There’s no doubt itwasan offer.
Part of me wants to ride out to Franco’s and see if the bastard is there. Part of me knows that’s crazy. First, he won’t be. Second, I don’t want to be in range of hisfriends. I might be reckless, but I’m not stupid.
Third, I can’t afford distractions. Not now, not this week.
Monday, I’m down in Palm Springs, back on my bike, going over my routes.
Tuesday, I meet with Kurt.
I owe Kurt a lot. When I first came to LA, I was the stereotypicalPretty Womangirl—left behind a boring life to follow a man I shouldn’t have followed. I saw the damn film and still went and did it. Kurt stopped me from ending up on the streets—well actually, that was Lou, and his custom shop.
Six years ago, dirty and hungry, I wandered in and told him I knew my way around a wrench. He gave the scrawny eighteen-year-old girl on his doorstep a dubious look, buried his sympathy, and waved me over to a disassembled carburetor soaking in carb cleaner.
I was twelve when I first did that in my dad’s garage back home.
Lou stood with his arms folded, watching as I made sure each part was clean and scrubbed out the deposits, then carefully aligned the jets, floats, and gaskets, putting it all back together.
Then he took me out for lunch. At Subway.
It was a week later that Kurt found me, about to take one of Lou’s customer’s bikes for a test ride. He gave me what he called ‘courier jobs,’ that rather quickly went up in pay and illegality.
I didn’t care. It was either deliver drugs or go home, and I never wanted to go to college anyway. This was much more fun; I got to ride bikes all day.
Kurt keeps a unit in the Arts District, and though he moves locations after every big job, they’re always around here somewhere. It’s a legitimate hangout given he’s a true artist, even if his medium is graffiti. Half the murals in the ’hood are his.
Tasha’s already there when I turn up. She’s an artist too, with a shop nearby and a different type of ink. Some of her work is on my body, including the stooping raven on my shoulder blade, wings spread and talons extended. I’m certain it helps my riding.
She greets me with a grin and slaps my ass, my leather pants absorbing most of the sting. Then she takes her usual seat on the moldy couch behind her open laptop—another artform—phishing, hacking, whatever Kurt needs. The coffee table is covered with papers—security systems, floor plans, some tech sheet with the heading of cellular jammer. Three pairs of little black boxes sit on the pages. I know whatthose are: relay attack devices. Steal a bike in seconds with those.
“Genesis.” Kurt nods to me. He’s thin in a wiry way, lean and hard. Black jeans, black T-shirt. I’ve never seen him wear anything else.
He’s the only one outside my parents who calls me by my birthname. Even my brother settles for ‘Gen.’ It’s not like ‘Raven’ is hard to say; Kurt’s just that stubborn.
Genesis Greer needs a nickname the way a Ducati needs an open road.
I set my crash helmet down, helping myself to lukewarm coffee from the pot—black because Kurt doesn’t believe in milk—and take the armchair I prefer. It’s faintly musty with a couple of stains I don’t want to think about too hard, but wide enough to tuck my legs up. Just not while wearing leathers and my boots.
By then, Dario and Cole have arrived. They’re our muscle. Dario greets me with an easy grin, sporting an Iron Maiden T-shirt that’s taut over his chest. Cole’s the quiet, brooding one, handsome in a distinctly British way, almost too beautiful for me. He was a lieutenant in their army until they cashiered him for punching an officer somewhere in Afghanistan.
Cammy turns up late, which is ironic, given that she’s the driver. Cars, not bikes—she drives the van. She’s my age, dirty blond, blue eyes, none of my tattoos but we share the same attitude and for much the same reason, though she never opened up to meabout her past relationships.
And that’s the crew—or it will be, when Hank gets here.
Kurt’s chair is a bona fide wingback he calls his Chesterfield. It’s a villain look if ever I saw one, and it suits him. He props his elbows on the arms, steeples his fingers, and that usually marks the start of our meeting. The rest take seats, and I frown.
“Hank’s not here.”
Tasha goes still. Cammy looks uncomfortable.
“He’s not coming,” Kurt says coolly.
“What?”
“He came off on Mulholland Drive, doing about fifty.”
“Shit.” I wince. “How bad? Tell me he was at least wearing…”
Kurt slowly shakes his head, both anticipating my question and giving me the answer.
