It’s not Grace’s fault. She was a girl when it all went down. But it feels like itshouldbe her fault, at least for tonight.
“You want this back, you can have Axe come and retrieve it from me.” I move to the fence, stuff the cash, coke, and her gun in my bag, and then army crawl out.
She doesn’t follow when I walk the half kilometre back to my bike. As I’m tying my bag to the rear, my phone buzzes. Miller.
“Yeah, what?”
He chuckles. “Bad night?”
I smile. “Started that way, but I feel much better now. What’s up?”
“Allen is a fucking maniac. He had me send Gracie Donovan’s motorcycle to a chop shop. Achop shop,Deck. All off the books. He’s tearing the thing apart.”
I mount my machine, keep my focus fixed ahead. “Anything else happen?”
“Yeah, he wouldn’t let me stop to eat. I’m fucking starving.”
“I told you to pack snacks.”
“I thought you were kidding.” He sighs. “So, uh, do I tell the chief? About the bike?”
“No. Or he’ll bench you like he did to me. Wells doesn’t wanna know. He just wants the job done. Keep feeding me updates, all right? We gotta monitor this guy, make sure shit with the Sinners doesn’t get violent.”
“You got it,” he says. “Come for dinner tomorrow? Mel’s making lasagna.”
“Mel hates me, Jake.”
“Yeah, cause you’re a dick. Don’t mean you can’t come over, though.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Just bring me the leftovers.”
“Linc,” he says, his tone suddenly sharp.
“Yeah, yeah, all right.”
“Bring wine. It’ll soften her up a bit.”
I snort. “Anything for lasagna. Later.”
Once I’ve stashed my phone, I pull on my helmet and fire up my bike. Up the street, a woman in black leans against a building. Knit tuque, leather jacket, pissed-off look on her face.
I wave. Grace flips me off. I laugh.
I have no fucking clue what kind of shit she’s gotten herself wrapped up in or why she’s hiding it from the few men on this planet who are capable of protecting her. But for the first time in ten years, I have leverage on a Donovan.
And I’m going to fucking use it.
8
I glareat the stretch of people in front of me and huff. I’ve been standing in line at Kuppajoe for five minutes, but my desperation for a strong hit of caffeine is making it feel more like an hour.
Triss insists this place has the best coffee in town. Apparently, everyone agrees. The small shop deep in the heart of downtown South Bay is packed with all sorts of people this morning. Professionals heading to work, students home for the summer, a few construction workers dressed in dirt-covered steel-toes and orange vests. There’s also a dark-haired girl I think I might have gone to high school with, but we weren’t friendly enough back then for me to consider waving hello.
As the line inches forward, I study the decorative chalkboards behind the counter listing out specialty coffees, cold brews, lattes, and smoothies. The thick aroma of espresso mixed with fresh-baked pastries fills my nostrils, and a deep growl rumbles from the pit of my stomach. It’s been hard to put food in my mouth lately. With the constant anxiety wreaking havoc on my digestive system, I haven’t been able to stomach much. But I think the lack of calories and excessive levels of caffeine havefinally convinced my body to overrule my nerves. A breakfast burrito sounds damn good right about now.
The bell attached to the door jingles loudly, signalling another customer’s arrival. The hair at the back of my neck jumps to attention. I’m on edge this morning, and I’m tempted to look behind me every time someone steps inside, expecting to see an unfriendly face, a leather jacket adorned with a skull and crossbones, maybe the glint of a sharp blade.
Instead, I keep my focus trained ahead. When the woman in front of me grabs her coffee and a small brown bag with her food, I step up to order.
