sorry. Club.” Like there was a difference.

“Second, my dad’s club is not a one-percenter. They don’t do prison shit.”

Virginia blinked. “Huh?”

“They’re not criminals.”

Virginia snorted. “Yeah, okay.” She grinned and put the cigarette to her mouth.

“I’m serious.”

“I mean, I get it if this is the party line. But how dumb do I look?”

“It’s a club with criminals, maybe, yes. But not a criminal club.” Tourmaline said it in this infuriating, deliberate way—as if explaining something to a child. “They’re a club because they really like motorcycles, and brotherhood, and riding together. They support local charities. The Network for Abused Children. That’s their whole thing.”

Did Tourmaline really believe this? Virginia couldn’t tell. “Oh.” She tried to make it not seem sarcastic.

“This is all public knowledge. You can tell because they don’t have the diamond patch on the front of their cut, and anything they really do is charity runs.” Tourmaline tapped her left shoulder with a manicured nail.

Half a second later Virginia realized that by cut, Tourmaline meant the patch-covered leather vest and jacket they all wore. The one with the monster staring back at her as they disappeared around the mountain curves. “So, that’s just you with the smuggling, then, huh?” Virginia winked.

“Just me,” Tourmaline said flatly.

If they weren’t criminals, what on earth did Hazard want on them? He didn’t concern himself with civilians except when they were paying fifteen hundred an hour plus a three-thousand-buck retainer. Virginia clawed her hair away from her face, stomach sinking. None of this made sense. “So, you’re saying they’re a bunch of motorcycle grandmas?”

“I’m saying whatever you’ve heard is bullshit. They aren’t criminals.” The side of Tourmaline’s cheek worked as if she were clenching and unclenching her jaw. “How’s everything going? Still doing the pageant thing?”

Virginia exhaled. This wasn’t going well. “Yep.”

“You won Miss Virginia last year, right?”

“Miss Teen Virginia last year. I quit, though.” Retired was the more accurate word. Hazard had found a younger girl who could still travel around to the out-of-state pageants that brought in the money. It was unclear whether Virginia was being promoted or demoted. A shudder rolled deep in her stomach.

“Where are you going to school, again?”

“Not going.”

Tourmaline looked surprised, but she hid it quickly and nodded. “Oh . . .”

“So your dry run failed. And now you’re banned. That blows. How long?” She sucked a deep breath of the cigarette. Come on, Margarine Girl.

“Six months? I don’t know.” Tourmaline’s eyes narrowed. “Your question about the Wardens . . . Do you have someone who can get things to your brother?”

“I mean. Not socks.” Because who risked that much over socks? “But yeah. And I have help speeding up the process.”

“If there’s. Um.” Tourmaline shifted. “Anything I can do. Maybe we could help each other out. If there was something I”—she paused—“could help you with.”

“I am a little curious about the whole biker club-not-gang thing,” Virginia said lightly; like the idea was a lark she’d always wanted to try.

Tourmaline’s expression was suddenly tight. The tail of her pink gingham shirt flapped in the breeze, but she still didn’t respond.

“Give me your number, and if I have some time, I’ll give you a call,” Virginia said, pretending not to notice. “We’ll hang out.”

“Do you have your phone? Or a pen?”

“You can just tell me. I’ll remember.”

Tourmaline’s eyebrow rose.

No one believed Virginia could remember, which was half the reason Virginia never wrote anyone’s number down. Hazard assumed it was a trick. That she had a record of numbers hidden away and regularly consulted it. But she didn’t—once a number was in her head, it was there forever.

“I’m good with numbers. I’ll remember,” Virginia said.

“Don’t you have a phone?”

Virginia shrugged. “For work.”

Tourmaline sighed and relented. She gave the number and gathered her hair off her neck. “I work during the week, but I’m off in the evenings and weekends.”

“Where do you work?” Virginia asked.

“With my dad. He owns a landscaping and construction business. Waterfalls and ponds are his specialty. I mostly do the lawns.”

“Is that where all the Wardens work?”

Tourmaline looked at her like she was stupid. “No, most of them have regular jobs.”

“Your nails are pretty nice for a person who works landscaping,” Virginia said dubiously.

“You don’t believe me?”

Virginia smiled. “Not saying that. Just wondering how much shit you’re made of.”

A grin finally crossed Tourmaline’s face and she took a step back toward her truck. “Less shit than you, I’m sure. And I wear gloves.” Two steps away, she called back, “Call me.”

Flower gardens? Not a gang? What the hell did Hazard want with them?

