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“There’s not, is there.” The evil fucker crosses the room toward us, hands clasped before him. “See, my little doll told me one other thing before I rewarded her with a break.” His dark eyes lift to ours in turn. “The woman I seek is with you.”
Time slows when your brain perceives a threat to your safety. Replay the incident in your mind afterward, and it’ll seem like a fucking blink in life’s storyline. As fast as clapping your hands together. But in the moment, you see and hear it all.
The rhythmic thunk of a printing press. The scrape of paper across rollers. The labored breaths of a man lifting stacks of paper into the guillotine. Six soldiers on duty, four with their hands resting near the trigger. Two with knives on clear display. The way Luka’s tongue wets his lips. An industrial lightbulb swinging on a chain from the rafters teen feet overhead.
The eighteen steps it will take to make it to the exit behind me.
The three men I’ll need to get past to take the one to my left.
The way Minion’s shoulders roll back before he says, “Kill us now, and you’ll never find her.”
29
RAE
How Tyke makeshead or tails of the diabolical mess on his laptop, I don't know. It took a good twenty minutes just to find all the documents with 'minutes' in the name and dump them into a folder. Downloaded bank statements, images of bikes—both new and wrecked—and most interesting of all, a document with Creed in the title. My finger hovers over the trackpad, mind doing the math. Will he know if I've opened it?Of course, you dipshit.The file date will show when it was last opened.Was this a test?
"How you gettin' on?"
I drag air into my lungs on a sharp inhale, a bead of sweat threatening to form on my heated brow. "Yeah. Okay." I pretend to be busy moving a file around, making sure the trackpad clicks and my finger moves even though all I do is draw little selection squares on the desktop.
Tyke approaches, hair messed up more than it was when he left, a tight knot between his eyebrows. Wherever he's been, it doesn't look to have been good. I peer over the lip of the screen at how the denim pulls taut across his hips as he moves, the carefree way his boots hang loose around his ankles, zipperhalfway undone. It's as though he's got one foot ready to ride and the other still in bed.
It's oddly arousing. A strangely boyish charm for someone his age.Not that I know his age…
"Any questions?" Tyke lifts his chin, tired eyes fixed on my hands.
I open the folder I created for the minutes and sort it by the date created when he rounds where I’ve relocated to at the desk. "I put everything with the same name, like these, into folders. But there's a lot I don't know if you need to keep or if it can be trashed."
"Like what?" He sets one hand on the back of my seat, the other on the desk, and leans in to look at the screen.
It takes over half my damn brain power to remember how to breathe.He's your fucking best friend's father, Rae."Like these images." I quickly switch to the folder with pictures of odd things like parts—similar to those Digger and I sorted—close-ups of serial numbers, and random urban landscapes. "Are they still relevant, or do they need sorting by date or subject?" I sigh. "There's just a lot I don't know, Tyke."
He swallows audibly. "Nobody ever knew anythin’ by not askin’.”
I chuckle. "Yeah, but I havea lotof questions."
He straightens with a sigh, still close enough that lifting my elbow would enable me to touch his leg. "How long do you think it would take for you to go through all this with someone? To sort the pointless shit from the stuff I need?"
"I don't know." I shrug. "An hour. Maybe two?"
He sighs through his nose. "I'll get Kane to help you." He glances down when I don't say anything. Don't move. "My son. He was talkin’ to you earlier at the bar."
I glance toward the door—a habit I seem to have developed for when I feel the need to reassure myself that I can leave any time I need—and nod. "Yeah. I know who you mean.”
"Is that okay?" He folds his arms, eyes narrowed.
"It's your club." I force a smile. The muscles protest. "I'll do whatever you like."
His nostrils flare, gaze flicking from one of my eyes to the other and then down to my lap. The furrow in his brow deepens a little, and then he's planting his ass in the chair that I should still have my foot elevated on, leaning his bulk on his elbow braced atop one knee. "Why'd you pick us?"
I stare at the laptop as the screen goes black. "Pardon?"
"Why come to the club for help?" he repeats. “If you’re worried about breakin’ probation, why choose us to take care of you? Where's your momma, Rae? Your daddy?"
As good as dead.“Like I said, we don't talk much anymore." The reply comes out monotone, yet I congratulate myself for managing to say it without wanting to cry.
It's only taken a year to get to that point.
