“I’m not here for you,” I said, ignoring the way my pulse ticked faster. “I’m here for the truth. Who was he talking to? Who gave him the pills? Who?—”
“Lady,” Kingsley said, soft like a warning, “sometimes people drown themselves. Don’t matter who’s on the shore.”
“Then why the bruises?” I shot back. “Ribs. Upper arms. A mark on his wrists where someone grabbed him and didn’t let go until it was done.”
The one with the scar in his brow stepped closer. “You talk too much.”
I pivoted so I could see all three of them, the gun hot against my spine like a dare. I kept my hands visible and my voice even. “You want me to leave? Give me a name, and I walk.”
“Or,” Barbed Wire said, “we take your phone, your cash, and whatever pretty thing you’ve got tucked in your jeans, and then you walk.”
“Try it,” I said, and let them see the edge in me that people mistake for pretty when they don’t know better. “See how many of you make it to the door.”
Scar Brow grinned. “I like her.”
“Don’t,” Kingsley replied. “That’s Kane blood. It burns.”
They moved in tandem, practiced, easy. Scar Brow reached for my wrist while Barbed Wire went for my hip.
I stepped into Scar Brow, not away, my elbow a hard kiss to his sternum. He doubled over and wheezed. Barbed Wire’s fingertips brushed the hem of my hoodie, and I brought my forearm down on his wrist sharp enough to make him swear. It was good for about three seconds, then Kingsley stepped forward like a door closing, and I understood what Caleb meant about some men being houses on fire. Kingsley grabbed me by the front of my hoodie and dragged me into the shadow of the open bay.
“Listen close,” he said. “There are people asking about Ghost that don’t carry your last name. You keep asking loud, you’re going to give them the answer they want.”
“Which is?”
He leaned in closer, voice dropping. “Silence.”
I shoved him off, and he let me. The room tilted until I got a handle on my balance, then my mouth spit out a lie that tasted like truth.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be scared of everyone,” he said. “And also?—”
The sound of engines cut him off. Four of them, loud and mean, rolled through the open bay doors and dragged every pair of eyes with them.
They came in like a tide of matte black, leather, and patch.
Jay killed his engine first, Riot flanked him, and Link followed, visor up, his mouth set. A fourth bike hung back. Fresher, cleaner, the rider was stiff with the kind of concentration that said he was a prospect. The kid’s kutte didn’t have a bottom rocker yet. Someone scrawled ‘PUP’ on a piece of duct tape slapped lopsided where a road name would go.
“You brought a parade,” I said when Jay swung his leg off his bike and sauntered towards me.
His kutte looked good on him, PRESIDENT, a brand across the right side of his chest. He didn’t look at me first. Instead, he looked at Kingsley, and something in Kingsley pulled back without moving. That’s the thing about power—it bends air before it bends bodies.
“Afternoon,” Jay said. “We interrupting a customer service experience?”
Riot drifted to my other side, not touching but close enough that his presence was a wall. Link stayed a step behind Jay, eyes doing a lazy sweep that caught everything.
The prospect, Pup, killed his engine last and looked from Jay to Kingsley like he was trying to decide where to aim his fear.
Kingsley spread his hands. “She walked in talking ghosts. I was telling her to walk out.”
“Funny,” Jay said. “We’ve been telling her that a lot.”
“Looks like it wasn’t enough,” I snapped, and he finally looked at me. The ice in his eyes was like a lake in winter, solid unless you know the cracks.
“Get behind me, Lucy.”
“No.”
