Easier said than done.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. Logic whispered that he should block the number. Delete it. Move on.
But five hundred dollars...
That was more than he made in a week at the hardware store, and it wasn’t taxed. He also didn’t have to put the majority of it into his savings account at Tess’s insistence.
“You want the money or not?” Diego asked, voice sharpening.
He knew the right answer.
He also knew the one he was going to give.
Sighing, he opened his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Good boy,” Diego said, and the line clicked dead.
Andy stared at his phone as if it might explode. Nausea rolled through his stomach like a violent maelstrom.
He gulped for air and shoved down the panic that threatened to overtake him.
Once he calmed enough to stand without face-planting, he shoved his phone into his pocket, grabbed his house keys, and tried—tried—to convince himself this would be the last time he did something so stupid.
When Andy steered the borrowed beach-house bike into the grocery store lot, he had to admit Diego was right—middle of the afternoon, people everywhere. Too many witnesses for anyone to try something stupid.
He pedaled toward the far end, weaving past shopping carts and a couple loading groceries into their trunk. No black Dodge Charger. No Diego.
Good. Bad. He couldn't tell which.
He coasted into a strip of shade cast by a row of trees, kicked the stand down, and climbed off. Sweat stuck his T-shirt to his back. The summer heat pressed down thick and slow, reducing the patch of cover to little more than a tease. He repeatedly wiped his palms on his jeans, but it didn’t help. His palms were still clammy.
He bounced on the balls of his feet, scanning the cracked asphalt while checking the time. Every second stretched longer than it should. The air smelled like hot pavement and old oil. A single cicada buzzed in a tree nearby, loud enough to make his nerves spike.
The whole situation was stupid—meeting a gang member like it was an everyday occurrence. He shouldn't be there.
“Screw the money,” he muttered and reached for the bike. But when an engine rumbled in the distance, growling louder with every heartbeat, he knew it was too late to flee.
His breath hitched.
A brand new, four-door black Charger rolled into the lot—not fast, just slow and controlled like it belonged there. The sun caught the windshield at the wrong angle, throwing a glare that made Andy squint.
The muscle car came to a stop in front of him, and the engine revved once before cutting off. A few long quiet moments passed—just enough to make Andy’s pulse thud in his ears.
Then three of the doors opened.
Diego climbed out of the driver’s seat, wearing the same smirk Andy remembered from that awful night in the alley. The smirk of a guy who’d already counted the deck and knew he couldn’t lose.
Simultaneously, Toad and Jax slid out of the car, too, each flanking Diego like they were his personal bodyguards. Shoulders loose. Hands empty. Eyes mean.
Andy’s sneakers suddenly seemed glued to the pavement.
“Look who showed,” Diego said, spreading his arms like they were buddies meeting up for a cookout. Too casual. Too welcoming. “Didn’t think you’d actually have the balls.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Andy managed. His voice was mostly steady. Mostly.
“Yeah,” Diego drawled, giving him a long, amused once-over. “You are.”
He tried to hide the fact that his knees shook. He wished he’d biked slower, or faster, or not at all. Every option felt wrong now that he was actually standing in front of Diego.
