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“It’s heads up,” she hissed. “Do you know what that means?”

“That you are about to be run over.”

“It means luck.”

“Luck is what people call a plan they have not made.”

“You’re no fun.”

I did not release her shirt. I steered her toward the entrance, past the shopping carts rattling in their rows, through the doors that slid apart on a blast of cold, bright air. Fluorescent light. The smell of floor polish and popcorn and fresh bread. Somewhere a speaker announced a price on something I did not hear.

She was mumbling beneath her breath.

“Heads up. Good luck. Can’t just leave luck on the ground. Somebody else is going to get my luck.”

I lowered my cap another inch and counted the cameras.

She suddenly grabbed my arm.

“Oh, wait. Walmart is on the boycott list. They don't treat their staff or their customers well,” she said, placing both hands around my arm. “Did you know they used to take out life insurance policies on their staff and have themselves as the beneficiaries?”

For fuck’s sake. What were kids learning these days? I killed people for money. It had never occurred to me to file the paperwork.

“They called it dead peasant insurance.”

I sighed and we turned around.

She leaned close enough for me to feel her warmth.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Her arm tightened around mine. It felt nice.

Chapter 15

Zuri

The new motel was a definite upgrade. It sat close to the interstate, and the hum of the traffic outside was steady and oddly soothing. No flashing lights, thin curtains or random stains. The room smelled of lemon cleaner and fresh laundry, and the air conditioning breathed cool across my arms. There was an actual bathtub. I did raise my eyebrows when I saw that there was only one bed.

I couldn’t even be mad at him. He had taken me to a few different places, all small independent stores, after I explained, with a passion that startled us both, why a Black-owned beauty supply mattered more than a big-box bargain. He had paid for everything in cash and said nothing. It made me realise just how careful he was.

He was part of a world I never thought I would clash with. We had long left Texas, but he was still hypervigilant. The man was intimate with death, so why did my life matter to him?

I set the bags on the desk. Plastic rustled. Inside were jars of shea butter and a wide-toothed comb, a satin-lined cap I had held up like a trophy, a bundle of new underwear, a toothbrush still in its packet. A good toothbrush. I had asked for it, and he had bought it without a word.

I had tried everything to get a reaction out of him today. I had sung. I had asked his favourite colour (nothing), his favourite food (a very long pause, then “bread”), whether he had siblings (a door closing so fast I felt the draught). The only trigger he had was when he thought I was being reckless. But he never once lost his temper.

“I am tying you to the bed tonight,” he muttered behind me.

My stomach flipped, and not with fear. I rolled my eyes to cover it. That was not quite the threat he thought it was.

“Okay.”

He practically stomped back out, slamming the door behind him. The little room shook. I rushed to the window and peeled the curtain back an inch. Dusk had smudged the car park to grey and amber, and the lamps flickered on one by one.

He was crossing it with that long, even stride. The heavy boots were gone. I could almost hear the leather shoes tapping the ground, and the way his coat flapped, heavier on one side with the grenade, lighter without it.

He glanced around the car park, left, right, and left again.