Instead of sitting pretty in a seat at the table like he always dreamt of, Frankie Kingsman found himself standing behind one. Even from a young age, he knew what we wanted out of life. He didn't have a bad childhood by any means. He lived in a mansion in the snowy mountains of Olympia, Washington, where he was born and raised. His father? Rich and powerful. His mother? Loving and beautiful. His life? Great. Even when things took a bitter turn when he turned thirteen and his parents got divorced and sent him to live with his grandmother in Woodland Heights for reasons once unbeknownst to him. No matter how life was shaping out to be, he always knew where he wanted to end up.

He wanted to be on top.

Maybe his father was partially to blame. He ingrained the idea of "Without money, we'd be nothing" into Frankie's head from the moment he took his first steps. It's the only way a kid could grow up under someone as influential as Francis Kingsman the First. Still, Frankie had his plans.
At the moment, while standing behind now Senator Mitchell McCallum, while dressed in a barely buttoned black dress shirt and black suit pants, with Ripsey and his sour attitude standing beside him, he realized he wasn't quite there yet. Not for lack of trying, obviously.

Frankie looked around the room carefully. He tried not to be blinded by the California sun blaring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse office they were standing in. His eyes scoured the large, oval African Blackwood table and the old, grey-haired political figures that sat around it. They were sitting high and mighty, practically exuding that nuanced "1%, Top of the World" energy. Three years ago, he'd kill to be in the position he was currently in. And he couldn't say he surely didn't try. Killing.

"Francis."

He blinked as Mitchell's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He grounded himself in reality and raised his eyebrows.

"Huh?" He answered before changing his tone when Mitchell gave him a warning look. "I mean, yes, sir?"

Satisfied with the flipped answer, Mitchell grinned. "How about you tell our fine investors about our progress in Project Boy Scout?"

Project Boy Scout. That was what Mitchell donned the situation they had going in Woodland Heights. Naming it after the friend Starboy—well, Frankie, since he didn't believe he deserved to be called by the name his friends gave him—shot and nearly killed was just a sick way for Mitchell to constantly remind Frankie of what he did to get where he was.

Frankie cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. "Right...uh, progress has definitely been made. The Seven 20's and Hearts of Spades' power is slipping. We'll have them out in no time, and the town will be yours."

As rehearsed and unsure the answer sounded, it was true. They were cutting off the gang's supplies, ruining their business, paying cops to join Mitchell's side...It was only a matter of time before things crumbled for them. Not only them, but the town. Mitchell was buying out everything. Businesses, recreational centers, homes, people. He was forcing long-time Woodland Heights citizens out of the only home they ever knew, and it was evil. But no madman can ever be a hundred percent satisfied with the damage they'd caused. Mitchell wasn't always happy about how long it was taking, but some progress was better than no progress. Frankie had a sliver of a thought in the back of his head that maybe the old man was just stalling. For what? He didn't know.

One of the men, who Frankie recognized as Republican US Representative Wallace Jordans from Ohio, grimaced. "It's been more than three years, McCallum. You promised us a safe haven."

"And you'll get one." Ripsey snapped back, his eyes narrowed.

Mitchell intertwined his fingers and placed his elbows atop the table as he eyed the room.

"Gentlemen. These things take time, and I assure you, you'll get what you paid for."

"We better."  Sharron Ross, CEO of one of the biggest oil rigs in the country, said as she stood from her seat. "You made a deal with the devil, and he is always sure to collect."

With no further comments, they watched as one by one the most influential people in the state of California, and some of the nation, fixed their ties, grabbed their belongings, stood from their 100% authentic leather chairs, and filed out of the room. Frankie, despite wanting to be one of them someday, still found them insufferable.

"Assholes." Ripsey cursed under his breath as the room emptied, leaving the three of them alone.

"They're getting angsty." Frankie frowned as he plopped into an empty chair, happy that he could finally breathe.

"Slow and steady wins the race, boys." Mitchell tapped his finger lightly on the wooden table. "Be patient. We'll get rid of the Seven 20's in no time."

"Three years ain't 'no time', Senator." Ripsey growled. "Are you ever gonna let us in on this big plan you have or are you gonna just keep us in the dark?"

