Lennox

by Dallas Cole

  Mama’s inner sanctum is an even swankier version of the pub below. Mahogany and leather and brass, with a private pool table and bar. Men and women both hang out on leather couches, working through log books and studying documents that I don’t want to look at too closely. And overseeing it all is Mama, her booted feet crossed and propped up on top of a carved wooden desk while she clenches a cigar.

  “How’s it goin’, Serena?” Rory greets one of the women on the couches. Serena doesn’t exactly look like a typical gun moll—she’s trim, Hispanic, wearing designer jeans and a tweedy blazer—but Rory yanks her off the couch and grabs at her ass like she was a piece of eye candy. “You never called me last night.”

  Serena cringes as he pulls her closer, but forces herself to smile. “So sorry, Rory. Mama had me working late.”

  Rory laughs, his upper lip curling back. “Next time you want to put in some long hours, baby, you let me know.”

  Her giggle is high-pitched, hysterical. Rory releases her and she sinks gratefully back into the couch. I unwind the fists I didn’t realize I’d clenched. Not my place. If my new business partners want to be disgusting pigs, it’s not my place to stop them.

  “Mama.” Rory sidles up to the desk, stopping just short of its raised platform. “Lennox here is ready to talk about strengthening our bond.”

  I offer Mama a deferential bow of the head, but her expression is unflinching. Hard gray eyes stare through me as she takes another draw on her cigar. Her red and gray-flecked hair is worked into a loose braid that trails over one shoulder. She’s a meaty, stocky woman, built like a bear, or maybe a bulldog. Her hardened face isn’t so much ugly as it is just intimidating. She doesn’t want to be found beautiful. She wants to be feared.

  It’s working pretty well.

  Finally, she jerks her chin down—approving? She snaps her fingers, and as one, everyone else in the private office stands and shuffles off. I’m left alone with Mama and Rory.

  “Lennox Solt, right?” She swings her boots off the edge of the desk and leans forward. “You did some fine driving for us the other night.” A wisp of smoke curls around her face. “Shame you let that Drazic boy beat your arse.”

  I set my jaw. “I had it coming.”

  “Hm. Yeah, that’s what I hear.” She watches me a minute longer. So she knows about the wreck. But if she has an opinion on it, she doesn’t seem interested in offering it. That’s a nice change.

  “I made a big mistake,” I say, thinking of Elena’s words to me after the race. “I paid the price. No one else in the county will even give me the time of day, thanks to Alexander Cartwright.”

  “Ugh. Cartwright.” Mama sneers as she taps off a chunk of ash. “God in heaven, what a prick. Thinks he owns the whole damn mountain.”

  I let myself smile faintly at that.

  “He tried to run for city councilor a while back, you know.”

  I nod. “I remember all too well.” I’d spent far too many weekends helping Amber campaign. That sleazy black-and-white headshot of Mister Cartwright, grinning at us from every sign and button, still haunts my nightmares.

  “Yeah, I had to put an end to that. He can keep his company. But this city’s mine.”

  I straighten up at that. I knew Mama was powerful, but throwing elections is a whole new level. I’m a little impressed. And also more afraid than I already was.

  “Anyhow, Cartwright’s doing his best to keep me out of honest work. Other honest work,” I correct myself. “So I figure I owe you plenty just for ignoring him.”

  Mama’s mouth scrunches to one side. “The way I hear it, you saved my boy’s life on the inside.”

  I flinch. “It wasn’t so dramatic as all that.”

  “No?” She raises her eyebrows. “I hear about how those skinheads can be in there. They all think if a good Irish boy isn’t with ‘em, then he must be against ‘em.” She takes another drag from her cigar. “But you set ‘em straight.”

  I remember the fight more than I’d like. It was just after Amber had dumped me for good. Truthfully, I was all too eager to find a face, any face, that I could put my fist through. Sean was a good guy, though. One of the best I’d known inside. He didn’t deserve the skinheads’ shit just for being friends with the likes of me, Neshaun, and Paolo. I reach up and scratch my chin, feeling the hook-shaped scar beneath my stubble. “I just did what was right.”

