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Chapter One

June

They know what you saw.

I hold that note, stare at it, while goosebumps form on my skin, making my arms look like I have scales. A drop of sweat forms at the base of my neck and runs a little rivulet down my back, leaving a cold, wet trail.

What I saw flashes through my mind. A man’s body, a pool of that man’s blood, a man’s face, cold and gray with part of its skull missing and this look that — when the man was alive, may have been a cry for help — but the way his mouth opened in death it looked almost like a laugh.

That dead man is going to get me killed.

I crumple the note, shove it into my pocket, and realize crumpling it isn’t enough of a rejection. I rip it into the smallest shreds and hurl it into the grass outside my small walk-up studio apartment. My not-so-safe house, now, considering that note.

I open the door and go inside.

It’s not fancy. A studio apartment, with a bed against the far wall, an okay kitchen with a stove, dishwasher — thank god — microwave, decent counter space, and a nondescript black coffee maker. On the counter there’s a small duffel bag with a glittery note attached to it that says “For June, Welcome to your New Home,” which must be some gifts from the club’s ol’ ladies.

Probably Riley’s idea. Or Molly’s.

But whoever’s idea it is, I hope Alessia’s put a few things in there. That woman has style and money to burn.

I let myself indulge in a momentary fantasy of opening the duffel bag and finding a Hermès anything in there.

Probably not.

But once I get my life together, I can buy my own ridiculously overpriced French goods.

There’s a large flat-screen TV mounted to the wall, along with a comfortable-looking sofa. Through the open window into the bathroom, I see I have a combination shower-bathtub.

I stand in the doorway for a moment and soak it in.

For now, this is home.

My home.

Thanks to my brother and the MC.

This is where I’m going to get my life back together. Become someone who doesn’t mooch off her brother or his motorcycle club for a home, or money, or anything at all. And with the Sons of Sorrow chased out of town, I can finally do that.

“What’s the first thing a responsible person would do?” I say aloud, realizing that might be the first time in my life that I’ve ever asked myself that question.

And I answer it by turning on the TV.

To a cooking channel.

Because there’s no time like the present to learn some new skills.

Though at the moment, it’s not so much educational as it is watching some guy named Guy and with a head of spiky frosted hair and a bright red convertible and a shirt with flames on it zip around to a bunch of dive bars and eat over-the-top cheeseburgers while moaning.

“Is this what responsibility is like?”

The Guy on the TV doesn’t answer, except to invite me to join him in Flavor Town, which to me just sounds like a poorly coded request for a blowjob.

“No, not right now,” I say as I sort through the refrigerator, which has been stocked with all sorts of responsible adult foods, like fruits, vegetables, butter, cheese, eggs, milk — maybe I’ll take up baking, that seems like an adult hobby — yogurt, and granola and everything that I’m going to learn how to combine into meals once the man with frosted tips is done screaming at me about nachos.

But he isn’t.

One show bleeds into another and he’s fronting all of them — he’s popular — and by the time I finish unpacking and settling into my new home, it’s the responsible adult bedtime of 10 pm. So I make myself a cup of chamomile tea, then brush my teeth, set my alarm, and resolve that tomorrow, my life as a functioning adult begins.