Tourmaline wasn’t usually home from her visits to Hazelton until late, and the long line of motorcycles stretching under the leafy oaks bordering her driveway stood as silent testimony to Dad banking on her not being around. She climbed out of the truck and used the door to crack her back, taking deep breaths of the heavy valley humidity to work out the six hours of interstate stiffness and emotional spiraling.

They were all here. Their bikes tipped on kickstands, one after another in a languid line of chrome. The amber porch lights and blue tint of moonshine slipped from one bike to the next. Country rock blared under the deeply shadowed trees, mingling with the smells of smoked meat and wood fire. All hidden behind a row of sweet bay magnolia, red cedar, and sweet summer darkness.

All hidden, except for Big Mac stationed at the end of the driveway to watch the road, and Sauls standing under the eaves of the garage in his vest and tucked-in T-shirt, nursing a cigarette in the hazy purple shadows as he kept watch over the bikes.

He met her eye, nodded, and looked back to his phone.

Sighing, she slung her bag over her shoulder and texted Anna May. Party at my house. Save me. Movie? What she really wanted was to shower, cry, and inhale a package of Oreos. But there was no space for that here. She’d dump her stuff, sit in a dark movie theater with Anna May, and try not to tell her best friend and youth group student leader she’d just tried to smuggle contraband into a federal prison.

Me and Dalton were just heading out. Pick you up?

Ugh. It’d be easy to keep the stuff about her mom to herself with Dalton around, but if he was in the car with Anna May, she’d have to hear about how Dalton found motorcycles an unsafe, ridiculous expression of poorly formed masculinity. Please, she texted anyway. Pocketing her phone, she opened the front door of the house with an ache in her chest she couldn’t begin to unpack.

A strange woman looked up, blinking in surprise.

It shouldn’t have bothered her—Tourmaline had known the second she’d seen those bikes what kind of crowd would be here—but it seemed as if the universe had put the woman there—behind the kitchen counter, having the nerve to be all domestic and shit, putting chips into a goddamn bowl—just to dig farther into her skin.

Tourmaline let the door slam behind her.

“Heeyyy.” Her father yanked his feet off the table and his boots thumped to the floor. “I thought you weren’t going to be back till late.”

“I see that,” Tourmaline said, dropping her bag into a chair. The kitchen and dining room were one room, divided by a wide counter covered in picked-over food. The table stood overflowing with half-empty trays of chicken and an array of liquor. Her stomach growled. The food smelled amazing. Was it from Moe’s? Moe’s food didn’t usually smell like this. Maybe she was just really hungry.

“How did it go?” Dad asked.

He hadn’t told the woman to leave. Who was she? Tourmaline bit the inside of her cheek.

The woman stood with her hands folded on the counter. Long nails. Sleek blond hair skimming her shoulders. Big silver earrings jingled softly with even the slightest of her movements, and she wore a tight Harley-Davidson T-shirt, cut deep, with rhinestones on the front. She was young. Not in her twenties, thank God. But young thirties maybe.

Tourmaline’s stomach turned. She grabbed a chip out of a bowl and looked back to her father with a brow raised. “Can’t leave you alone for a second, huh?”

“Thought we’d change it up for a Saturday night. I didn’t know you’d be back so soon. We’ll get outta your hair in a little bit, don’t worry.” Dad’s gaze kept steady, but in a way that screamed how much he was working to keep it there.

She wanted to tell him she was going out. That she wanted to get away. Judging by the sheer amount of alcohol stacked in the dining room, there were probably close to fifty people outside. Twenty-five Wardens and the rest a mix of party girls and hang-arounds.

Exactly the sort of thing Virginia wanted to see.

“Hey, T!” Jim, a thin black man with graying hair, said as he crossed through the kitchen. He’d been the Wardens’ vice president for a long time and should have been the president after Tourmaline’s grandfather died, but he’d had to step down after a stroke. Everyone still called him the VP and treated him that way, even though he couldn’t ride anymore. “Congrats on graduating. Your daddy says you’re off to UVA.” He plucked up a roll and didn’t really wait for an answer before sailing out the door to the garden. “It’s a good school. Don’t get into trouble. Be a good girl.”

Tourmaline waved. What Virginia and other curious outsiders didn’t get was that, in reality, this was boring. It was super weird. It was old men, motorcycle spec talk, and the strong possibility of a hairy, sweaty drunk dude doing something terrifically embarrassing, and only laughing louder about it because Tourmaline was watching. She wanted to hide in her room and turn up her music until Anna May came, not join in the fray.

