“What’re you trying to say?” I ask, knowing full well what’s going on. “We just got back from picking up some kids from school. We didn’t have time to thwart some punks.”
Rhett steps up closer to us and lowers his voice. “I know Shelby somehow has insider information on this whole thing. I know he’s been using it too—like at the rail yard. Who else would be at the construction site when everything went down?”
“Well, it wasn’t us.”
“That’s it? That’s your only rebuttal?”
“It’s all I need. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Rhett turns his attention to Miles. I also give him a sideways glance. Miles trusts Rhett for some reason, but I hope to God he doesn’t spill anything he shouldn’t. We have a man locked in our trunk, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t look good for us, even if we explained the situation from beginning to end.
“You don’t know anything about this?” Rhett asks.
Miles shakes his head. “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I let out a short exhale, not even aware I had been holding my breath.
Again, quiet blankets the area. I get antsy thinking about Castor in the trunk, but I keep still. I don’t want to look uncomfortable in the middle of a questioning—it would only encourage Rhett to continue.
“Miles,” Rhett begins. He places his hands on his hips and stares at the cement sidewalk. “Listen. I still remember your first day in the academy. You introduced yourself and told your academy classmates a little about your past.”
Miles nods but offers no commentary.
“You said you had people who depended on you. That you had a rough start in life, but you were back on track and ready to do what you had to, to make it right. Do you remember that? What you said?”
“Yeah,” Miles says. “I remember.”
Rhett sighs. “I didn’t think much of it then, but after a few days as your instructor, I knew you were being sincere. Nobody works as hard as you. Nobody studies as much as you do. You’re constantly improving—not just your physical body, but your knowledge base too. You have a drive. A passion. I see that you meant what you said and… I don’t want to see you fail. I don’t want to see you throw all your hard work away because of one stupid mistake. Do you understand?”
Miles tightens his hands into fists. His expression is unreadable, but I get tense and agitated by the speech.
When Miles doesn’t say anything, Rhett continues, “I want to help you succeed, so I’m going to ask you—is there anything you want to tell me?”
For a moment, I fear Miles will talk. I cross my arms over my chest, gripping my arms in hope of relaxing, but it doesn’t work. To my surprise, Miles steps up closer to Rhett and then throws his arms around him in a tight embrace.
Rhett, looking as stunned as I am, freezes up.
“Thank you,” Miles says, keeping his hold. “It means a lot knowing that you’re looking out for me. I didn’t have that when I was younger. I didn’t have anyone, really.”
“Of c-course,” Rhett stammers, his face flushed. He awkwardly returns the embrace as he gives me a quick guilty glance. I don’t say anything, nor do I move or react. I don’t want to cause a scene, but I’m on the verge of returning to the car to get my damn handgun.
Rhett takes a step back, breaking contact, and exhales. “Well, uh, all right. I have to go. I’ll see you in class later tonight.”
“Thank you again,” Miles says. “I’ll see you then.”
Without another word, Rhett walks over to his police cruiser and hops in, his stiff gait betraying his flustered state. He must not be open to public affection, which I understand, but it’s odd, considering the girls at his office seem to fling themselves at him. Or maybe he’s so far in the closet he has a shoe rack up his ass.
The moment Rhett’s gone, I turn to Miles. “What was that?”
“He stopped talking to us, didn’t he?” Miles replies. “Now we can handle our other problem.”
“You still think he doesn’t want you?”
Miles’s honeyed skin shifts to a shade of pink. “Um…. Well, I know he likes men. That much I’m sure of. It was very apparent.”
I clench my teeth thinking about what that white-knight asshole must have been imagining while holding Miles. I swear I’ve never felt quite so protective of someone, but then again, I’ve never had a relationship like the one I have with Miles. I don’t like the mood it gets me in, but I don’t have time to think about that.
Miles walks up to me and runs his thumb along the bottom of my lip. “What happened?” he asks. The blood on his hand surprises me.
I touch my lip and feel the split. It must have been from the fighting in the construction site, exacerbated by my teeth grinding. “I’m fine,” I say.
I’m surprised Rhett never mentioned our injuries.
“Let’s talk inside while we take care of this.”
I follow Miles into our house, still nervous about our problem, but it’s better to talk in private. It’s better to do everything in private, really. The public is unruly and bipolar—you never know what you’ll get when you act out in front of them.
Miles takes me into our cramped bathroom, and I take note of the guest room’s closed door. I figured Jayden would keep to himself, but I wonder if Lacy is still here or at the neighbor’s. She shouldn’t be gallivanting around.
Before I can say anything, Miles locks the door and gets a clean washcloth. He wipes away my blood, unbuttons my shirt, and then runs a hand along my side, his fingers tracing the grooves of my wifebeater undershirt. I’m a little confused but not opposed to his touch. Up until he presses against my bruised ribs.
“Watch it,” I hiss as I grab his hand.
Miles stops and instead pushes me back against the counter. I rest against it as he pulls off my button-up shirt and unrolls a wad of gauze. “So what’re we going to do? I don’t see a good solution to this. Killing him is out of the question, so it’s either let him go or take him to the police.”