"Not to mention," Frankie sighed. "I know my friends. They've been pushing back our advances this whole time. They're not going down without a fight."

"Friends?" Mitchell raised an angry, skeptical eyebrow as he stood and threateningly circled the seat Frankie sat in.

Frankie tensed. "Ex...friends."

He almost flinched when Mitchell gripped tightly onto his shoulder, more as a warning than anything else.

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"What? No..." Frankie blinked in surprise.

"Good." Mitchell nodded. "20 Million wasn't your only incentive. Remember what they took from you. What he took from you. I'm giving you a chance to be great, kid. Just follow my orders, and don't fuck up."

Frankie swallowed hard as Mitchell gave his shoulder a final squeeze. He watched as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and slowly sauntered out of the room. Ripsey gave Frankie a raised eyebrow before following Mitchell.

"Tighten up, Frankie." Ripsey whispered. "Hicimos un trato con el diablo."

Frankie watched the pair leave the room, slamming the large mahogany doors behind them. In the moment, he could only think of one thing to say.

"Shit."

After the excursion with the 1%, Mitchell released Frankie of his duties for the day. Mitchell was off to do God knows what, as he had a habit of disappearing. Frankie, on the other hand, began to walk along the long, dusk colored streets of L.A. He let the warm rays and the smiles of the California people flood his emotions as he made his way to the luxury condo that Mitchell paid for. It was simply another way that Mitchell had him under his thumb. Years prior, Frankie thought he was acting in his best self-interest. He wasn't so sure anymore. Maybe there were better ways to get where he wanted to be. Ways that didn't involve losing everyone and everything he loved, and becoming a political puppet.

He greeted the doorman, Mr. Ackerman, as he entered the lobby. He nodded kindly at the gorgeous, young front desk lady, Nicole Anderson, who gave him a gleeful smile as he passed. He tipped the elevator boy, Georgie, a nice hundred dollar bill as he slid gracefully into the elevator. He rode the elevator to the 11th floor, where his luxury condo resided. A rush of relief washed over him as he stepped inside and took a real breath for the first time in what felt like forever. One after the other he kicked his shoes off and flopped sideways onto the couch exhaustively. It was perfectly silent, just how he liked it, as he stared up at his high ceilings. After a moment of thinking, he pulled out his phone to do something he shameful could admit he'd done more than a few times over three years.

'Tiana Westfield' he typed into Instagram's search bar using his burner account, as he was definitely blocked on his main one. He scrolled through the recent pictures. One was a selfie of Tiana and Maggie, who looked as giddy as ever. The next of Tiana and the rest of the Hearts sitting on an empty beach in their bikinis, smoking weed and eating homemade sandwiches. They looked happy.

'Ahmad Jacoby Lawson' he searched next. He smiled at the first picture, which was of Cig's rottweiler, Princess, laying upside down on the couch with her tongue sticking out long enough to practically touch her wide brown eyes. The next was a picture of Cig and Cash when they were 15, and the caption was of the reminiscent sorts. A pit fell in Frankie's stomach as he looked up one final person.

'Cash Alexander West'

Last post: 2020.

Frankie took a deep sigh and searched the same name into Google. His eyes glazed over the news articles that popped up first.

"California man caught and charged in Drug Trafficking Scandal. Largest drug and weapons bust in a decade."

"Cash West: The Criminal Mastermind turned murderer!"

"California man murdered at the hands of a friend. Cash West: Behind Bars."

Every single article had been bought out by Mitchell, for the pure reason of humiliating Cash to the entire West Coast. They were all exaggerated lies. Cash wasn't the murderer, Frankie was. Even if Boy Scout lived, something else died that day. The life Frankie loved was six feet under, and he had no chance of getting it back.

"You're back early."

Frankie sprung up at the voice, just to see Oscar walking around his apartment in nothing but a towel that hung off his hips. He still had the slightest hint of a limp from where Cash had shot him in the knee that one time. Frankie all but clutched his heart as he fell back onto the couch.

"What are you still doing here?" He asked as he turned off his phone and set it face down onto the glass coffee table.

"Didn't leave after last night," Oscar shrugged. "Oh, y como puedes ver, ya hice la cena."