But it was her house, not the blonde’s. So Tourmaline stood there and took a slow bite of her chip. Waiting. Refusing to completely hand over the space her mother used to occupy as queen.

“Don’t fuck with my food, Jason,” someone she didn’t know yelled over his shoulder as he came through the door. He balked at the three of them and ducked his head. “Sorry.” His boots clomped hollow on the creaking wooden floor as he skirted around them for the hall.

“That’s the new conscript,” Dad said, pushing up his worn denim shirtsleeves.

Tourmaline shrugged. “Can’t be that new.” Conscripts weren’t brought around families until the very end; probably no less than a year had passed since he started wearing the bottom rocker, decorated with the word conscript, on his vest. Which was after at least a year or two of being a hang-around.

Dad rolled his eyes. He’d meant new to her. As if she’d missed the last eighteen years and didn’t know how this worked. “Do you remember Old Hawk?”

The woman began rearranging the dip bowls, earrings tinkling and catching the light as she moved. It was impossible not to look in her direction. Which Tourmaline guessed was the point. But for Tourmaline, it was impossible to not remember her mother there instead, presiding over the food and the men alike.

“He was an original Warden,” her dad continued. “More your grandpa’s time than mine. He would be president if he’d stayed around.”

“Who?”

“I just said. Old Hawk.” Dad reached for a beer, a little too casually. “They went to Sturgis together, and he bailed your grandpa out of jail. Virginia boys stick together, I guess. He was around when you were young, but you might not remember him. They moved up to northern Virginia when there was a big construction boom up there. Made good money with all those houses. Don’t you remember him? He babysat you a few times.”

“Kinda.”

The woman began rustling the chip bags.

Dad kept talking, louder. “He passed away from cancer a while back. That’s his kid.”

Tourmaline frowned. “Who? What?”

“The new conscript.”

“Oh.” Her father never told her this kind of thing. This smelled like avoidance.

The silence drifted back in.

Finally, the woman sighed. “I’m going to take these out to the boys.” Her voice was small and feminine. The way Tourmaline’s mother’s had been before her spirit had drained out and just left the edges. She picked up the bowl and walked out.

“I’ll catch up in a second,” Tourmaline’s father called.

The music had turned up. Jason yelled from somewhere outside.

Tourmaline didn’t even want to think about what they would do with this house come August when she left for UVA. She checked her phone and tucked back the wisps of hair falling out of her ponytail. “I’m going out with Anna May. She’s on her way.”

“You got a minute?” Her father stood and headed toward the hall. “I got something I need to talk to you about.”

Something dark and heavy trailed a slow circling beat into the pit of her stomach.

Wayne.

Without a word, she followed him into his office. It couldn’t be Wayne. Fourteen years. He’d gotten fourteen years. It had to be something else. Anything else.

Her father shut the door and went around the polished oak desk. The dim evening light filled the room with soft shadows. The sounds of the party were muffled. One of the framed posters on the wall yelled in bold letters over a motorcycle, KICK HER. SHE’LL KICK YOU BACK IN ALL THE RIGHT PLACES. After years of looking at it, Tourmaline still didn’t get it.

She plopped into one of the chairs before his desk and tucked her leg nervously underneath her. “What’s up?” she asked, voice quivering despite her best intentions. If it was anything good he’d have been able to say it in the kitchen.

Her father stretched his hands out and inspected the horned-skull ring on his index finger, the tattooed lines circling his wrists like bonds, and Semper Fi inked on his forearm. Frowning, he rubbed at some invisible spot on the ring. “I just wanted to let you know Wayne came home today.”

Tourmaline went cold.

“I wanted you to hear it from me and know this isn’t going to affect your life. We’ll keep you safe.”

“How is he home already?” Tourmaline asked.

“His sentence was only—”

“It was fourteen years.” She didn’t need reminding. “It’s only been three.”

“State prison. He was eligible for parole.”

“No.” She didn’t know what else to say. Mom had at least eight more years before she was eligible for parole. Eight. Tourmaline could have a Ph.D. by then. She pulled a length of her hair through her fingers and stared unseeing at the ceiling. “What kind of shit justice is that?”

“If you go through life expecting justice to be handed to you, you’ll always be disappointed. It’s not about right. Never is. It’s about the demands of the system.”

Tourmaline bit her lips tight, meeting the easy, clear blue of her father’s eyes. Who delivered justice, then? she wanted to ask, but the question stayed stuck in a ball in her throat.