  “No. No, no.” She shakes her head. “I mean, I appreciate you thinking that way. But what I’m looking for—what I’m really looking for—is loyalty. Loyalty means a hell of a lot more to me than justice.”

  I can’t stop the bitter laugh from ripping out of me. “Believe me, ma’am. I am loyal to a fault.”

  The Cartwrights. Grams. And in the darkest corners of my heart, even after all I’ve tried to shake it out, Elena.

  I made her a promise that one day I’d be deserving—that one day I’d be hers. I don’t think I’ll ever be the man she deserves, the sort of man who can keep that promise to her. But damn it if I’m not stupid enough to try.

  Mama’s smile is slow, curling like smoke on her lips. “Well, then, Lennox. Let’s put that to the test.”

  Oh, no. Here it is. The path I feared the McManuses would lead me down. One that only pulls me further away from Elena and the promise I made.

  Mama shuffles through a few loose pieces of paper on her desk, eyebrows furrowed, then fishes out whatever it is she’s looking for with a grin. “Here we are. My guy out in Eagleview.”

  “Your guy?” I ask, though I already know. Eagleview’s an infamous trailer park down on the desert’s edge. Every couple of months, some dumbass meth-head or another blows up their trailer trying to cook, or starts a fire in their hydroponic weed garden.

  “That’s right.” She meets my gaze like a challenge. “He’s got some things I want brought down to another friend of the family in Taos. This gal. Ain’t she a cutie? Looks like your average yuppie college student, huh?” Mama shoves a picture at me of a sweet, fresh-faced blonde girl. But I know what a real addict looks like—the hollows beneath her eyes, the sweater she’s wearing to hide the marks on her arms. If this girl is a dealer for Mama, then she has a bad habit of sampling the product.

  “And these ‘things’ . . .” I look away. “The kind of things I’m better off not knowing about, right?”

  “Attaboy.” She puffs her cigar again. “Worth their weight in gold down there. Everyone wants their fucking spirit journey.”

  I grimace.

  “I need you to drive smart, not just fast. Be quick, but not so much you snag the cops’ interest. I don’t like testing the loyalties of my boys in blue. Best not to lean on them when I don’t absolutely have to.”

  Translation: I’m not worth the effort for her yet. “Understood, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am.” She snorts. “Yeah. Right. You’re a real gentleman.”

  I can’t tell from her tone if she’s mocking me or not. “My grams raised me that way.”

  “You’re not afraid to show a woman some respect. I like that.” She jabs the cigar toward me. “I’m of a mind to respect you back. But I’m afraid I can’t afford it. Not yet. Not until you prove yourself.”

  Prove that I’ll do illegal things for Mama. Prove that I can keep my mouth shut and drive smart and not ask questions. All while not tipping my parole officer off as to what I’m up to. Great.

  “So until that time . . . Rory’s gonna go with you, too.”

  She flicks her hand toward her son. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet over there, but when I look toward him, he’s the same slick, psychotic charmer who kicked my ass at pool. I shudder to think how this conversation might have gone if I’d have won.

  “Sounds great. We’ll have a nice little road trip,” I tell him. “Just tell me when and where, ma’am.”

  “Don’t worry. When it’s time, I’ll let you know.”

  I swallow. But it’s not like I have a choice—this is the only life left for me. Not the lif
e I’d dreamed of when I made that promise to Elena four years ago. That life isn’t an option for me. Not anymore.

  Chapter Eight

  Elena

  I slide under the Mitsubishi with a huge grin on my face. I’d never before appreciated the noise-cancelling qualities of a two-ton hunk of plastic and steel, but down here, I can barely hear Jagger’s pitiful attempts to rap along to Kanye. It’s just me and Jagger’s car now, the rest of the world lost to me. I check the transmission lines—solid. Alignment’s a little wonky, but I can bring it into shape in no time. After the circuit last month and the practice time we’ve been logging, I’d say he’s been treating it pretty well. Wish I could say the same for his girlfriends.

