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“Me too.” Jules places her purse on the dining room table and leans down to remove her ballet flats, her every movement fluid and graceful. Like a ballerina. When she stands, shoes in her left hand, I don’t miss the quick tap, tap, tap of her right-hand fingers on her thigh.
“She’ll be fine.” I shrug and make for the door again.
“Where are you going?”
I spin a quick circle, shooting Cat a wink. “Out.”
“Where?” she asks, her green eyes filled with concern. “Don’t you think we should be here tonight? For Toni?”
“I’ll be right back,” I insist. “I have something I need to do.” Before she can say more, I skip through the door, letting it shut with a gentle slap behind me.
***
The drive to Rye’stakes me twenty-five minutes against traffic, but by the time I pull into a parallel spot just opposite the shop, I can see that he’s closed for the night. The squat, red-brick building has been locked up and the garage doors rolled down to the pavement, protecting the expensive motorbikes and machinery inside.
The slice of the Historic South-Central neighborhood that Rye lives in isn’t much to write home about. Tired, single-story warehouse buildings line either side of the two-way street, housing everything from a boxing gym to a dog rescue. Like most parts of Los Angeles, the gray asphalt of the road spills seamlessly into the gray concrete of the sidewalk, the strange monotony only occasionally interrupted by a tree sapling with the audacity to boast a few green leaves.
Everything is tired and sagging.
An overhead electric transmission line scoops dangerously low as if hanging in wait for a vehicle with just the right clearance to rip it from its grim existence. A multitude of other cables crisscross each other, pairs of lace-bound shoes dangling in no particular order over them, forming what could pass as an avant-garde art installation down the entire street. In the distance to the north, the high rises of downtown LA emerge like fingertips stretching out from a grave.
Other than the grumbled complaints of the Thursday night traffic, it’s quiet. I don’t press the buzzer on the grated door for a full three minutes. I just stand there in the heat and rehearse what I’m going to say. Rye has always had a particular knack for knowing when I’m spouting bullshit, and now, when everything is at stake, I need to be more careful than ever. Everybody has a line they won’t cross, a point where they won’t defend youfrom the consequences of your actions—and tonight, I need to sidestep Rye’s.
With one last deep breath to steel my nerves, I hold the buzzer down and listen as it ricochets through the garage. The shrill sound of it is like acid on my raw nerves, but I don’t turn and run or hide behind the nearest trash can like I want to. I stand and wait until Rye’s booted footfall sounds in the hall.
“Who is it?”
“Hey, it’s me,” I reply. Rye has known me since I was nine—since he was nineteen. He knows almost everything about me. Unfortunately, that’s my problem in this one instance.
The sound of the dead bolt unlatching has me hiding my thoughts with a calm, casual smile. When the door swings open, I see Rye, standing inside, his lean, rangy frame silhouetted by the dim, interior light. He’s wearing his signature dark blue work jeans, the knees and back right pocket where he puts his wallet faded from wear, and a black T-shirt. His dirty-blond hair is pulled into a short bun at the back of his neck that I should hate, but don’t.
There are no fluttering heart palpitations or racing pulse. Not anymore. Just a deep sense of being exactly where I’m meant to be.
“Everything okay?”
I take my time answering. This isn’t a random cop or one of the girls. This is Rye. So, I think about what I’m feeling. But all I can come up with is, “Elizabeth is dead.”
There’s a drop in time, one perfect moment where we stand and look at each other without saying anything. Then Rye shakes his head, his eyes never leaving my face. “YourElizabeth? Elizabeth with the…” he rubs a hand over his head, trying to find the right word.
“Pixie cut.” I step inside and walk down the long, dark hallway to his private residence.
Rye’s entire life is contained within the four thousand-square-foot motorbike garage. The building is one rectangle, segmented into four main areas around an interior courtyard. The street-facing front with the double garage doors opens to his workshop, the literal space where he repairs and customizes motorcycles. A little office sits off the side of the shop. And the rest of the space, maybe twelve-hundred-square feet total is split almost equally between his bedroom and living area.
His home is nothing fancy. But Rye keeps the space in meticulous order, so that once you’ve gotten over the shock of the lifestyle, you start to appreciate the simplicity of it all. There’s no décor, no photographs, no gold-rimmed bar carts or antiqueVictrolason display. Just American-made, sturdy crap and a healthy love for order.
Seeing his open beer on the counter, I pick up the bottle and take a long swig. The cold liquid soothes my tear-locked throat, giving me ample distraction from talking about Lizzie.
Rye doesn’t say anything. He comes fully into the room and goes straight to the fridge to get another drink. He pops the top with a practiced flick of his wrist and then nods in the direction of the courtyard before walking away.
I follow without comment.
The interior courtyard, warmed by the Los Angeles sun, is bright and cheery. Rye’s homemade bar nestles in the shade of the far corner, an oddly specific collection of his favorite spirits on display in the mini fridge on the back bar. A small table and four chairs claim the center of the concrete floor. Carefully tended plants in mismatchedpots occupy random spaces but still somehow manage to look unified. White fairy lights, left in place by the previous tenant, are strung along the tops of the interior walls.
It's nice, this space of his. It’s familiar when life is not.
I take the chair opposite Rye and sip my beer while he settles in, crossing one booted ankle over his knee. The silence is comfortable but also full and heavy in the way of friends waiting for the inevitable.
Rye doesn’t speak. He just quietly waits.
