“Thank you,” I whisper.
With his hands on my shoulders, Chevy merely kisses the back of my head.
“Looks good on you again, kid,” Eli says. Cyrus nods in agreement and Mom’s eyes fill with tears. I consider reaching out and taking her hand, but Mom steps away from me as if she could read my mind and the idea of us touching, once again, repulses her.
“You guys want dinner?” Eli asks. “Name it and it’s yours.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” I blurt.
It came out so fast and loud that Eli attempts to hide a smile. “Okay.”
I walk away, no one follows and I weave through the half cubicles, then turn the corner. A uniformed police officer stands in front of the women’s bathroom, and the moment she sees me, she steps to the side.
At the far end of the three stalls, Detective Jake Barlow leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. “We don’t have much time, so let’s cut to the chase. I will protect you. From the Riot, from the Terror, from the kid in third grade who pushed you around on the playground, but the only way I can do that is if you tell me everything that is going on. I’m going to be honest, you’re a minor and I should probably have your mother in here.”
“I’m eighteen.”
He tilts his head. “That’s not what Eli said.”
“I turned eighteen the day I came home from the Riot.” I don’t blame anyone for forgetting. We’ve all been too busy cauterizing the bleeding while waltzing through a minefield.
“That changes things.”
“Can you protect my family? My mom? My brother? Because the Riot threatened them.”
“You’ve got my word. Now tell me the problem.”
“When I was alone with Justin from the Riot, he told me that it was me they wanted to talk to and that Chevy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“It’s what I thought.”
“Why?”
“You’re the wild card. Everyone else is too loyal to crack. What does the Riot want?”
My lungs can’t draw in air. “Eli.”
“How?”
“My dad was the accountant for the club and the business. The Riot want me to find account numbers. I don’t know what they’re going to do with them, but they said they’re going to make Eli look bad with them. Bad enough he’ll be sent to prison.”
“Why haven’t you told Eli? Anyone in the Terror? Why me?”
“Because the Riot have left me notes in my room at Cyrus’s cabin—in the heart of Terror territory. There is someone who slips in and out of Cyrus’s home, past prospects, past an entire clubhouse full of men, past Eli. There’s a traitor and what if I tell Eli and he trusts the wrong person? I won’t risk my family.”
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“This feud with the Riot, it has to change. It has got to end. I need it to end.”
He watches me as he processes my words. “How do you think it should end?”
“With every single member of the Riot in jail.”
The detective smiles and it could rival Pigpen’s crazy one any day. “I can’t guarantee them all, but we’ll get the main ones. Got an idea of how to do that, but it’s going to take some guts on your part. How do you feel about that?”
For the first time in weeks, like I’m alive. “Bring it.”
CHEVY
RAZOR AND I sit on stools at the clubhouse bar and we’re both working on math.
I got in from Louisville around nine and my plan to hang and talk with Violet went wayward when she packed up and headed home. A quick hug and a kiss and she told me she’d see me tomorrow.
Too jacked in the head to return to an empty condo, I stuck around here, playing pool, playing darts, watching the MMA fights with the other guys from the club, and then when Razor settled in to do his homework, I did the same.
We’ve been doing this since we were kids. Papers sprawled out along the bar during quiet weeknights. There’s a reddish glow on the pages from the neon signs on the wall, a low hum from the refrigerator that holds the longnecks, the background noise created by whatever sport is on TV, and the cracking of pool balls and murmur of low conversation that keep us company.
Back in elementary school, we were doing coloring sheets and seek-and-finds. Now Razor is working on college-level math. I do well in school, but don’t hold a candle to him in the brains department.
Razor absently rubs at a healing wound on his arm, then goes back to his pencil flying at a hundred miles per hour. Razor’s a genius at math. He’s also a genius at technology, writing programs and cracking computer code. Actual life skills that will help him in the future.
Me? Razor’s phone on the bar vibrates. He goes for it, stretching his arm, and his elbow collides with an open beer. It falls off the bar. In a second it’s in my grasp, then back near Razor and not a drop spilled. Yeah, Razor’s got brains and I’ve got fast hands.
As long as I was playing ball, there was a usefulness for my fast hands, but now, with football gone, I’m feeling lost in my purpose.
Razor blinks several times. “Reflexes of a ninja.”
I shrug and close my math book, today’s homework and most of what I missed last week now completed.
“I’m serious,” he says. “You border on superhero with how fast you can move.”
“Not like it helps me.”
Razor’s cold blue eyes flicker over my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”