  I slide back out from under the Mitsubishi and slot my tools back in my kit. “Looking pretty good,” I tell him, waving him over. “Should be cleared for the circuit trials next week.”

  “You’re a goddess and I worship at your feet.” Jagger pops his shades on top of his head and surveys his baby. “Now, if I can just pick up some speed on the straightaways . . .”

  “That’s between you and the pedals, man. Nothing I can do for you there.” I shrug, and stuff an oil-stained rag in the back pocket of my jeans.

  “No clever pointers for me? C’mon, E. You’ve gotta know a little something about driving these beasts.”

  “No way. My place is back here in the shop.”

  “Nonsense. We’ve got enough dead cars lying around here—you should try fixing one up for yourself one of these days.” Jagger surveys the shop. My latest project, a custom Stingray for some high-dollar client in Chicago, is up on the lifters. “How can you stand to tinker with the guts of such pretty toys, and never get to play with them yourself? I bet you’d do great.”

  “No. It’s—it’s really not my style.”

  I look away from him, embarrassed, but the idea is nagging at me. I loved the way it felt driving Lennox’s Mustang a few weeks back. That pony was galloping underneath me, listening to my every command . . . Maybe I could learn to drive, just for myself. Build a car just for me. No more riding shotgun, letting someone else steer.

  A blush creeps over my face. I hide it with a stray lock of hair as I turn back to his Mitsubishi. “How’s it turning?” I ask.

  “Pretty good,” he says. “Well . . . except that, uhh . . . well, someone may have, uh . . . kicked something out of alignment during some . . .” Jagger scratches at the back of his head. “Some particularly amorous activities, and—”

  “Ew. Spare me. And please tell me you wiped down the interior with bleach.” I shudder. “I don’t want your skanky funk all over me.”

  Cyrus sidles up to us and slings a meaty arm over Jagger’s shoulder, pinning him in place. “Hate to tell you, Elena, but Jagger here is like a fog cloud of skanky funk. You’re already tainted. We’re all doomed.”

  Jagger grins. “So that means there’s no point resisting my charms, babe. You can take a ride with me anytime.”

  “No thanks.” I laugh, shaking my head at both of them. “I’m digging the peace and quiet of going solo right now.”

  “Suit yourself.” Jagger breaks free of Cyrus’s grip. “You’re the one missing out on all of this.” He rubs his hands over his white undershirt and jeans that barely stay up, then winks at me before popping his sunglasses back down onto his nose.

  “Jagger, you let the poor lady get some work done,” Uncle D calls from the office entrance. “C’mere, boys. I want you to check something out.”

  Cyrus and Jagger head over to chat with Uncle D, leaving me to tinker in peace with the Stingray that’s up on lifters. As I work, though, my thoughts keep drifting toward the old Camaro out in the yard. Drazic had bought it a few years back with the intention of rebuilding it into a sick piece of classic muscle car for some asshole investment manager, but the guy got himself arrested for insider trading before he paid the initial deposit. We own it free and clear, and it’s not like it was in terrible shape to begin with . . . I mean, as long as I only worked on it in my spare time, once our paying jobs were handled and the books were squared up . . .

  Eventually, the boys finish sorting out whatever shady project they’re working on, and Jagger heads back toward my work bay, fiddling with an old gearstick. “He’s doing better now, you know.”

  I grimace and put some torque into the wrench I’m trying to tighten.

  “Nash, that is.” Jagger sighs. “He misses you. I can tell.”

  “Can you?” I ask. “Coz he sure as shit hasn’t told me that.”

  “Well, have you talked to him?”

  “Not since he stormed out of the house the other week.” I sigh. “I figured he was headed off to beat Lennox into a bloody pulp. That we wouldn’t see him again until it was on the nightly news.”

  Jagger winces. “Yeah, well. We convinced him to head downstate with me instead.”

  “Ahh, that’s where you disappeared to.”

  Cyrus nods. “Dragged his sorry ass to the state park down there. The one where we used to go camping with Troy every summer. I thought it might do him some good, you know. Clear his head.”

  “And did it?” I ask.

