I grinned. “Story of my life.”
Her mouth twitched, like she wanted to say something else, but she just shook her head and wandered out to the bar, where the night crowd was starting to filter in.
I stayed behind, counting the cracks in the wood, feeling the old ache in my ribs. The prospect patch on my cut scratched against my collarbone, a constant reminder that I was still on the bottom rung, still one bad day from washing out. But that’s the thing about being at the bottom, you could see the whole system of power above you, clear as day.
And right at the top, bigger and nastier than any bastard in this room, was the Reverend Archie Maple.
I finished my beer, knuckles whitening on the bottle neck, already running the plan through my head. If the church was running product, I’d find it. If they were moving bodies, I’d see where they stacked them. If the preacher wanted a holy war, I’d give him one.
But first, I had to get through another night of pretending I wasn’t bleeding inside. Piece of cake.
***
I sat on the edge of the bed, a mattress so thin it might’ve been a yoga mat in another life, and flicked open my old Kershaw blade. The movement was hypnotic—blade in, blade out, thumb just missing the catch every other time. It was the first gift I’d ever gotten from anyone who wanted to keep me alive. I wiped it clean with the hem of my shirt, even though the last thing it had tasted was a pepperoni stick from the 7-Eleven down the street.
The burner phone on my nightstand vibrated so hard it nearly skittered off the surface. I expected Vin or maybe Moab with a last-minute change to the mission, but the number was blocked. The only people who called blocked were telemarketers or ghosts from the past, and I didn’t owe any money to the former.
I thumbed it open, and just for a second, the world stopped spinning.
“Axel?” Her voice was raw, like she’d been running or crying or maybe both.
I didn’t answer right away. There was a game we played, Darla and I, where the first to speak lost. I lost, every time.
“Yeah,” I said, and it sounded like someone else’s voice. “I’m here. What’s up, princess?”
A soft, nervous laugh. “Don’t call me that.”
“Would you prefer ‘Reverend’s little angel’?”
This time, her silence was colder. I closed the blade and stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror across from the bed. The swelling on my cheek had settled into a respectable purple, and my lower lip looked like a chewed-up cherry. I couldn’t tell if the black eye made me look tough or just tired.
“Axel, my dad—he’s lost his mind.” Her voice was sharp now, all the breathy fear gone. “He called you out, by name. He said God told him to cleanse the town of sinners. You. The club. All of you.”
“Nice to be famous,” I said, but my stomach dropped anyway. “How many people heard?”
“All of them,” she whispered. “He made sure.”
I lay back, phone balanced against my ear, feeling the familiar click of adrenaline cutting through the fog. “What about you? Where are you now?”
“In my room. Locked door. Dad’s at the church, probably plotting a lynch mob.”
“Anyone watching you?”
She hesitated. “Bart is. I think he’s outside my window. I saw him in the reflection.”
“Fuck,” I breathed. “Okay, new plan. You need to get rid of your phone. Burn it. We’ll set up a system.”
She was quiet a second. “A system?”
“Code phrases,” I said. “If you’re in trouble, you text me ‘midnight sandwich,’ or some shit like that. If it’s safe to meet, you send ‘blue candle.’ Anything else and I’ll assume you’re compromised.”
She laughed again, and this time it was real. “Midnight sandwich? Where the hell did you get that?”
“Guy’s gotta eat,” I said. “Humor me.”
“Okay.”
I could almost see her sitting on the edge of her bed, same as me, knees curled up, phone pressed to her ear like it was alifeline. I remembered the last time I saw her, hair up, skin still tasting of sun and sweet sweat, whispering secrets into my chest as if the world was ending and she needed to confess before it was too late.
