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No prey, no pay, I type out the caption.
#underablackflagwesail
I tuck my phone away, already feeling it vibrate with notifications. Over my shoulder, I spot the bike Farrow left me. Red and white, late model Ninja. I shoot my eyebrows up, impressed, but then I immediately adjust my surprise because it’s probably stolen.
I glance back once more at Hunter, seeing Farrow and the guys line up with him as he continues his push-ups.
One by one, they all drop to their hands and toes, taking his punishment alongside him, exercising in sync.
The Pirates never would’ve done that for him. For anyone.
Moving for the bike, I throw my leg over and stick in the key. I should inspect it—check the tires, look at the brakes, do a practice run around the lot to make sure they didn’t sabotage it—but I just want to get out of here.
Taking the helmet off the handlebar, I slide it on, fasten it, and grab the bars. I start the bike, giving it some gas and feeling the machine pull underneath me. Rocking my wrist back and forth, I feel the wheels spin, and I turn, racing off, propping my feet up on the footrests.
I race through the parking lot, zooming around a car and hearing it honk at me as I peel out onto the street ahead. The bike whirs under my thighs, pulsing through the handlebars and up my arms, into my chest, and in less than three seconds, everything relaxes. I lean down, at one with my line of sight, and I flex my jaw to keep the smile at bay.
The house isn’t far, and I want to do a spin to get a feel for the bike, just a basic lay of the land.
But I don’t have my license.
I need to get online, request a replacement, and see if I can print off a copy to carry with me until it comes.
I turn onto Knock Hill, fly down the street like a dart, and slide into a parking spot at the curb. Turning off the bike, I climb off and remove my helmet, noticing my bedroom on the second floor. The curtains billow in the wind pouring through the open window on the side of the house. The overhead light is on too.
Did I leave the light on?
I look both ways, seeing a barber across the street sweeping the floor of his converted-garage shop. Down the road, a woman sits at the top of her steps on a lawn chair.
The cars look the same as the ones this morning. I don’t recognize any of them.
Tightening my grip on my helmet, I stick my key between my fingers and head up the staircase to my front door. I twist the handle and push it open, angling my head to keep my ears peeled.
When I don’t hear anything, I slip inside and quietly shut the door.
I move toward the kitchen, but then, the floor above me creaks. I stop and stare at the ceiling.
Another slow step whines across the floor upstairs.
Oh, shit.
The rocking chair? No, that’s in the attic, on the third floor. The sounds are coming from my room directly above.
I hurry into the kitchen and grab a blue plastic broom just as footfalls descend closer to me. I face the living room and entryway again, rearing the broom back behind my head, but then the pantry door to my right suddenly opens, and an arm appears. I whip around and swing, but he shoots his hand out, catching the broom and glaring down at me.
“Whoa!” Hawke chides.
I expel the air in my lungs, gazing up at my cousin. His father’s azure blue eyes regard me like I’m crazy.
“Hawke?” I growl. “What the hell?”
He yanks the broom out of my hands. “Give me that.”
He reaches over, still dressed from his own school day in jeans and a brown Oxford, shirttails out. He sets the broom aside.
Of course, he’s here. I should’ve known he’d show up to check on me. His college is close.
I pull open the door to the pantry—or to what I thought was a pantry. “There are stairs here?”
