If I wasn’t hyperaware of holding onto him before, I am now. He’s solid, hefeelssolid in this way you don’t just get from looking at him. Warm, steady, inhales and exhales moving at what feels like half-time compared to mine.
I relax,tryto relax, and pace my breathing to his. Normal, chill, alert but calm the way you have to be on a bike.
Or when you’re a Lost Boy, period.
I breathe in again and this time the smell isn’t Marina but cotton and sweat.
Better. Human. Grounded.
I don’t realize we’ve zipped around the casino until it’s already behind us.
“Aw, fuck.”
Pan’s two blocks ahead of us, zigged and zagged up a side street to a stop, the end of his words muffled as he shucks off his helmet. Blue and Kit zip in neatly after him as Fox revs up the last incline, taking in whatever’s on the other side of the swell of the hill—and whatever it is, I can’t see it past him.
But I can hear his reaction: “Damn.”
I remember to let go. Get off the bike, take off my own helmet, survey what we’re dealing with: a long, rectangular building, almost like a warehouse, with 3D letters that readIGER LILY KICKBOXING + FITNESS above a series of giant windows that seem to roll down like garage doors.
Orwould, I guess, if they weren’t smashed to smithereens all over the sidewalk.
Pan sidles off his bike, eyes wide, and rubs his jaw. “Well. Well, well, well.”
“Damn,” Fox mutters again, popping off his own helmet to stare. “Did we miss an earthquake?”
I catch Pan rolling his eyes at Fox as I leave my helmet on the seat.
“Don’t be stupid,” Pan scoffs. “This is…” He folds his arms, gestures vaguely.
“A goddamn mess.” Blue hasn’t even dismounted. The reflection of the broken glass glitters in the sheen of his visor as he turns to Pan.
Kit cocks his head at both of them, helmet off. “So, is she here, or do we?—”
An angry,femalecry from inside the gym cuts him off.
“Baba!”
“…never mind,” Kit mutters.
I don’t know what I was expecting for the daughter of an Albanian gangster. But Zusanna doesn’t so much exit her gym as fires out of it like a cannonball. All in black, tank top to leggings to sneakers, her dark hair in twin French braids, andfurious.
Seeing us, she skids to a halt.
“Who are you?” She frowns. She’s about my age, maybe early twenties, but short, much shorter than I am, although I wouldn’t call her petite. More…strong. “What you doing here with bikes and stupid hair?”
“What amIdoing here?” Pan says. “What areyoudoing here?”
“Me?” Zusanna cries. “This ismygym!”
“Wasyour gym,” Fox mutters, and I have to flatten out the smile that’s threatening on my face. Because Zusanna ispissed.
“No, I mean—” Pan shakes his fire-engine head. “You were supposed to be…kidnapped, or being held hostage, or something.”
Zusanna’s bold brows go together. “Kidnapped? Who would…oh, wait. No.” Her face falls, and she shakes her head. “No, no, no, no, no. I’m going to kill him.Baba!” She wails up at the sky, and then, from some hidden pocket in her leggings, whips out a phone and swipes it open.
“Easy.” A tattooed arm arcs over her shoulder—not Pan, but Blue—and plucks the phone out of her hands. “Catch your breath.” Quick as a flash, he tosses the phone sideways to Pan, who hot-potatoes it over tome,and I manage to catch it just in time.
“Easy?!” Zusanna looks ready to sock him. Maybe Pan, too. Her dark eyes are so narrow they’re practically twitching, her eyebrows still knit together and her lips bunched.
