She didn’t answer that.
He leaned forward a little, resting his arms on the table. “That El Camino down near Crescent Bay, though. The guy dropped the price. It’s rough, but it’d clean up nice.”
“I don’t want nice,” she said. “I want something that bites back a little.”
“You want something with a bad temper,” Killer muttered, a smirk pulling at his lips.
She snorted into her iced tea. “What I need is affordable, and dependable.”
“Neither one of those is either. But that Toyota Camry was clean and the couple is only asking five K for it.”
“Yeah. It was clean. Low miles.”
“Garage kept. Can’t ask for much more.”
“I’ll call them after lunch and see of its still available.” She should call right than but wanted to let the idea settle in a bit.
They talked like that for a while—engines and paint jobs, the smell of grease and sunbaked vinyl, the way some things just feelrightbehind the wheel. She liked hearing it. Liked pretending, just for a little while, that her world wasn’t so heavy.
And maybe, in that tiny oceanside pub with its cracked windows and salt-stained walls, she didn’t feel so far from herself.
After lunch, Killer tossed a few bills on the table, nodded at the waitress, and jerked his chin toward the back door.
“C’mon. There’s a trail down.”
Brandi followed him outside, the air cooler now, the wind coming in stronger off the water. Behind the pub, a narrow path cut through dry grass and driftwood, leading down to a sliverof sand nestled between the cliffs. It was the kind of beach you didn’t stumble on unless you knew it was there. Killer always knew.
She kicked off her boots when they hit the sand, curling her toes into it as the grit bit against her skin. Cold. Real. The tide was out, the wet stretch of beach shining like a mirror beneath the clouds. Gulls screamed overhead, and seafoam clung to the rocks like lace.
They didn’t talk. Just walked.
Killer kept a respectful distance, his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning the surf like he was waiting for it to tell him something. Brandi walked with her arms folded, every now and then glancing out at the water, like she might spot something out there worth chasing.
When they reached a boulder half-buried in the sand, she climbed up and sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her chin resting on them. Killer stayed on the ground, letting the wind toss his dark hair back.
“You ever think about leaving?” she asked, eyes still on the horizon.
He didn’t answer right away. Just shrugged. “Yeah. Sometimes. But I always come back to the same thing—wherever you go, you still take yourself with you.”
She hummed like she agreed, but maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was just tired.
Killer picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the surf. It bounced three times, than sank without fanfare.
Brandi watched it disappear. “Think I’ll ever find something that feels like home?”
“Maybe not a person,” he said. “But a place.”
She didn’t say what she was thinking—that she alreadyhadsomeone, and he didn’t want her the way she wanted him. That maybe she’d always be chasing shadows.
Instead, she slid off the rock and walked along the shoreline, letting the icy water nip at her ankles. Killer followed a few steps behind, quiet as ever.
They didn’t need to say anything else. Not today.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tool satin the private room at the Firehouse beer garden, a half-empty bottle of beer sweating on the table beside him. The clank of glasses echoed from behind the bar where the Vega moved with practiced rhythm, mixing drinks and popping caps off cold bottles for the guys lined up along the counter. Rock and roll thumped through the overhead speakers, a gritty beat rolling through the room like smoke.
He leaned back in his chair, the creak of old wood barely audible over the occasional cheer from a game of pool being played near the far wall. A few of the brothers were lined up around the table, cues in hand, trading shots and shit talk in equal measure.
