“Day’s off to a great start!” I mumble to myself. Or to Kit, I guess.
Kit laughs. “You’re telling me. I feel like I’m losing my mind a little.”
I lift my head half an inch. “Whaddya mean?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head a little and turns his coffee around in his fingers. “Just…you know the bath mat, upstairs?”
“Sure.” I’m acquainted with it, I guess. I frown. “What about it?”
“Has it…always been white?”
CHAPTER 8
TINK
In and out.In and out.
I repeat it like a mantra as we tear up the 303. A reminder for my own breathing, and also for how he needs to handle this. No showboating, no peacocking, no strolling around the neighborhood just because—that’s what he’d do if I weren’t here, I’m sure of it, and I’m keeping him out of any and all trouble, no matter the cost.
It’s already cost me my beach day.
I breathe behind my helmet and shake my head.
In and out. In and fucking out, Pan.
It’s a beautiful day in London Valley: sunshine, warm air, blue skies, and green lawns—at least in the rich part of town where everyone runs sprinklers 24/7, which we’re riding straight past. But if you do exit here, take the coastal road for a few miles…suddenly you’re there, sand and surf and sun.Sun, sun on my face, sun on my skin,allof my skin.
I needed that. I still do. More than ever given how my night ended?—
What the fuck are you even doing down here? It’s three in the fucking morning.
But I can’t have it.
Tink can’t have it.
We keep riding south, way south, me zigzagging after Pan, him darting between vehicles, leaning hard into turns, shirt flapping with no jacket to pin it down. Ten, twenty, maybe thirty miles over the limit, whatever.
It’s better that way, I tell myself as we exit for Cottage Grove, the main road through Kensington. Being out, in the real world, as a girl was a risk no matter what. Better not to tempt fate after that close call with Blue—not that I think he suspected. Just…pissed at getting interrupted. Pissed at a dickhead roommate.
Pissed, generally. Which is Blue all over.
The sun glares as we turn, bouncing off of aluminum roofs and heat-slick street tar. Kensington is the opposite of the Hills. It’s as about as sketchy as the Strip, just more residential. Fox is here a lot, finding bikes. Me and Pan have the occasional drop or pickup. But it’s mostly just houses.
And lots of houses like the one we stop in front of.
It’s unremarkable, a little gray bungalow with a pebble front yard, dying palm tree, and cracked sidewalks. Blinds down. Far cry from a real casino, but it’s where real money can be made.
Or lost, in Pan’s case.
Mike and JD’s. Where, supposedly, Pan’s going to get his jacket back for way less than he owes.
Pan dismounts in a flash and cocks his head to the side. “Hmm.” He folds his arms, studying the place. “You think anyone’s home?”
He glances sideways at me. I shrug, look around to see if the coast is clear—no one outside, but we’re wall-to-wall with neighbors, any one of whom could see us and know we don’t belong here. But before I can even turn all the way back, he’s on the move again.
“Yo,” I call, jogging to him. “Wait up. You can’t just walk in?—”
“Why not?” Pan raps a knuckle against the door as he turns the knob—locked. “Hey, anyone home?”