  “I think he’s getting there.” Cyrus grabs a chamois and starts helping me buff the Stingray. “Poor kid never let Troy’s death heal, when the thing he needs most is closure. But I actually had an idea, and if you’d be willing to help me with it, El . . .”

  “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

  Cyrus smiles shyly. “Well, we’re coming up on the fourth anniversary of the wreck next week. Troy’s death. So I thought maybe we could have a proper memorial service. One that Nash could actually participate in.”

  Shit, I’d forgotten about that. He was so angry at Lennox, so torn up, he missed the fucking funeral. I shake my head. “Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. I think it might help all of us. Just tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it.”

  Cyrus nudges me with his elbow. “Thanks, Elena. I appreciate it.” He moves around toward the hood of the car. “Y’know . . . sometimes, I just really miss our old crew,” he says. “Lennox and Troy both. Life isn’t the same without either one of them.”

  Lennox. My heart twists. I haven’t seen or heard from him since I patched him up that night after the race, but he’s been constantly on my mind. “I know just what you mean, Cy. I miss it, too.”

  *

  I pull into the old by-the-hour rally raceway at the northern edge of our high mountain desert just as the sun is starting to fade. The old Camaro was in better shape than I remembered. It took a few cheap, quick fixes to get its engine purring. They won’t hold up for long, but I want to get it out onto the open road to see what it can do. Then I’ll know what permanent fixes to make. See where I need to focus my efforts if I really want to whip it into shape.

  Uncle Drazic seemed thrilled that I wanted to make something out of this poor old car. Granted, if the shop’s finances don’t pick up sometime soon, we’ll probably have to sell it as soon as I get it running nicely and cleaned up. It should fetch a nice bundle on the refurbished classics auction block. For a short while, though, I can pretend that this car is mine. That I can drive it to the edge of the earth and back, all on my own.

  I check in with the raceway’s owner and pay my fees, then creep toward the entrance to the tracks. Someone’s practicing their pacing on the straightaways. They’re maneuvering clean, at least to my untrained eyes, but their style is crimped by their choice of vehicle—a nondescript Nissan, some mediocre commuter sedan. Strange pick, but they’re driving well. In any case, I should have no problems avoiding them on the track.

  The Camaro grumbles in protest as I test its acceleration. Yikes. This one’s going to need more work than I thought. Probably a complete engine rebuild, some transmission upgrades . . . All pricy components the shop can’t really absorb the costs for just now. I’m just grateful, for now, that it runs at all.

  I check its turning on the roundabout, then one of the
hairpins, then circle around for another lap. When I spot the Nissan revving up, then slowing down, I pull over to an overlook to give them room to whiz past unperturbed. It’s a good resting point, anyway. Gives me a chance to pop the hood and see what’s causing that agonizing creaking sound every time I try to make a hard turn toward the left.

  To my surprise, though, the Nissan slows down and sidles onto the overlook beside me. My heart leaps when I see why.

  It’s Lennox in the driver’s seat.

  He grins, hesitant but warm, as he climbs out of the driver’s seat. That grin is like a fresh blast of sunshine on my skin. I want to soak it all up. I’ve been trying so hard to forget about the moment we shared at his grandmother’s house while I cleaned him up from his fight with Nash. But it’s damned near impossible. It was everything younger Elena would have craved—his nearness, his gentleness, his soft eyes and firm abs . . .

  Dammit. I’ve got to stop. Even though Nash and I are on a break, shouldn’t I be pining for the day we reunite? Yet I’ve barely thought about Nash since our argument. It’s been a relief not to feel responsible for him. I thought I’d miss him more than I do. But I don’t feel anything except for a cold emptiness, after what an asshole he’s been.

  “Elena.”

  Lennox steps toward me. For a second, I think he’s going to reach for me, plant his hands on either side of my hips. Then I’m disappointed when he doesn’t. Shit. I’ve got to get a grip. No matter what happened between Nash and me, I can’t forget what Lennox is: a murderer. A threat to the crew, and the delicate balance we’ve struck since he left.

  “Looks like your cuts healed up nicely,” I tell him.