Sure.
But I never get sick and losing the instant noodles I ate on the boat turns me inside out.
I come upright slowly, rubbing my hollow stomach as I lean heavily on the sink, throat scraped raw. That Skylar has done this to himself since he was barely older than I was the first time Jack’s mere presence set me alight—it guts me. The Ankow feels too close for comfort, and I fight the urge to chase after Jack and fold myself into the strongest arms I’ve ever known.
No.
You can’t have that.
Not yet.
The sickness ebbs. I clean up and drag myself back to my bedroom. Throw on more clothes. Pocket my phone. Leave without saying goodbye, but my heart…it stays where it’s always been—with Jack. Whether I’m whole enough to earn him or not.
I take my junky old car and go looking for my dad. Betting shops. Pubs, Illegal fight clubs. The only place I don’t bother searching is the greyhound track because however low Dav’s sunk this time, I know he’ll off himself before he funds a dog race.
My search takes me all over northern Cornwall. It’s afternoon when the pawn shop in Jersey calls to say they’ve sold the latest stripped parts from theSirona. Legal funds, but I feel like a crook as I roll through the bank and draw it all out.
I need it gone before I find Dav, but I don’t feel like talking to Cam again. So I call a different number instead and drive halfway to Devon to wait in a lay-by for River O’Brian.
Who doesn’t show.
Half an hour later, Saint Malone does instead. He rolls up on a motorbike as old as theSironaand flips his visor, clocking the crisp white envelope in my hand before I think to hide it. Not that there’s much point trying to hide anything from Saint. He’s always looked at me like he can see my DNA through my skin. At least when he’s not being salty that I fucked Cam before he did.
Saint kills his engine. Sudden quiet descends on the dark country lane, deserted even by rural Cornwall’s standards, but I gave up being intimidated by Cam’s lethal wingman years ago.
I stand my ground, leaning against my car.
He stays on his bike and inclines his head at the envelope.
“For the copper my dad stole,” I say.
Saint just stares and uncharacteristic irritation lashes through me.
“That’s right, I’m going to pay it off so you can stop chasing him, okay? I know he deserves it, but my mum doesn’t.”
More silence.
Then Saint rolls off his bike and comes to stand a few feet away from me in the murky gloom, steam rising from the Harley behind him. He’s not as tall as Cam or Jack. As brawny or built. We’re about the same size, but he seems bigger as eyes a darker shade of green than Jack’s appraise me.
“Why did you thump him?” I try again. “Cam promised he wouldn’t.”
“Cam didn’t.”
“But you did?”
Saint doesn’t deny it. But it’s not an admission either. He doesn’t speak much. I’ve never known why. Just that his quiet nature is probably why he and Mal are friends.
“Here.” I thrust the cash-stuffed envelope at him. “It might not be enough, but I can get more.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean,why?”
More silence, but I can see Saint working up to say something, and so I wait.
“You keep paying, he doesn’t stop,” he says eventually.
“He’s not going to stop if I don’t. You’ll just kill him.”