“I just wanted to let you know,” he said. “In case you see him around. I didn’t want you to be surprised.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care.”

A look of deep pity crossed her father’s face. “Maybe. But if you see him, call me. Right away. We’ll take care of him.”

Tourmaline stared at her sneakers. There was a tiny bit of dirt on the edge of the rubber and she licked her finger and rubbed at it. What if Dad did something and got sent to jail? She’d lose two parents over the same shit. The same mistake. That couldn’t happen.

“It will be fine,” her father said confidently. “Wayne probably has better things to do with his time now that he’s free. People fixate on one thing inside and forget about it once they get out. Just be cautious. We’ll keep you safe.”

Tourmaline frowned at the floor, disgusted. Wayne was back. After three stupid years in state prison.

Her phone buzzed and the screen lit in her hand with the text from Anna May.

Almost there. Had to get gas and then Katy LimbaUGHHHH wanted to “chat.” Aka pump me for inside info about making varsity. Shoot me now.

Autocorrect is a genius. Katy LimbaUGGGGHHH.

She was wearing navy and black and it really got on my nerves. I don’t care who says you can wear them together, you can’t. You just can’t.

“You okay, T?” her father asked softly.

“I’m going out with Anna May,” she repeated absently.

“You don’t have to go. We can get out of your hair.”

“She’s already on her way.”

“Oh. Just her?”

“Her and Dalton.”

“No one else?” He always sniffed around the topic of boys but never approached it head on.

“No one else.” Allen was out of town with his older brother until the following day. Not that she’d ever tell her father.

He pushed out of the chair. “I’ll keep my phone on,” he said, heading out.

Tourmaline followed aimlessly. The smell of the food hit her as soon as she stepped into the hall, and she remembered she hadn’t eaten all day. Anna May still wasn’t there, so Tourmaline grabbed a paper plate off the stack, putting the ruffled edge to her mouth and looking over the food. Roasted chicken. Mashed potatoes with flecked things in them. She dug out a spoonful and inspected it with a frown. She should have told Dad about what Hayes had said. Wayne Thompson is looking for you. She should go right now. Find him. Tell him.

She stared at the potatoes. What if it was just a rumor? Of course the guard could know if Wayne was released—they’d probably alerted everyone involved in the trial. Mom included. And Mom only knew via the guards. What could Dad do about it, anyhow?

“I think it’s rosemary,” Jason said from her right. “It’s pretty good, but don’t tell him I said that.”

She blinked. “Better question: Is it edible? I’m still scarred from your charred hot dogs and unfried French fries. Oh God, and the peanut butter and bologna sandwich you made for my school lunch. Remember that?”

“Yeah, I was a nightmare as a conscript,” Jason agreed. “I think they rushed to patch me out just to stop me from having to do any more cooking.”

Tourmaline snorted, plopping a spoonful onto her plate, half covering the chicken. “I know I was grateful when Dad went back to school-lunch duty.”

Jason’s eyes and the diamond stud in his ear winked at her, but that was just him. He was beautiful and baby-faced; and playing the charming boy soldier was a routine he’d been running long past boyhood. And his clear hazel eyes always looked bright and sober, no matter how drunk he was.

It was strange to think of him from Virginia’s perspective. Most of the things people talked about centered on Jason.

At Mom’s trial, Tourmaline had heard all the rumors. There under fluorescent lights, with the stenographer tacking away and the judge leaning forward on his elbows. The federal prosecutor seemed as if he’d spent a week in Moe’s just jotting notes on whatever shit people would say. People always have shit to say about things they don’t understand.

If Virginia was looking for cheap thrills, what could Tourmaline give her that the rumors hadn’t?

Jason put a roll on her plate.

“Eh,” she said, adding a spoonful of corn.

“What?”

“One more. Come on now.” She pushed the plate toward him, and he shook his head and added another. “So, your new conscript cooks, huh?”

Shrugging, Jason walked his fingers through the line of bottles and plucked one out. “He’s all right.” He popped the top off.

“Who sponsored him?”

“I did.” Jason gave her a smirking rolled-eyes face. “Anyway.”

She smothered her chicken in gravy.

“How’s your mom?”

She didn’t answer.

He took a long drink. “Your dad’s talking about selling the Shovelhead.”

Tourmaline glanced at him. “Okay?”

He gave her a look and walked off without another word.

Tourmaline watched him go—out the back door, disappearing into the softly lit garden, where everyone gathered underneath the strung lights. On the hazy edges of the dark garden, the woman from the kitchen stood with two others just like her. Tourmaline blinked at the ground and let out a long breath before turning for her room.

