Not a fucking chance. But I simply grin back and lift a brow. “Sorry, Connor. I don’t mix business and pleasure.” Then I duck out the door, into the fresh-falling dark.
* * *
It’s all I can do not to skip back to my car. Night has flooded black fingers through the streets, and the chill is wild and ratcheting, tugging at my hair and nipping at my cheeks. Suddenly I feel so fucking capable—seriously, what have I justdone? Negotiated with a gang boss? Built a real, actual solution for all of this—getting rid of Jockey, getting justice for Milo, mending the rift between the towns, making a safe place for Liam to rebuild and, with any luck, rebuild withme?
We said shit we shouldn’t have this morning, but that doesn’t change the fact that Liam came back for me. That he was watching me, protecting me. That despite whatever the fuck he says, he still loves me, and I still love him, and somehow, some way, we are going to make all of this work. We’re not the kind of people who just roll over and expose our bellies to the teeth of life—we’ve got teeth, too.
So when I step into the lot, I’m not really looking, and I really should be, because the next thing I know, there’s a huge, bloody fist rolling through the air, and I’m too slow to duck or move or scream.
It catches me clean in the nose—a hard dull densecrack—and then the streetlight-touched clouds are wheeling over my head, and my skull snaps against concrete.
Pain splinters through my head, down the back of my neck. I open my mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a dizzy, agonized low moan.
And then a huge figure is kneeling down beside me, warm metallic liquid falling from what must be his face, and his familiar voice says, softly, “You just made a huge mistake, Lexie. Fucking huge.”
His words are slurred, I realize he’s bleeding, beat-up; the passing dart of headlights illuminating his bloody, mangled face.
But I’d still know that voice anywhere.
Jockey.
9
Liam
Margot’s place is uncharacteristically still when I pull up, the shutters down and the neon open sign shut off and glaring dully above the door. I don’t waste time catching my breath or chilling out or puffing up or processing what just went down between Lexie and me, what I had to say to her to set her free.
I get out and hop up the curb. The door’s locked. It rattles against its chain, echoing brightly through the lot. The day’s gotten cold, punishing, a bitter wind gaining speed off the black of the highway and whirling across the cracked asphalt.
“It’s me,” I say, slamming my fist against the door. “Open up.”
I wait a heartbeat—someone jangles keys on the other end, swings the door inward. Suddenly, before I can make out anything but light, they’ve got me by the collar and are yanking me over the threshold with both hands. I’m shoved forward, released, and the door slams and locks behind me to the slow, thick rattle of a looped chain.
I blink, filtered fluorescents radiating sheer white light off the ceiling, and the scene comes into focus. Four guys, draped over tattoo chairs and smoking cigarettes, all the shades drawn low and the lights keyed up high, and Margot, leaning against the reception desk with arms crossed and face pale, eyes a hair too wide and the set of her mouth tellingly grim.
“Ahh, dude, Liam.”
I don’t bother turning to look at Jockey. I keep my expression neutral, my gaze calm, hands loose despite how badly I want to clench them into fists. The guys watch me lazily, roving eyes and long slow exhales through their nostrils, smoke curling around them.
My voice emerges pleasantly level. “Jock.”
“Come on, man, relax, take a seat.” Jockey remains at my back, but I can tell he’s jittery: quicktap-tap-tapof his heel against the black glittery linoleum, the judder of the keys as he loops them around one finger. Then, close to my ear when I don’t move, “Sit down, Liam.”
I give Margot a look and she gives me one back:Fuck’s sake, do it, Liam, and I go to the reception chair that’s been dragged into the center of the room. I sit. “Well. Not exactly the warm reception I was expecting, but I’ll take it.”
Jockey barks out a laugh. “Ahh, still so slick, man, so cool. I fucking love that about you.”
He rounds the chair, and I finally get a good look at him: he’s grown impossibly taller, big broad sloping shoulders, and his hair is already beginning to thin. He has a jocular vibe, the guy at the party who’s always shotgunning a beer and somehow convincing you to do it too, but the older he gets the less charming it seems. There are dark half-moons under his eyes, and he has jowls now, and the beer has packed on a middle. It all gives him a lurching quality, junkie-like, eyes darting.
He levels me with an amused, slightly off-kilter stare. “Been a fucking minute, man.”
“What the fuck do you want, Jockey?” I don’t bother keeping the vitriol out of my voice, but I keep my eyes hard on him, not betraying my apprehension by scanning the room or looking over his guys. “Gotta tell you, this isn’t a great look.”
“No? I think you just don’t like it when you’re not the center of attention.”
Jesus.What is this, fucking middle school? Surprise or something must show in my face because Jockey’s suddenly loses all trace of amusement.
“You get it, don’t you?” he says, too quickly, too sharply. “Smart guy and everything. You get out of prison after all these years and you’re just skulking around, sniffing after old girlfriends, looking like you might wanna settle down, might wanna get even, settle some scores, you know, be the hero, right?”
