“Who’s askin’?”
“Her fairy godmother.” I narrow my gaze. “It’s after midnight, and she needs to go home.”
“This is her home.”
“So, she’s here then?”
A slow smirk spreads across his hard mouth. “Nice try.” Fucker closes the door.
I knock again.
He cracks it open even narrower. “I ain’t buyin’.”
“Good thing I’m no Girl Scout, then.” I jam my foot in the gap before the asshole shuts me out.
A tense moment passes; the two of us stare at one another as though to ask“you gonna escalate this or me?”My hand twitches. I draw my elbow back.
The fucker opens the door, slow and measured.
I take in his dirty, black jeans, fisherman sweater, and almost taunting scowl. He goads me to act first, to be the one who instigates the fight and therefore assumes blame for whatever comes in the days and weeks after. Only, he’s no longer patched. Apart from the verbiage tattooed on his neck, this asshole no longer has the weight of the Devil’s Breed behind him.
Unless…
I let myself into the small house, noting the narrow construction. Two bedrooms run off a short hallway to my left, a living area to the right, and perhaps a kitchen beyond. “Who owns the ride?” I ask as I veer right and scout the simple space. A worn sofa ahead, a matching armchair to my left. “Can’t tell me that’s yours.”
“What is she to you?”
I don’t like the way the asshole follows me: center of the doorway, close enough to force me to continue forward, but far enough away to lift arms in defense.
“More than she is to you.” I note the empty beer bottle on the table, recently opened judging by the remaining dew. The smell of fresh ash permeates the air, its tang clogged with nicotine.
I indulge my curiosity and move through the ajar door to the boxy kitchen. Shoved in the far corner of the floor plan, a single corner window overlooks the neglected backyard; Formica countertops warp and lift around the stainless sink. Litter lines the countertop and spills from an overflowing trash bin. All indications that he does live here now, and that he doesn’t often expect company.
Flinch hesitates by the door, watching me with a keen curiosity as one would a kid on an Easter hunt; he knows what I’ll find, and he relishes the time it takes me to figure out what that thing is.
Or who.
I’m still not convinced the pickup isn’t related.
I take the second door out of the kitchen, which leads through a mildew-stained bathroom to the laundry, then back to the entry hall.
All the while, my host trails my every move, arms folded and a wry smile on his face. “Found her yet?”
“Who said I’m still looking forher?”
His easy smile fades. “I think you’re done here.”
I turn toward the bedrooms. “I think I’m not.”
Flinch glances out the still open front door and stares directly at Loki.Good.Distraction plan is working, then. Not sure where Circus is at, but the man’s never let me down yet.
I shove the first door open with the heel of my hand and survey the mess beyond. What was once a tidy and orderly bedroom now has dirty laundry piled in the corner, empty packaging stacked on one of the nightstands, and every available door and drawer left ajar, as though keeping a room in order is too much to ask. A half-smoked pack of cigarettes sits on the closest nightstand, flanked by a stack of change and a random bolt.
I’d place money on Flinch taking over Jenna’s mom’s space, soiling any lingering memory the woman has of her caregiver.
My throat grows tight as I approach the second door, which through deduction alone must be Jenna’s room.
Flinch catches my hesitation at the door, and leans a shoulder against the wall, kicking one ankle across the other. “Last place to look,” he taunts.