Frankie raised an eyebrow as he tried to translate from the very little Spanish he knew. Once he connected the dots he looked over the couch and into the open kitchen where Oscar had, in fact, cooked dinner.

"Regular ol' housewife, aren't you?"

"Listen, shithead, mi madre always taught me to be courteous in houses that ain't mine. Even if it's the house of a whorish one night stand."

"Well, this whorish one night stand is kicking you out of his house." Frankie sighed as he pushed himself off the couch.

"Hold up," Oscar gasped. "I made dinner! Like a bitch!"

"Good, grab a plate to go." Frankie chuckled as he threw Oscar's pants, shoes, and keys at him and pushed him towards the door. He shoved him into the hallway practically half naked and grinned.

"You do this every time." He rolled his eyes. "Top someone and go. Dine and fuckin' dash. Y'know, this is why I don't fuck around with gringos. ¡Te odio!"

Frankie could barely hear the end of the sentence before shutting the door in Oscar's face.

It was no secret that he liked to sleep around. Men, women, he didn't care. But in the back of his mind, he always found himself thinking about one person. After locking the door, he wandered back to the couch and grabbed his phone. He slowly opened Instagram and felt his thumb pause over the search bar. He swallowed harshly as he typed.

'Cheyenne Willow'.

He shakily clicked on the first post to pop up. There Bluejay was, posing in front of the beach with the sun making her skin glow. Her smile was bright and she looked happy, which Frankie guessed was all he could wish for her.
Frustratedly, he threw his phone to the end of the couch and laid his head against the armrest. How'd he get here? How'd he fuck up so royally? He had no right to feel guilt or regret after what he did.
But it was human nature, and he was drowning in his own mind. Flooded by flashes of memories that tormented him through sleepless nights and absentminded mornings. He thought he'd love the life he was given, but he wanted nothing more than to have his old one back.

*

The gang house being silent was a miracle. It was rare there was a moment of peace, even if the circumstances that created said peace were less than ideal. As they expected, Cig and Angel were chewed out when they came home the other night at 4 AM unannounced. Not only did they have everyone worried sick, but things only got worse when Cig explained he took Angel to see Cash. Angel couldn't say she remembered much of the stern talking-to they received. She was so stuck in her head that she found her feet carrying her to her room in the middle of Tiana's speech, and they didn't stop when she called after her. Now, here she was, laying in her bed like she had been for a day and a half. She hated that her brother still had this much of an effect on her. She wanted to be free of the emotional grasp of Cash West, but she just couldn't seem to escape him. She cuddled deep into the nest of pillows and blankets she created as she thought back to how harshly she ripped into Cash a day before. She was so deep in her memories that she almost didn't react when there was a knock at her door. She didn't bother to look up nor answer, although it didn't matter because whoever was on the other side decided to let themselves in.

She glanced up for a split second to see Pippi standing at her doorway with her hand on her hip.

"Yo, hermit crab. You done sulking?" Pippi questioned with her eyebrow raised.

No response.

She sighed in annoyance as she walked to Angel's bedside and ripped the covers off, tossing them onto her messy bedroom floor.

"Hey!"

"Alright, up and at 'em." She snapped. "I gave you a day and a half to cry. Get up."

Angel pulled her knees close to her chest and hid her face behind her face. "Leave me alone."

Pippi grimaced as she looked down at the balled up teenager. It was obvious she wasn't going to budge, so she needed new tactics. All she wanted was for Angel to get out of this rut, and realize how amazing of a kid she was without her brother. She just needed to get her mind off Cash West.

"You're upset with blondie, I get it. You know what helps me? Punching something."

That made Angel's ears perk up.

"C'mon," She grinned, holding out a hand for Angel to take. "TP has a punching bag in his room. Let me teach you a few things. Besides, if you're gonna roll with the Hearts you need to brush up on your fighting skills."

Reluctantly, Angel took her hand and let Pippi lead her out of her room for the first time in a while. Luckily, as they walked through the house, she realized it was empty. Eventually they made it to Toothpick's room, which was remarkably clean. The floor was spotless, the carpet nicely and meticulously vaccumed. Not a book, curl defying shampoo bottle, or dumbbell out of place. And just as Pippi had said there was a red punching bag tucked away in the corner, chained and hanging from the strong ceiling. Pippi grabbed some gloves from Toothpick's squeaky clean dresser and adjusted them roughly onto Angel's hands.

