Page 51 of Chasing Kit

There was a pause and three dots blinked on my screen, telling me he was typing. Then another text came through.

Kit

I miss you.

I stared at the words for a long time. I chewed the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper.

War

Miss you too.

Kit

I totally expected you to be the type of millennial to use a “2” for too. Glad I was wrong.

I chuckled. Little shit.

I pocketed the phone and went back to work, humming a song I couldn’t name. The teeth were all out. I double-bagged the fragments, bleached the grout, and stacked the trash in a corner for pickup. When I finally came up the stairs, Derek was waiting for me in the kitchen, perfectly pressed as always.

“Take the rest of the day,” he said, pouring coffee into a bone China mug. “You look like shit, War.”

I stared at him, waiting for the twist, but there wasn’t one. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his mouth was tight with some private disappointment.

“You’re not still mad?” I asked, unable to help myself.

“Why would I be mad?” His tone was cool and surgical. He didn’t become a boss in the New Gothenburg underground for no reason. He was calm and collected, nothing more than a mask of complete nonchalance when he was annoyed. “You finished what you started, which is more than I can say for most people.”

I nodded, tense. “Nitro’s handling the rest.”

“He is.” Derek’s eyes flicked to my phone, which was visible in the side pocket of my pants. “You meeting someone?”

I hesitated. “Maybe.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Stay out of trouble. And don’t let the kid drive. He’s a menace, but he’s my son. If you break his heart, that body downstairs won’t even begin to resemble you once I’m done with you.”

I grunted and retreated to the guest bathroom of one of Derek’s playhouses, a home he used specifically to bring his torturees, as Nitro and I called them. I stripped off my shirt and pants in the hallway without an ounce of shame. We’d all seen each other naked, and it wasn’t unusual to have to get rid of clothes. The bleach had soaked through to my skin, and my forearms were pink and burning. I washed up as best I could with lukewarm water and harsh soap, and then I pulled on my cleanest jeans and a faded black T-shirt from an array of spare clothes we kept in the house. My hair looked like shit, but Kit never seemed to care.

The Challenger was waiting for me outside. I slid behind the wheel, adjusted the seat, and let the hum of the engine settle my nerves. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the old scars on my hands. Kit had traced them once, curious and gentle, never asking for the story. He just wanted to know if they still hurt.

They did, sometimes.

At 15:50 I pulled up at his house on Angel Perch Drive. The neighborhood was all overpriced landscaping and surveillance cameras, but I’d parked here before. The houses weren’t as fancy as somewhere like Vert Island, and they were only a step down from being mansions.

Derek’s house was the exception. He called it a cottage, and to an extent, it was. The place was a lot less than the other homes around it.

I texted Kit.

War

I’m here.

He responded a minute later.

Kit

Give me 2 mins.

I tapped the wheel and tried not to fidget. I’d been in shootouts with less adrenaline. Maybe that was the problem.