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I snort.
Aro finally notices the woman next to me. “Who are you?”
She pinches her eyebrows together, her tone accusing, and I have to stifle my amusement because she’ll scare Quinn. She scares almost everyone when they first meet her.
“Uh, hi,” Quinn stammers. “I’m Quinn.” She offers her hand to Aro. “Caruthers.”
Aro takes her hand. “Aro. Nice to meet you.”
We start for the cars. “Heard a lot about you,” Quinn tells her.
“Yeah.Loveyour shop, by the way.”
Quinn cocks her head, confused, but Aro just keeps walking. I shake my head. Since the bakery is only open during the summers when Quinn isn’t at school, she’s probably wondering when she missed seeing Aro in as a customer. I think it’s time to tell her that Hawke and Aro—and a few more of us—use her bakery when we get hungry while hanging out in the secret clubhouse buried in her walls.
A motorbike pulls up, and Farrow lifts his visor, tipping his chin in greeting. “Aro.”
“Piss off,” she replies and heads to her car.
His deep laugh rumbles to my right. “Take the blonde,” he calls out to whoever is listening. “I’ve got Dylan.”
Quinn meets my eyes, and I gesture for her to go with Aro. “Meet you there.”
She nods, jogging around the Mustang to the passenger’s side, and within a few seconds, Aro peels away.
I climb on behind Farrow.
“So you wanted girls, right?” he asks over his shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
I thought I paid for the girls’ prank earlier with the fireworks and stealing the locker.
But he just tells me, “You’ll see.” And he flips his visor back down.
We speed the short distance to the edge of town, down to the mill district, through the warehouses and decaying office buildings, and under the streetlights bobbing overhead in the wind. I hold him tightly, shivering a little in the cold.
We pull off the highway, cruise down a short, broken road lined with trees and overrun by weeds. They fill the air with the same scent I smell when we go to the pumpkin patch in the Falls. Hay and cornstalks, but with a little something sweet that’s dulled by the chill in the air.
The trees end, dozens of cars surround us, and I look ahead at an old cinderblock building painted in blue and purple. The colors are weathered, parts dusty and blocks chipped, revealing the gray concrete underneath. But the neon sign shines bright, the only letters not lit are the double LLs in Roller, so it reads Ro er Dome, which reads as Roar Dome in my head, which has its own poetry.
Music thunders against the walls from inside.
Grabbing my hand, Farrow walks me in, bypassing the ticket counter and opening one of the heavy steel doors. He pulls me through, and all at once, a thousand moving parts flash in front of my eyes.
A disco ball twirls above the center of the rink. Spotlights of blue, pink, and green sweep up, down, and around as people on skates and rollerblades coast around the oval track, or through the tables on their way to the bathroom or concession stand. Fifty pairs of wheels hit the floor, and the scent of cheap slices of pizza fill the air.
I spot Aro and Quinn already getting their skates, and I lock my gaze on one woman rolling around the bend of therink. She pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it over the wall, skating in her bra.
I go still. Searching the room, I don’t see any kids in here. Like little kids. It’s all teenagers. Young adults. Some of them look a little older, though. Some of the women especially. Short skirts. Revealing shorts. Lingerie tops.
I look at Farrow, wide-eyed. “Where did you find these people?”
“Strip club.”
Holy shit.I knew all that money didn’t go to fireworks. When I said I wanted girls, he just went for it, didn’t he?
“I feel overdressed,” I mumble.