“I’ve killed a lot of guys before,” I drawl. “No one will find out.”
Miles ignores my comment and instead focuses his attention on my tattooed arm. I watch him as he runs his fingers over the mark. “You don’t have to be this guy anymore,” he says. “We can solve this a different way. And from now on, you’ll be wearing bandages to cover this.”
I lift an eyebrow at the command. He’s never flat-out told me what to do before. I smirk. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” he states unambiguously. “You’ve been too lax with this, your eye, your backstory—I know when you worked for Big Man Vice he would take care of things like that, but that’s not what’s going on anymore. We need to be careful.”
“I need to be careful, you mean.”
“No, I meant we. That’s why I ordered you contact lenses, and you’re going to wear this bandage.”
“There’s no point to wearing this bandage. I’ll just keep my shirtsleeves down.”
“You keep a knife in your sock?”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“Well, keep a knife here. Then it has a purpose.”
I scoff. “I don’t have one.”
Miles reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a pocket multitool knife. It’s small, has a few fold-out blades, a bottle opener, and a thin pick, but it looks useful. He presses it against my arm and then wraps it with the gauze. “Here. Take this.”
I pull my arm back. “I can take care of myself.”
Miles retakes my arm and holds it close. “I don’t want to lose you.”
I want to say something, but I stop. Rhett’s speech haunts my thoughts as I watch Miles finish wrapping my tattoo and the small multitool knife. If something happens—if I’m found out—Miles will be in jeopardy. His life. His goals. Everything. He has a bright future, and what do I have? By being careless I’m putting him at risk. I should’ve thought of this sooner.
“I’m gonna take t
hat guy to the police,” I mutter.
Miles meets my gaze with his own. “Why?”
“It’s the only option.”
“You said you were worried he would tell the police who you were.”
“Most thugs aren’t cooperative with the police. Besides, I think I can talk him into keeping his mouth shut.” And by talk, I mean threaten. Guys like Castor understand promises of force and violence—and there will be a lot of that behind bars if we end up in the same facility.
Miles nods as he finishes his task. I can tell he’s reluctant, and his pensive look bothers me. I don’t want to lose you either is what I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Tsk. Words are cheap. Instead of speaking, I lean forward and press my mouth against his, taking in the warmth of his breath and the taste of his tongue.
After a moment I pull away, surprised by the hot red spreading across Miles’s face. We’ve kissed before. What’s his problem?
“Pierce,” he murmurs.
“Get ahold of yourself,” I state.
Miles laughs once and smiles. “You don’t normally initiate stuff like that.”
I push away from the bathroom counter and slip back into my shirt. “I’m going to go take care of our problem,” I say, ignoring his statement. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Miles doesn’t stop me as I exit our house and take to the street. Our neighbors return to their porch lounging now that the cop is gone, and I nod to a few as I make my way past. I don’t know them, and they don’t know me, but a basic show of respect goes a long way. Besides, there’s a good chance there are some unsavory types milling about. I wouldn’t want to give them a reason to make me a target.
I get to my vehicle as the setting sun casts long shadows over the streets. A few eyes follow me, but I ignore them as I get into the driver’s seat. After glancing around the cab—and making sure it’s as I left it—I pull the vehicle out onto the street and head for the other side of town.
The dull drone of static from the radio gets my heart rate up as I swerve around traffic. There’s a precinct on the edge of Noimore that will take Castor; I’m sure of it. The real problem is telling them how he came to be in my possession. I’m gonna have to bust up Castor until our stories match. There’s a bridge I know where we can have some privacy, but I haven’t been there in some time. I might have to scout out the place first.
I turn the car onto an on-ramp when the smell of oil burns my nose. Dread grips me as I glance up to the rearview mirror and spot the silhouette of Castor and his blade.
Fuck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I SLAM on the brakes at the edge of the freeway.
My seat belt digs into my chest and neck, but Castor doesn’t have any such restraints. He flies past the front seat and hits the windshield, back first. The glass cracks and bends outward but doesn’t actually shatter. My mind goes to my gun—it’s on the floorboard of the passenger seat.
I don’t even get a second to react before the car behind me swerves and clips my fender, sending the junker spinning into the first lane of traffic. I hold on to the steering wheel and hit the gas, but the engine sputters and locks up. The damn vehicle doesn’t move.
Headlights and honking pull my attention to the road. Cars dart around, but the big rigs aren’t as nimble. I unfasten my seat belt as fast as my hands will allow and slam open the door in an attempt to distance myself from oncoming traffic.
Castor, still conscious, kicks out the windshield and rolls off the hood, his legs wobbly but steady enough for him to walk. I go toward him but jump back when a motorcycle races by, inches from me. A truck grazes the side of my vehicle and sends it farther down the road and to the side, the scrape of metal and crunch of glass drowned out by the rush of speeding cars.
I take a step back and curse the twilight-darkness of the setting sun. Everything is so difficult to see, and it’s not just my bum eye that’s causing it!
While I move toward the on-ramp, Castor runs for the center divider.
Cars and trunks come to a stop before hitting my wrecked vehicle, but it’s a little too late. Castor crosses the other four lanes on the opposite side, almost getting hit twice before jogging down the nearest on-ramp.
