Bang. Bang.
A sharp knock on the window yanks me out of my thoughts.
Raoul stands outside, unimpressed.
I huff a quiet laugh. “Time to go,” I say.
Effa nods, glowing, and reaches for the door.
And for one brief moment, before I step out into the night, I let myself believe I can fix what’s coming.
***
Two hours later, we’re walking out of the tattoo parlor with matching ink wrapped in fresh bandages on our left inner wrists.
Raoul leads the way toward the waiting car. My arm is around Effa’s shoulders as we step into the alley behind the shop.
It’s late.
Dim.
Quiet.
Too damn quiet.
The crunch of dry leaves under our boots echoes in the narrow space, the last breath of autumn clinging to the night. Effa shivers against me. She’s still in her leather stage dress, thigh-high boots, and the jacket I gave her, but the air has turned sharp and biting, so I pull her closer.
“Let’s get you back in the car before you freeze,” I mutter, steering her forward.
We’ve barely made it halfway down the alley when Raoul stops dead, and his arm shoots out, blocking us.
I follow his line of sight.
Five men stand ahead of us.
Three are holding baseball bats.
Two with knuckle dusters gleaming faintly under the streetlight.
And my stomach drops.
Raoul shifts slightly in front of us, shoulders squared. “Whatever you’re looking for…” he calls out evenly, “… you’d be better off turning around.”
The man in the center steps forward.
He is older with a scar running from his cheek to the corner of his mouth. Crooked hat, rotten smile, and his eyes lock on mine.
A cold wave rolls through me.
Time’s up.
He chuckles, slow and satisfied, as his men fan out behind him.
“Now, now,” he says, voice thick and gravelly. “No need for the girl or the bodyguard to get hurt. We’re only here for one person.”
Effa tightens her grip on me.
Raoul inches forward.
