I've already turned my back on the pair. I saunter toward the front door, waving half-heartedly in farewell. I ignore my brother's snarls for me to return. Only once I'm out in the rain do I relax. At least I'm out of that miserable place. Brooklyn escaped too, which lifts a weight of anxiety off my shoulders.
I scan the street for her once but don't find her anywhere. For a few moments, I wonder if I just imagined her. Maybe this was all some fever dream and I'd conjured a memory of her. But the stinging pain of her kiss and the scent of her that still clings to me convinces me it wasn't a dream. She’d been here. For what, I don't know. But I will find out.
"Tomorrow, at the chop shop," I mutter to myself. I've been waiting for this day for almost ten years. No way in the world am I going to be late.
* * *
Uncharacteristic nerves riot in my stomach as I pull my Eagle up to the side of the chop shop. The old bike is still performing well. It had been a gift from dad and nearly identical to Cruz's model. It had been a source of pride then, and an irritant now.
There's a blue Street 500 parked nearby, with Brooklyn Gardel perched atop it. For a second it diverts my attention. Funny, how Cruz chose the same model for Holly her first time out. Holly rides like a pro now, and treasures the red bike almost as much as Cruz and her baby. She's eager to get back on it when the pregnancy is over.
The strange duality strikes me as a little funny. Holly and Brooklyn. Both gorgeous blondes. Both firebrands. Same bikes. Both involving themselves with the wrong men. I can't deny that she's my version of Holly. Everything that I want, and everything I shouldn't have. I'll end up like Cruz at this rate. He's fucked over the Spades, landing us in a turf war with our splinter group, the Hellions. As if we didn't have enough to deal with where the Kings were concerned. And he's done it all for Holly. Would I do the same for Brooklyn?
The answer is depressingly obvious. Of course I would. Despite the years and the heartbreak, she says jump, I say how high.
It's getting colder in South Hollens. When she expels a breath, it fogs the air in front of her face. It's a physical pain not to be touching her. She looks fantastic, clad as she is in tight-fitting jeans, last night’s sweater, and a jacket. I'm sobered at once by the King's insignia on the patch. It's a silver and black crown perched over a pair of crossed bones. It's a reminder to me to never forget who I'm talking to. No matter how much I want her, at the end of the day, she's the daughter of Calamity Gardel, the man who killed my father.
I lean against my own bike and wait. She's trembling, but whether it’s from cold or desire, I can't tell. She draws herself up a few extra inches and nods to herself as if she's deciding something important.
"Is it true?" she asks. Her voice is so quiet I barely hear it over the patter of rain against the tin roof of the chop shop.
"Can't give you the answer unless you tell me what the question is."
She shudders again. "Is it true what they say about the Spades? About your rules? Do you really protect women?"
My brow scrunches together. Of all the things I expected to hear, this isn't one of them.
"Yeah, it's true. Rule number one. Why?"
Brooklyn is positively shaking now, her eyes darting this way and that, as if she's afraid to be spotted conversing with me. There's no one around to hear. The highway is a half a mile away from us, and I paid the owner to fuck off for a few hours.
"Because I need your help," she whispers.
And then she reaches down, tugging at the hem of her shirt, peeling the damp cloth up her body. Normally I relish the sight of a half-dressed woman. But this time, what I see stops me cold.
Blue-black bruises dot her stomach in irregular patches.
"I need help," she repeats. "The people who did this are trying to kidnap me."
4
Brooklyn
It's a landmark moment. I've stunned Kase Cruz into complete silence, all traces of wit or sarcasm draining away from his face. He goes pale beneath the ever-present golden cast of his skin, his lips pressing into a line. Even the skin around his mouth goes white. He looks like he's holding back a scream. I push my shirt back into place, waiting.
When sound finally bursts from him, it's so sudden and loud that it makes me jump.
"Who the fuck did this to you?" he demands, voice a half-shout. "I'll kill them."
His fury on my behalf warms a silly, sentimental part of me I thought I quashed years ago. My smile is thin, and my tone tired.
"If I knew, do you think it would be an issue? My father would have dealt with it."
His fury stutters to an uncertain halt, and he frowns. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what I said. I don't know who tried to grab me. They caught me on my way home, kicked the shit out of me, yanked a bag over my head and stuffed me in the trunk. I only managed to get out because I managed to destroy the locking mechanism."
Angry tears gather at the corners of my eyes and I wipe my nose hard before I can sniffle. I don't want to show him just how badly this has shaken me up. It's bad enough I'm crawling to my ex for help. I don't want to look like a pathetic mess while I do it.