"Are we even supposed to be in here?" She mumbled under her breath.

"Probably not," Pippi shrugged, dragging Angel over to the bag. "But I know you need to blow off some steam. Go ahead, punch it."

Angel was hesitant as she side-eyed Pippi before turning to face the intimidating bag. Her skill set wasn't particularly in the fighting field, so to say she was nervous and unsure was an understatement. She got into a stance that she thought was correct, but before she could throw a punch, Pippi stopped her.

"Hold up." She interrupted as she slid over and pushed Angel's elbows up so her fists were in front of her face. "Keep your hands up. Always protect yourself, especially your head. You're always on the defensive, remember that. Now punch."

Focusing her breathing and planting her feet evenly, Angel took a hard straight jab at the bag. It barely moved, and it definitely sent a shock up her arm, but she liked it.

Pippi walked around the slightly swaying bag and held it in place with a grin. "Good. Don't punch the bag, punch through it. Again."

Angel centered herself and tried again, her hit now harder than the last.

"Feet planted and firm, Ang."

She jabbed again.

"Nice, keep those shoulders relaxed. Left arm up, protect your head."

Another punch.

Pippi grinned proudly as she watched Ang take swing after swing, getting heavier, stronger, and angrier after each throw. Eventually, she was punching less to be accurate and more just get her anger out. Angel bared her teeth and grunted as she punched the bag until she felt the frustration empty from her soul, and she realized Pippi was right about it making her feel better. It was just the release she needed. She hit the bag until her arms went weak and she collapsed on the floor, laying her back against the edge of Toothpick's neatly made bed.

"Feel better?" Pippi smirked, leaning against the bag.

Angel couldn't help but chuckle between her deep heaving breaths. "A little."

"Who's face were you imagining?"

"Wha—"

"Everyone does it, Ang."

She rolled her eyes with a laugh and shrugged. "Cash's. Maybe Tia, too."

"See? I told you it'd help." Pippi nudged Angel's shoulder with her knee.

Angel hung her head between her knees and tried to regain control of her breathing as Pippi slumped onto the floor beside her and sighed.

"I know you probably don't wanna talk about it, but...how was he?"

Angel lifted her head up in thought.
"I...dunno. I didn't really ask. I just, kinda, unleashed three years of pent up anger onto him."

Pippi nodded. "Valid...I'm glad you got it out, though."

"Yeah," She narrowed her eyes, staring absentmindedly into empty space. "Me too..."

"We should probably get outta here." Pippi exhaled as she stood from the soft carpeted floor. "Toothpick is like a drill sergeant when it comes to the cleanliness of his room. Kid's a freak."

Laughing, the pair made their way back through the house.

"Where did everyone go anyway?" Angel asked as they entered the kitchen and stood around the granite countertop.

Pippi took an orange and split it, giving one half to Angel and keeping the other for herself.
"To drop off guns to that asshole Ikaika and the East Enders."

"Ikaika. He's the big guy with the curly hair, right?"

"Yup," She sighed. "Basically 'He Who Shall Not Be Named' 2.0."

Angel scoffed. "God wouldn't do that to us."

"Oh trust me, he would."

They two girls shared a hearty laugh just as the gangs arrived home and walked through the front door, chattering amongst themselves.

"I am telling you!" Sugar exclaimed. "Cash might've been on to something with the whole spaghetti and ranch thing."

Cig scrunched his nose in disgust as he rolled a blunt while he walked, which took an extreme amount of expertise and skill. "You're nasty as fuck."

"Keep that white people bullshit over there." Toothpick agreed, shaking his head.

"Y'all are some haters."

Kittie chuckled. "Come back to the ethnic side, Ri. I beg of you."

Veronica followed the group into the living room and sat on the couch beside Ollie, who flopped down only a second before her. "I've tried it and I hate to say this but...it's not that bad."

"Oh, V..." Eight frowned. "Oh God, the white man got you too."

"This is just horrible," Bluejay fake cried. "I am appalled, honestly."

Tiana found herself smiling as she parted from the conversation and made her way to