“Me?” I grin, feeling the wild edges of it as I rock back on my heels. “Nah, man. You’re the one inmyhouse, insultingmygirl. I don’t know, Cruz, doesn’t it seem like he’s making a statement?”
Cruz shuts the fridge and twists the cap off a protein shake, sidestepping the growing mess and taking a long drink before he looks between us. “I’m not getting between you two assholes today.”
I fold my arms across my chest and pitch my voice over my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cruz. He knows I’m right.”
Cruz sighs as he sits on the stool farthest from us at the island. “What’s up, Bishop? You come over to not drink your coffee, or did Coco finally give you those names?”
Bishop just stares at me. “I went by the house, but she wasn’t there. She’s not answering my calls either.”
Cruz taps his index finger against his shake. “She left this morning.”
“Where?” I drag my focus from Bishop and glance at Cruz.
“Said Palm Springs.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah? And which Palm Springs is that?”
Cruz’s mouth twitches as he shrugs.
Coco says she’s going to Palm Springs, but what she’s really saying isI’m not telling you where I’m going. And normally I’m all for shit that gets under Bishop’s skin, but never letting usknow where she’ll be is reckless in the way that gets people killed in our life.
Bishop drags his hand through his hair and exhales. “Did she say how long?”
“Not this time.” Cruz shakes his head.
“Maybe she’s meeting her contact from Sableine? Finally getting us some fucking answers?” I drawl, annoyance heating the back of my neck.
Bishop exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. For a second, he looks tired.
Not weak. Never that. Just worn thin in a way he usually keeps buried under orders and locked jaws and the kind of control that makes everyone else feel like they’re the ones standing too close to the edge.
“A Mack truck got dropped at Keller Salvage a week ago,” he says.
Cruz’s brows lift. “And we’re just hearing about it now? Why’d Ron wait to call it in?”
“He didn’t call it in. I got tipped off from someone else.” Bishop’s jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. “Thought I’d go have a chat with him.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where’s Rafe?” Rafe’s always Bishop’s first call when he needs to extract information from someone. The two of them have a rhythm—Bishop’s cold intimidation, Rafe’s unpredictable violence.
“I don’t know. I’m not his fuckin’ keeper.”
Cruz drains his protein shake and stands. “Now?”
Bishop snatches his keys from the counter. “Now.”
My gaze drifts to the puddle of cold brew spreading across my kitchen floor in a dark stain, then to Bishop’s shirt where coffee has soaked through the fabric and clings to his skin. He catches me looking and his eyes narrow to slits.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “You want to change first? I think I have some old shirts I was gonna donate, but they might fit you.”
“I’ll be in the car. If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m leaving without you.” The screen door slams behind him.
“You know, that’d be more effective if he didn’t literally come over here to get backup,” I mutter, grabbing paper towels. Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered and heading for the car.
FOURTEEN
GAGE
We rollup to Keller Salvage as the sun bleeds orange across the horizon. The road narrows from four lanes to two, then to cracked asphalt that makes Bishop’s suspension groan. No more boutiques selling overpriced shell jewelry. No more valet stands. Just a ten-foot chain-link topped with rusted barbed wire, stacks of crushed cars, shipping containers tagged with sun-faded graffiti, and enough sharp metal to turn one wrong step into a tetanus shot.
