If I’ve told Hank once I’ve told him a fucking hundred times: wear gloves. Nine times out of ten, they’re more important than a lid. The instinct is to put your hands out; at low speed, head injuries are much rarer. Fifty is nothing on the bikes we ride.
“How bad?” I ask.
“Lost his skin down to the subcutaneous tissue,” Kurt says without emotion. “Fractured his scaphoid, stripped his tendons.”
Fuck. I feel sick, and not just because it brings home how easy it is to do that.
“It was last Friday,” Tasha adds softly, in counter to Kurt’s indifference. “He’s at the UCLA medicalcenter.”
I suppose I should go and see him. But I won’t. “So what, we’re bouncing Thursday?”
“We’re bouncing nothing,” Kurt says.
My eyebrows go up. “You want me to ride alone?”
“No.” A pause. “I’m bringing help in.”
“You fuckingwhat?” I’m leaning forward, almost on my feet. Anyone else, I’d already be walking out. “We’retwo daysaway, and you’re bringing in another ridernow?”
“No, I’m bringing in two more,” Kurt replies, his total indifference even more irritating than usual.
“Okay, whatever.” I stand up, setting my cup down on the coffee table. “Then you clearly don’t need me.”
Great. Hours spent riding around Palm Springs for nothing.
“Told you,” Dario murmurs. I give him the look that deserves and go for my lid by the coffee machine.
“Sit down, Genesis,” Kurt says before I reach it. His voice is calm, the way it always is.
I resist the temptation to obey, but it’s an effort. Instead, I turn to him. “You bring two fresh faces in here, two days before a job, and you expect me to be happy?”
“I expect you to play your part.”
“And when they take off with our cash?”
“Then I hunt them down and break their legs,” he says like it’s a school trip. “They won’t. They’ve been vouchedfor.”
“Bywhom?”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Are you questioning my contacts?”
Dario chuckles. “She’s so hot when she does grammar,” he mutters to Cole.
“Just because your education is lacking,” Cole murmurs back.
Dario shrugs. “We can’t all be British toffs.”
I ignore their banter, focused on Kurt. I don’t want to go to prison because some asswipe I don’t know screws up, screws the job, or gets cold feet when it matters. But he does have a point: it’s his gig, his crew, his contacts. And he’s always been solid.
“Fine,” I huff, dropping back into my chair with bad grace. “Where the hell are they then?”
“Here in…” He checks his watch. “Now.”
“Except they’re not,” I point out, just as a badly-timed knock comes on the door.
I glare as Cammy gets up to open it. Just let Dario make a comment about that, and I’ll rip him a new one.
Three men enter. The first I think I know; the second and third I definitely do.
