Darius was the last one to learn about this Terry visiting art galleries. James had already given the information to Bishop, who had more insight. The galleries were fronts for black market exchanges and discreet storage. Mostly drugs and technology these days, but they used to focus on firearms.
Bishop knew about them from his days on the force; the ‘gallery’ owners paid off local cops. Normal SCPD corruption. Calls from those addresses got handled by certain officers, and nobody else asked questions. Back then, Bishop wasn’t any better than the rest of the cops. Fitting in, reinforcing unspoken rules with his own silence.
Bishop was a better man now, or Darius wouldn’t be friends with him. He had no patience for self-righteous hypocrisy. Deception was fine, of course, but Darius didn’t like to deceive himself. He knew who he was: a killer for hire.
Not a good man. But he didn’t put on a uniform and pretend otherwise.
Idling at a stoplight, Darius laughed. No pretending, yeah. Just getting into a truck and leaving Kit and James to distract each other, instead of volunteering information.
Darius could have told James about the art galleries. He probably knew more than Bishop. Half the guns in his arsenal were purchased from those galleries.
Which made sense, of course. It had seemed strange that the Rat Kings’ operation might exist in San Corvo without Darius knowing about it. Turns out, they already had their hands in the underground corners Darius was familiar with.
Darius eased the truck around a corner, ignoring the grumpy pile of traffic waiting behind him. The next street was quieter, leading to one of San Corvo’s wealthiest neighborhoods. A collection of pseudo-Victorian houses sheltering behind wrought iron fences and SoCal-typical palm trees.
One of those houses was their new home.
Kit stared up at the house with rising panic.
It looked larger than the photographs, all rust-red boards and off-white trim. The roof soared unevenly like a mountain range. There were gables, if Kit was correct about what gables were. It was a cross between a protective castle and a cozy farmhouse nest, and it was exactly what Kit had wanted.
Until about twenty seconds ago.
James and Darius were farther down the expansive driveway, arguing next to the moving truck. Something about why Darius couldn’t have just taken the firearms himself and hired help for the furniture. The counterargument was that if James couldn’t handle it, maybe Darius would. Which had the predictable result of James swearing and jumping into the truck.
If they hurt themselves carrying couches, Kit wasn’t calling for help. Because he would be too busy stealing James’s keys, jumping in the car, and driving far, far away, never to return.
Living with James was one thing. That was just mooching off his rich boyfriend. Crashing without paying rent. This was a house purposefully purchased for them. As a unit, all four of them. And the four of them included Kit, which meant this was a permanent residence. For him.
Heavy footsteps stopped behind him. “What’s wrong, Trouble?” Darius asked, massaging Kit’s tense shoulders.
Kit felt even tinier than usual under Darius’s warm hands. “Is it too late to return the house?”
“Just a bit,” Darius said, infuriatingly calm.
James joined them, spinning a set of keys. “My realtor would fucking murder me. Sweet lady, but the bigger the hair, the deadlier they are.”
He sounded calm too. Horrible men, both of them.
“You can move in, Darius,” Kit said, trying to joke past the anxiety. “So can James and Holden. I’ll just visit everyone on weekends.”
That would give Kit time to run away. He didn’t actually have a tracking chip like James joked about, so all he had to do was ditch his phone and other belongings. Maybe swap out his shoes at the mall in case someone had tampered with them. You never knew. Definitely had to switch cars or hop on a bus once he was out of San Corvo Security CCTV range.
“You’re getting cold feet, huh?” Darius asked, thumbs sweeping up the sides of Kit’s neck.
Kit struggled not to melt. Focus. He had a crisis to freak out about. “We’re moving too fast. We’re all going to hate each other after a week. It’s going to be a horrible mess.”
“It’s going to be fine.” James tilted Kit’s chin up, forcing him to face an obnoxious smirk. “I already hate Darius and Holden.”
“Blondie does make good slideshows, though,” Darius said from behind Kit. “He can make another, to explain that you don’t need to freak out.”
Kit pulled away—or tried to. Darius’s grip tightened on his shoulders. Imprisonment was far more soothing than the gentle massage.
“You’re both disgustingly calm,” Kit accused.
“Honestly, I’m surprised you took this long to panic,” James said fondly. “But Darius and I expected it, so we have a plan.”
Darius leaned closer, breath warm against Kit’s ear. “Did you know you can’t resell a house after you’ve fucked on the kitchen counter?”
