“And Bellinis,” she added.
She hesitated, then climbed on behind me. Her hands hovered over my hips, as if physical contact would give her syphilis, but the second I twisted the throttle and the rear tire snapped loose in the gravel, her arms clamped around my gut like she was riding out a hurricane.
The city was empty. We cut through dead traffic lights and ran two blocks of sidewalk without seeing another living thing. Jenna’s grip never loosened. She held on like a drowning woman, fingers digging under my jacket, nails finding skin. The way she pressed her face into my shoulder, I could feel the little gasps of her breath, rapid and shallow. Under other circumstances, I might have gotten hard. Tonight, it just made me want to ride faster, to see if I could shake her off at seventy.
I took the scenic route, up past the water tower and down a switchback that overlooked the valley. I wanted her to see how far we were from help. I wanted her to feel the distance, to know that if she screamed, nothing but the coyotes would answer. When I finally slowed at the turnoff, she didn’t let go right away.
The safe house was a prefab double-wide, sagging on cinder blocks, surrounded by a weed patch and three busted Fords in various stages of cannibalization. I cut the engine and waited for Jenna to find her feet. She slid off, wobbled, and caught herself on the seat.
“Charming,” she sneered, but it was all reflex. She eyed the windows, the shadows, and realized I’d brought her somewhere where the cell coverage died at sunset.
I unlocked the door and gestured her inside.
She hesitated, just long enough to prove to herself that she had a choice, then walked in. I followed, and the door swung shut with a sound like the click of a coffin lid.
Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and the sweet-sour funk of spilled beer. The only light came from a single bare bulb, swinging gently from a cracked ceiling. The furniture was all thrift-store specials—one threadbare couch, two mismatched kitchen chairs, a table ringed with cigarette burns. I shoved the table aside and pointed her to the farthest chair.
She sat, crossing her legs. “What’s your angle, Wallace?”
I leaned against the wall, arms folded, letting the silence stretch.
“You want to rough me up? Threaten me with your biker friends? I’m not scared of you.”
I grinned. “You’re terrified.”
Her jaw clenched, and her hands went to her lap, fingers locking tight.
We stared each other down. For a minute, I saw her as she’d probably been at law school. Probably the queen bee, the one who always knew just how to twist the knife in your back and smile while she did it. She’d lost some of that now, stripped raw by whatever she’d seen in the bakery.
“I didn’t sell you out,” she said, quiet. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“That’s not how the records look,” I replied. “You were taking money from both sides.”
She looked away. “You think any of this was my idea? I was supposed to keep Bellini safe, not drag her into a gang war. They had my family, Seneca. You know what that feels like?”
I thought of my brother. “Yeah. I know.”
She laughed, brittle. “Sure you do.”
I let her sit with that. After a minute, she started to cry, silent tears leaking down her face and spotting her suit. I could have reached out, could have comforted her. I didn’t. Instead, I wentto the sink and poured two glasses of tap water. I handed one to her, and she stared at it like it was a live grenade.
“What now?” she whispered.
I shrugged. “Now we wait.”
She nodded, but there was no hope left in her eyes. She finished the water, set the glass on the table, and folded her arms over her chest.
I watched her until the bulb overhead buzzed itself out and left us in the dark.
Jenna hovered near the door, holding her purse in front of her like it might stop a bullet, or me. She took a shallow breath, probably trying not to inhale whatever died in the carpet. I watched her, silent, until the silence had the weight of a closing door.
She moved first, aiming for the armchair by the window, but I got there before her and sat on the edge of the seat, elbows on knees, hands dangling between. She hesitated, then perched on the only other chair, a folding metal thing with foam peeling from the seat.
“Talk,” I said. It came out more bored than angry. My adrenaline was spent. My nerves had been peeled to wire, and now I just wanted the story.
She started with her hands, rubbing them, twisting the rings, checking for cuts that weren’t there. “I was coming to warn her,” she said, voice tight. “I knew they’d go for Bellini next, after the house thing failed.”
I let her talk. She needed to talk.
