“The Kings were approached by someone the other week, wanting to rent out one of our warehouses outside of the city,” he says, brows raised as if to ask whether this information is of interest.
“Who was it?” I ask, sitting back in my chair, the slight creaking filling the silence.
“I don’t know. I’d never seen him before.” Regret flashes over his features.
“Come on, Michael. I know you’re not stupid enough not to get a name.”
“The warehouse wasn’t for rent. It’s where we store our own supplies. I didn’t get a name because there was no discussion to be had,” he says plainly. If this wasn’t the only lead we had, I’d have him taken in for insubordination.
“You have forty-eight hours, Michael. Get me a name or end up like Gunnar.” I run my finger around the rim of my empty glass.
“Understood,” Michael replies with a firm nod. He knows my threat is not an empty one.
“I want all resources on this. You have a week to find out who’s taking these girls,” I tell the room.
Trip and Tank take out their phones and tap away. Ivan makes notes on his paper, snapping a picture of the Polaroid in the middle of the table.
I stand up and walk towards the door, pausing before I open it. “Nothing happens in this fucking city unless I’m aware of it. Do I make myself clear?”
Twenty
Kat
Pretend We’re Dead – L7
The back porch of The Ground always smells like old wood and whatever cleaner Kaycee panic-uses for the floor. The sound of cars driving by and the occasional honking of horns ruins my peace. It’s been another busy day—my feet ache, and I have two new burns on my hand from that cursed toaster oven. The small wound on my palm from the guitar string incident is almost healed, although not without Luca getting a few jabs in about safe guitar restringing.
I sit on the top step, my hand toying with the necklace at my throat and my phone facedown beside me. A small chill works its way up my spine. In my rush to get to work this morning, I forgot my jacket, and with the early evening air starting to cool, it seeps into my bones. I always try to take my break at this time whenever I can—when it’s not quite night, not quite day, everything seeming calmer.
My fingers brush over my lips. I swear I can still taste Elias on them. It’s been a week since I walked out of Headstone while his back was turned—a split-second decision, but I’m still considering whether or not it was the right one. Either way, I feel like a fucking coward.
We had a gig at Headstone the other night. I silently hoped Elias would be there so I could apologize… and hopefullypick up where we left off. But he wasn’t. There was no sign of him anywhere. It’s probably for the best, my life isn’t exactly the safest place for other people to step foot in, and I didn’t leave everything behind just to drag someone else into the shit.
Although I can’t help but wonder—am I the danger, or is it Elias?
The way he spoke to Cain still sends chills down my spine. But what surprised me more was that I didn’t feel small or defenseless in that moment. I felt safe. Which is crazy considering how utterly intimidating he is. Not just to me, but to everyone around him.
I look down and realize I’ve been absentmindedly running my fingers over my scars. The raised white and purple lines are always more prominent in cold or hot weather. It’s been one hundred and ninety-two days since I’ve added a fresh one—I feel pretty proud of myself for that.
Pulling my sleeve down, I exhale through my nose and lean back on my hands, staring out at the parking lot across the street. I watch as a couple walk towards their car while holding hands. Such a simple scene, yet it hits me right in the heart.
Will I ever have that?
I let my head drop back, eyes on the washed-out blue of the sky that means the sun is making its slow descent, marking the end of yet another day.
The porch door creaks open behind me.
I don’t turn straightaway. I know who it is. This place has a rhythm to it, and my best friend stomping out the back of the building always sounds the same.
“Why do men,” Harper says, slamming the door shut behind her, “exist?”
I snort, despite the angry tone in her voice, and glance back at her. “Strong opening statement, Harp.”
She flops down beside me, her shoulder knocking into mine. She smells like coffee grounds and that cheap vanilla body spray that she’s been trying to get me to use for the last year.
“Nathan isn’t answering my calls,” she says with a resounding sigh. “Or texts. He hasn’t even done the thing where he reacts to my message four hours later.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” I offer with a slight shrug.