Page 360

Fucking Beckett.

I turn onto a narrower street lined with old warehouses and garages. Smoke's place is near the end. The sign over the building is simple. No flashy logo. Nothing trying too hard.

Three garage bays.

Brick and black metal.

A handful of vehicles parked outside, including two motorcycles.

I scan everything before I pull in. Nothing looks wrong. But that doesn't mean shit.

I park near the office.

Callie reaches for the door as soon as I cut the engine.

“Wait.”

Her hand stops.

I scan the street again. Same delivery van two buildings down. A woman crossing the sidewalk. A pickup at the light. No one sits in a parked vehicle, watching us.

“Okay.”

Callie gets out.

She doesn't complain. Doesn't roll her eyes. Just waits beside the truck until I come around.

I notice.

I notice everything she does now.

That's becoming a fucking problem.

We head inside. The garage smells like oil, rubber, and metal. Music plays somewhere in the back. An impact wrench rattles against the concrete floor. A man slides out from beneath a black motorcycle as we walk through the open bay.

He gets to his feet. Tall, muscular, tattooed from his wrists to somewhere beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

Smoke.

He wipes his hands on a rag. His eyes go to Callie first, then me. “What the fuck?”

Callie smiles. “Hi.”

His gaze stays on me. “Who's this?”

“Roman.”

He tosses the rag onto a workbench. His eyes move over me in the same way mine moved over him, assessing my size, hands, and stance to determine if I’m a threat.

I almost like him.

Then he looks at Callie. “Why are you here?”

Her smile fades. “We need to talk.”

Something in her voice changes his expression.

Smoke looks past us toward the street, then jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “My office.”