She picked a piece of chicken off the bone and stuffed it in her mouth. It was amazing—moist, with an herbed saltiness in each bite; so good she stopped right there, in the hall, and swooped up a bite of potatoes on her finger to try. Rosemary. Holy shit, the conscript was actually a good cook for once.

A tall young man in jeans and a T-shirt appeared in the hall, startling her before she remembered he was the cook. The guy who came through the kitchen. The conscript.

Tourmaline wiped her fingers on her jeans and moved so he could pass, but he moved the same way. She stepped again, but she was already half a step behind him. “Here. I’ll go—” But they nearly ran into each other again.

“This isn’t rocket science, conscript.”

“I’ll go left. You go right,” he said.

She stepped right and nearly ran into his chest. Clenching her jaw, she tipped her chin to meet his eyes. A current of something sparked and turned the marrow of her bones to liquid. When had the conscripts gotten so young? And hot?

“How’s the chicken?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said coolly. He was a conscript, after all. Her dad’s friend. Her memories of Old Hawk were a thin collection consisting of a booming laugh and a big black man always wearing a black Carhartt T-shirt—not enough to remember whether this man, his son, looked like him.

“My name’s Cash.” He smiled. “There’s an herbed butter for the rolls.”

“Oh.” She turned back toward the kitchen.

“I got it.” He put his hand on her back, gently moving her aside as he slid past.

She stopped, holding her plate. Music pulsed outside, but they were alone in the kitchen. No one to notice what had just happened, thankfully—his hand on her back, so casual. Didn’t he know the rules? He had to.

The conscript dug through extra rolls and bags of chips on the counter, turning with a bowl of butter. “Here.”

The heat of his hand still rested between her shoulder blades. She shrugged it off and grabbed a knife out of the drawer. “You know it’s not a guarantee.”

“What’s not?”

She smothered her roll in a thick layer of butter and dropped the knife in the sink before answering. “You have to follow the rules. Just because your dad was an original member, doesn’t mean it’s a guarantee.”

“I didn’t know I broke a rule,” he said, putting the butter on the counter and pulling out a stretch of plastic wrap.

It wasn’t like a rule that was spelled out—none of them were. It was a truth he had to know by this point. Thou shalt not touch or look at your brothers’ daughters. If he was here, allowed into this home, he was close to patching out. He wore the curved conscript patch in blue-green, black and white, sewn onto the bottom of his leather vest—the rest a broad expanse of empty leather waiting for confirmation. By now, he’d know: breaking those unspoken rules would get him kicked out.

“Good?” He glanced toward the roll as she chewed.

Starting, she frowned. “You made all this?”

He nodded.

Ah. Being a good cook gave him an advantage—it meant they couldn’t treat him too badly, because they’d always want something only he could give them. “It’s all right.”

He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “All right?”

She swallowed her bite and narrowed her eyes at him. This wasn’t normal conscript behavior. They didn’t usually argue if you said their herbed fucking butter was just all right. “Do you like cooking?”

He put his finger to his lips. “Don’t tell, they think they’re making it hard on me.”

Tourmaline’s gaze flickered over him—taking in the polished boots, crisp jeans, and black T-shirt wrinkling across his chest as he smoothed down the plastic wrap. His black hair was buzzed close. Dark taupe skin—pulled tight over thick muscle like a matte finish on a bike. A well-trimmed ducktail-shaped beard. No hint of boy left in the tall, strong-looking body. How old was he? She felt like she needed to know just to orient herself to where she was in life, as if his age were a missing coordinate. “You’re not really supposed to talk to me.” Or touch her, but she didn’t say it. It had been a meaningless, thoughtless touch, she knew—but a conscript couldn’t afford to be either of those things.

He laughed. “Oh, that’s right. The Princess.”

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—Anna May texting she was outside, probably. She ignored it, forcing herself to keep her gaze locked to the conscript’s, as if she didn’t feel a thing. She lifted her chin. “You won’t patch out.”

“For what?”

What did he mean, For what? Hadn’t he been listening?

The conscript crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, looking wholly unapologetic.

“Do you like hanging out with your dad’s friends?” He asked it a little mockingly. A little teasingly.

Flirting?

It pulled her up short and left her unsure. How old was he? She swished her hair back like Virginia and lifted her chin. “It’s my house.”

The conscript just looked at her. Deadpan.

