Home > Resurrection (The Sainthood - Boys of Lowell High #1)

Resurrection (The Sainthood - Boys of Lowell High #1)
Author: Siobhan Davis


Spring Break before Senior Year

Sharp pain penetrates my chest cavity, aiming straight for my heart, like a thousand tiny pinpricks digging into smooth flesh.

He’s gone.

Left this world without any warning.

And I’ll never see him again.

It hurts, and the pain wants to embed deep. To burrow straight through to my soul. To inflict the worst damage imaginable. The pain pushes and pokes at soft tissue, but it’s no good. It won’t advance any further. Because I learned to lock that shit up when I was thirteen years old.

I grab the bottle of vodka from the empty passenger seat of my Lexus SUV, uncapping the lid and bringing the glass to my lips. I chug it like it’s water, feeling lost as the alcohol glides down my parched throat.

This car was the last gift he bought me, a couple months ago, as an early eighteenth birthday present. It’s an LX570 SUV with bullet-resistant glass, an explosion-mitigating floor, and a bunch of other protective features I considered way over the top.

But maybe, there was a reason for it.

The car swerves on the road as I take another mouthful of vodka. The approaching car flashes its lights, the driver angrily shaking his fist as he passes by. I shove up my middle finger, hissing under my breath, even if he’s right.

The car swerves again as I close the vodka bottle, tossing it back on the seat. I don’t care if I die, but it wouldn’t be fair to Mom to lose her loving husband and her only daughter on the same day, both from fatal car accidents. I grip the wheel tighter, my eyes stinging with tears that will never fall.

A few minutes later, the car screeches to a halt outside Darrow’s dilapidated house. I jump out, leaving the door open, and race up the overgrown driveway. I raise my fist to knock, but the door swings open before my knuckle makes contact with the worn wood.

“He’s not here,” Rita drawls, bobbing her six-month-old son on one hip while she noisily chews gum. Her gaze rakes over me from head to toe, her lips curling into a sneer at my school uniform. The white knee-length socks, black pleated skirt, white shirt, red and black tie, and red blazer edged in black trim with the school crest confirm my status as a private academy student.

Although, Rita is already aware of that.

It’s one of the reasons why she hates my fucking guts.

The other is because I’ve been screwing her precious brother for the past six months.

“Where is he?”

“I’m not Darrow’s keeper.” She sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. Her son emits a loud wail, his lower lip trembling as he cries out. Poor kid is probably hungry, and judging by the bulky diaper he’s wearing, I’m guessing he needs changing too. He shivers, the cool night air swirling around his naked flesh. “Shut your mouth,” Rita snaps, glaring at the innocent child, and the baby cries louder.

Bile floods my mouth, and adrenaline charges through my veins. She’s such a lousy mother, and I don’t get it. Why is it that good couples, with the disposition and means to raise kids in a loving environment, struggle to conceive while this junkie gets knocked up without even trying? Where is the justice in that? My heart aches for that kid. What kind of future awaits him with a mother like that? I know Darrow has pulled her up on her shit before, but he’s rarely home, and it’s not like he can do much.

Grabbing a hundred-dollar bill from my purse, I thrust it at her. “I know you don’t like me, and I really don’t care. But I know you know where he is. Tell me, and it’s yours.”

Her scowl deepens, and I know she wants to tell me to screw off. But she needs the money more. She snatches it from my hand like a greedy shrew. “He’s partying at Galen Lennox’s place.”


I arch a brow, waiting for her to elaborate, but her lips pinch closed. “And where is that?” I prompt, biting back a frustrated sigh. Bitch knows I’m from Lowell, the next town over. That I don’t attend Prestwick High with my boyfriend—her brother. And even though I have a suspicion where that asshole lives, I don’t have time to waste driving aimlessly around town if I’m wrong.

She thrusts her palm out, and I grind my teeth. If it wasn’t for the baby in her arms, I’d punch her in her heavily made-up face and demand an address. But she is holding her son, so I’m forced to play nice. I slap a twenty into her hand, daring her to challenge me with a deadly look. Mood I’m in, I’ll come back and pummel her ass to dust just for shits and giggles. We enter into a silent face-off, and I keep my eyes locked on hers, refusing to back down.

She folds first, bouncing the baby up and down as he continues to cry. “Forty-one Thornton Heights.”

She moves to shut the door in my face, but I plant my foot in the doorway, stopping her from closing it. “Don’t shove it all up your nose. Buy your son some clothes and formula. I’ll be mentioning this to Darrow.”

“Fuck off, slut. Mind your own goddamned business.” She kicks my foot away, and the door slams shut.

I head back to my car, plug the address in, and set off for Galen Lennox’s place.

I know who he is.

Everyone does.

Because The Sainthood is revered around these parts.

The organization is one of the oldest criminal enterprises in the US, with chapters in most states, but the gang started in Prestwick, and it’s the largest branch with the most power.

It’s split into two levels—junior and senior. The junior chapter controls the schools and teen drug supply and generally lays down the law among their peers until the members successfully pass initiation and “jump in.” Then they become members of the senior or main organization, and successors take over their crown at the junior level. Typically, the transition occurs once the members graduate high school.

All the local gangs are structured similarly, and regular crew wars are the norm. The Sainthood are known rivals of The Arrows, the crowd Darrow runs with, and I’m guessing Dar’s presence at this party is a way of pissing The Sainthood off. While Darrow has Prestwick High locked up tight, The Sainthood rules the hallways at Prestwick Academy, and they own the streets. The Arrows are small fry, and Dar despises The Sainthood because they have what he wants—control, respect, loyalty, and fear.

I could do without this tonight, but I need the distraction of sex and alcohol more, so I drive toward the nicer part of Prestwick where Galen Lennox lives.

Bile fills my mouth as I pull up in front of the familiar house. Cars, trucks, and bikes are parked haphazardly across the wide front lawn as I drive up the sweeping driveway. I pull into an empty space in front of the monstrous gray brick two-story building and kill the engine. Swiping the bottle of vodka from the passenger seat, I hop out and head toward the open front door.

Chills creep over my spine as I step foot into the gloomy hallway. A massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting dim light over the marble tile floor below. Mahogany stairs extend upward on either side of the lobby, the steps covered in a drab green carpet that has clearly seen better days. Cobwebs cling to the high ceilings and cornices, and a thin layer of dust obscures the pictures of ancestors covering the walls as I walk toward the sound of the thumping music.

My heels make a clacking sound as I walk through the depressive corridor decorated in dark wood panels and dull green and gold wallpaper. I remember how creeped out I was the first time I was here, but it’s worse now with the added obvious neglect. I pass a succession of tall, mahogany-stained doors, all closed with no sounds of life, so I continue toward the music.

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