My ears ring, and I rub at the soreness of my tense muscles.
“Goddammit,” I mutter.
Cars honk, the man that hit me asks for information—but I don’t give a shit about any of that. Castor will go back to his buddies. He’ll speak to the Vice family. They’ll know I’m alive.
The realization drowns out all other sensations and emotions. This is the last thing I wanted to happen.
I PARK our new car in the driveway and relax back against the seat. It took all day yesterday to deal with the old POS and then to finalize a sale on some random used four-door Ford Taurus. I guess I should count myself lucky Castor didn’t get out in our neighborhood, but that’s a small consolation prize after everything that’s happened. At least he doesn’t know where we live.
He cut through the back of our old jalopy with a five-inch knife. I should have checked him, but we were in such a hurry to leave the construction site….
A small piece of me hopes he comes looking for me. Miles can’t be upset with a self-defense killing. I run a hand along my holster. Until we solve this problem—or move—I’m not going anywhere without my gun.
I get out of the car and amble my way into the house. It’s empty, which is odd, considering Miles didn’t take either of his siblings to their prep school today. Squeals and laughter soon tell me everyone is in the backyard, however. I change into an easier set of attire, while keeping my jacket and gun, and then walk out back to do my daily gardening.
Anything to take my mind off the fact that Vice family goons could be looking for me.
Shannon and Lacy are seated at our lopsided picnic table. The table was there when we moved in—I certainly wouldn’t have purchased something so pointless—but it seems to be a hit with the girls. They have a blanket draped over the top and a myriad of colorful crafting tools laid out before them.
Jayden sits on the cement porch with his nose buried in his smartphone. I like him better this way.
Miles, on the other hand, repairs our backyard fence. No doubt he’s a little paranoid, but our place will be safer with secure boundaries. He’s got nails, wood planks, and two new support posts. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing, however. He keeps glancing at some “how to” guide and hesitating on his placements. His portable radio plays soft, upbeat music, which has him bobbing along to the beat. I’m sure he’ll do fine.
I walk over to my garden box and pull out my tools. No plants have sprouted. Have I done something wrong again? All I want is for something to go right.
“You’re a little stubborn, aren’t you?”
I glance up and find Ms. Timo standing in the opening to our fence, her squinted eyes locked on my garden. I sneer. “The book says the plants will grow eventually.”
“So you believe whatever people tell you, so long as it’s what you want to hear?”
“What do you want, old lady?” I snap.
“I want to help you,” she says. Before I respond, she shuffles into the backyard and keeps her sunhat tilted forward. The afternoon sun, blocked occasionally by the clouds, warms up the backyard more than any August I’ve experienced before.
“Why?” I ask as she kneels on the opposite side of my garden box. “You want my terrible fresh produce?”
Ms. Timo laughs. “Hardly. I just want to participate in some gardening. Ever since the arthritis hit, I’ve had trouble holding the tools. I had to give it up.”
“So you want to live vicariously through me.”
“Isn’t that what all grandmas want?”
I glance over my shoulder, making sure the others aren’t paying any attention. Then I glance back. “I’ll let you help—on one condition. You give me a better witness statement.”
Ms. Timo’s elderly face showcases her frown line
s. I almost feel for her. Almost.
“I thought you got everything you needed?” she whispers.
“Yeah, well, apparently not. I’m also gonna need you to sign it.”
“Can I write it down?”
“Yeah, fine,” I state. “I need it soon.”
“All right.” Ms. Timo returns to her neutral expression as she pans her gray-blue eyes over my handiwork. “You’re gonna need to dig this all up.”
“What?” I ask, indignant. “Why?”
“The soil ain’t ready for planting, like I told you. You’re gonna need to dig this all up, and then you’re gonna have to toss the dirt in with some detritus. Crumpled leaves and the like. And then you need to make deeper holes.”
With a long exhale I get to work, ripping up all my effort and tossing it to the side in one massive pile. The task keeps my mind occupied, and for a moment, life is simple and easy. I like it. It feels right. And I never thought I’d be living in a house, in a suburb, working on a project with my neighbor while my significant other and his family enjoy the backyard. It’s quaint and new—experiences I’ve never had before.
I get to my sole “Miles radish” and leave it be. Ms. Timo points to it.
“You need to pull that out too.”
“No,” I say. “I like that one.”
“It’s going to die.”
“It hasn’t yet.”
“You’re smothering it. The soil is bad. There’s nowhere it can grow and no nutrients to get better.”
“So?”
“So you should pull it out and plant it in a better garden box, or you should throw it away.”
I touch the drooping leaves of the radish. It’s lived so long through sheer tenacity. “I like it just the way it is.”
Ms. Timo sighs. “I didn’t peg you for someone blinded by sentimentality.”
“Miles,” Lacy calls out. “Is it okay for me to use a knife?”
I stop my conversation and turn to the girls. They’ve cleared a space to set up two small blocks of wood. What’re they doing that requires a knife? Miles must think the same thing because he stops his hammering to stare at them with a furrowed brow.
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