ONE
RAFE
“Only psychopaths can sitin a car for hours in complete silence,” Lola grumbles as she shifts in the passenger seat for the third time in two minutes.
“Is it silence if you narrate the whole time?” I drum my fingers along the steering wheel and stretch my neck from left to right and back again.
I love music as much as the next person, but between the radio, our open phone call, and Lola’s commentary, it was overstimulating as fuck. Something had to go.
She looks at me slowly, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted like she tasted something sour. “Weird. I didn’t think you were the funny brother.”
“I’m not.”
The armored truck rolls ahead of us on the near-empty desert highway, its reinforced panels catching flashes of late-afternoon sun as the road bends through low scrub and dust. Gage, who normally treats speed limits like suggestions, keeps the truck in a clean line down the asphalt. I’d bet my cut it’s not the seven-hundred-thousand in casino chips making him drive like there’sa cop on his tail. It’s Bellamy riding in back with our younger brother, Cruz.
And behind us, Bishop’s car holds position in the mirror, keeping the distance we planned. Close enough to close the gap if something goes sideways. Far enough back that we don’t look like we’re fleeing a crime.
Everything exactly where it should be.
“What are you then?” Lola stretches one leg out on the dash and flicks her hair out of her face like we’re just taking a casual drive through the desert instead of escorting stolen contraband across state lines.
“Busy.” My eyes sweep the road again.
Empty highway stretches ahead like a sun-bleached ribbon. Heat shimmers off the pavement, distorting the horizon into liquid waves. My eyes burn from staring at the same unchanging landscape for the past several hours while Lola’s voice rises and falls beside me in near-constant chatter. It’s not that I mind the conversation, if Cruz were here, he’d be rivaling Bellamy’s sister.
But there’s something just out of my grasp. An itch that I can’t quite satisfy no matter how many times I scratch it.
Every job has a flavor. This one tasted like copper and ozone. And I haven’t decided yet if that’s a good tiding or a bad omen.
“Mm-hmm. I heard you were.”
I ignore her insinuation, like I’ve ignored every single one of her attempts to entrap me when it comes to the enigmatic blonde in the back of the armored truck.
“You know,” she drags out, her tone just shy of sing-song. “I was rooting for Gage, but I could be persuaded to switch sides.”
The corner of my mouth twitches almost against my will. I haven’t known her for long, but long enough to know she’s fishing. And it’ll likely cost me.
I give in just for the fuck of it. Curiosity and all that. “Oh yeah?”
“Sure,” she says with a nod, her face falling into something neutral. “For half of your cut from this job.”
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my face carefully neutral even as something like respect settles in my chest. “And if you were shotgun with Bishop? Would you offer him the same deal?”
She rolls her head across the headrest to look at me, a sly grin spreading along her face. “Nah, I’d go for his full take.”
“He’d kick you out of his car for suggesting it.” Fuck, I can picture the indignation on his face, and laughter hums inside of me. I don’t let it out though. Instead, I check the mirrors again, cataloging every detail. The last hour has set my teeth on edge in a way I don’t particularly enjoy.
“Maybe,” she concedes with a slow nod.
Something flashes in my peripheral vision—metal catching sunlight. I jerk my head right, eyes narrowing on the intersection a quarter mile ahead. A massive red Mack truck thunders down the perpendicular road. At first glance, it’s just another freight hauler pushing through the desert highways. We’ve encountered a few today already.
“But maybe not. I guess we’ll nev?—”
“Lola.” Her name snaps across the car like a whip.
“Jesus, Rafe. I’m just fuckin’ around,” she says, exasperation heavy in her voice.
I tap the cupholder where my burner should be. “Unmute me.”