“Do you like hanging out with a bunch of rednecks whose only intent is to abuse you until you break?” It left her mouth before she realized what she was truly saying—that this wasn’t a regular conscript—and terrible subtext pervaded her words. The Wardens had a few black members, but that didn’t mean anything for a conscript. There was no brotherhood until he became a brother. She’d only meant to needle him back in the way he’d done with her, and instead she’d walked right into dumbass white girl territory.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Oh my God, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know what you meant.” He heaved off the counter, grabbed a napkin, and stepped close.

Her pulse throbbed in her neck, but she refused to back down to a conscript.

He reached around her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she asked, horrified that her words came out sort of breathless.

“You got gravy in your hair,” he said, the corners of his mouth tensing as if he were trying not to smile.

Her heartbeat thumped a deep, throbbing refrain in her chest, and she stared at the ends of her hair slipping through his hands.

“It’s my club,” he said.

“Not yet,” she said. And not ever, if he was going to be like this with her. Nothing was innocent when it came to the eighteen-year-old daughter of your president. Not even a conversation.

He laughed. “That’s what you think.” He winked, balled the napkin, and tossed it into the trash. Turning, he went outside.

Tourmaline stood alone, until her heartbeat dropped back to normal and the damp ends of her hair dried.

That was what she needed. A way to make Virginia feel as if she were standing alongside a tall Warden with her heartbeat in her throat and her fingers shaky. A show. That’s what Tourmaline could exchange. Not the truth, but what Virginia wanted the truth to be.

Robert M. Hazard wasn’t the big crime boss of anything, least of all Roanoke, Virginia. He dealt on the side of his law practice in pills, a little cocaine, and some prostitutes, and walked around as if he only ever saw himself on a television screen—as a complex, interesting hero in a retro-vibed, critical-darling cable series. The American work ethic lived in bankruptcies, barters, and flamboyant suits by day; powder, women, and the same suit, sans jacket, at night. In the same vein, he frequently danced on the line of inappropriate with Virginia, but after four years she felt safe enough.

Accustomed though she was to the peculiar whims of Hazard’s plotlines, when Virginia knocked at the door of the dusty law office in downtown Roanoke and a man declaring himself a bodyguard opened the door, she laughed.

Bodyguard?

He smoothed his braids and plucked at his wrinkled dress shirt. “I’m new.”

“Hazard!” Virginia hollered. “Call off the puppy.”

Radio silence.

Virginia took a step toward the back.

The man slid easily, blocking the way with an apologetic smile. He reached for the backpack on her shoulders.

Virginia handed it over.

“Thanks,” he said, unzipping and riffling through the contents. Dumbass didn’t think to look in her boots. He handed the backpack to her, gaze flitting between somewhere around her neck and the floor.

Virginia smiled and turned it up to Supreme Queen—satisfied when he blushed, fumbled with his magazine, and stumbled down into the high-backed calico-covered chair of the waiting room as the newest member of Team Virginia.

She still had it.

The front offices were dark, but Virginia followed the dim pathway of fluorescent light spilling past stacks of files, mail, warped paneling, and shelves lined with ancient law books. Her backpack slipped off her shoulder and she hoisted it up, stepping through the seventies-style mustard kitchen behind the offices to the back file room.

Hazard—Robert Hazard, Esquire—sat in a ripped red leather office chair, pawing through a file box propped on his knees. Boxes full of files were lined up on folding tables, on the linoleum floor underneath, and on mismatched aluminum shelves through the room. Out the barred window, sunset filtered through patchy woods.

He looked up and beamed. “There’s the Queen.”

“You wish.” Virginia sank into an empty rolling chair and kicked her feet up on the edge of the table. The backpack was still on her shoulder.

He leaned back. “What are the Wardens up to this fine summer night?”

Shit. “Stuff.” It’d been a week since she’d talked to Tourmaline. She’d called once but Tourmaline hadn’t called back.

The master of the dramatic pause, Hazard simply stared at her until it became too uncomfortable to keep facing him.

She dropped her eyes to the files in his lap. “Don’t worry. I’m working something.”

He looked unimpressed and went back to the box, pulling out a ragged file and paging through it with thick fingers. “Are you wearing that?”

He had been her pageant coach for the first year. In the years following, he still had a lot to say about what she wore and where she wore it. This was not how he envisioned her for the role of Pageant Queen Gone Motorcycle Club. This wasn’t even how he envisioned Shady Small-Town Lawyer’s Minion, but he didn’t have much say in her wardrobe these days, try as he might.

“Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.” She grinned, deliberately running one long finger along the frays in a hole in the thigh of her jeans.