Chapter 16
Sixteen
Raven
Ihead back home, but only to pack a bag.
Declan will come looking for me here, and I can’t see him. Not now, not after this.
First Chad, turning out to be an abusive asshole. Then Brandon, leaving with Vera.
I thought they were bad, but Declan’s worse. He’s an asshole and he’s cheating on me.
Or on her, his blond fucking wife.
I don’t get it, I really don’t. Why isn’t he living there? Are they separated or something? Then why bring her a gift? They looked friendly enough, hugging and laughing.
Clean shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans, my toiletries. A wad of cash. That’s all I need, and it gets shoved in a backpack I can wear while I ride. In and out in under ten minutes.
I sit on my bike, engine running, lid balanced on the tank and my phone in hand, staring at my contacts, looking for options. I’m sure as hell not going to Utah again, and I don’t want to see Cammy right now. She’ll draw too much out of me, then tell Kurt.
Why is that a problem?
Because I can’t help thinking that Declan has more to hide, beyond a wife and a child.
What other reason is there to pretend to be someone he’s not?
We’re not a book club or a bridge society. We’re a crew. We rob banks and jewelry stores. Stuff we can spend years in prison for. We can’t afford someone in our midst who isn’t who they say they are.
And Declan is… not who I thought he was.
What would Kurt do, if he knew? He’s not one to take risks, not where the crew is involved. If he had reason to think Declan couldn’t be trusted? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
“Do you trust him? On a job, would you know he had your back?”
At least now my answer is clear. No, I don’t trust Declan one little bit.
Except maybe, on a job. So he can pay for his family.
I hit Tasha’s number. It rings three times before she answers.
“Hey Raven. ’Sup?” She always sounds so bubbly.
“Hey. Um… are you around?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“To be honest… a friendly face… and a stretch of floor to sleep on.”
“Woah. Uh… you need ice cream? I’m just putting a grocery order in and… ice cream?”
“Yeah.” I smile, despite the tears prickling my eyes. “I need ice cream.”
“Are you coming now? Or whenever. Door’s open. Figuratively.”
“About twenty minutes?”
“Perfect. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“And… can I use your garage? For my bike?” I don’t want to leave a thirty-thousand dollar Ducati on the street without a solid ground anchor.
“Of course you can. I’ll meet you down there when you arrive.”
“Thanks, babe.” She’s good people.
Her apartment is in Van Nuys, farther out of the city, and I ride without thinking about it, my thoughts circling around and around.
Why is Declan living alone? What does he want from me? Why did he use language like I’m his if he already has someone?
Am I just a way to cement himself into our crew?
Shit… is he trying to replace me?
Fuck it. He can have my place. Two more jobs, and I’m done with this anyway.
Why don’t I call Kurt, tell him everything, let him deal with Declan?
Because I know what would happen if I did. Kurt would… Pablo him. A bullet in the back on the next job. Or some other way that Declan might somehow disappear.
And that raises another very important question. Why am I protecting him?
I don’t have an answer to that.
Tasha’s apartment is in a four-story block, white render, with the luxury of a balcony. Gated underground parking off the street, which is perfect for keeping my pride and joy safe. It’s a nice area; Kurt pays her well, and she’s done more jobs for him than I have.
The street’s quiet as I roll up, and I strip off a glove, fish my phone out of my pocket, and send her an ‘I’m here’ text.
She arrives two minutes later, dirty-blond hair in a loose pony, dressed in baggy sweats and a T-shirt three sizes too large, opening the gate for me from inside.
I roll down the ramp, and she waves me to an unmarked space near a wall, out of the way.
“You’ll be fine there,” she tells me. “No one will mind.”
“Thanks.” I kick the stand down, turn the bike off, and sigh. At least I’m safe; he won’t find me here.
“Jesus, Raven.” She’s watching me with wide eyes. “Come on up. I have coffee brewing, but… I think you need wine.”
I give a strained laugh as I follow her to the elevator. “It’s only noon.”
“Who cares?” She hugs me as soon as the doors whisk closed, making no complaint about how uncomfortable my jacket is, and I relax just a touch with the contact.
Her apartment is on the top floor, practical rather than characterful, furnished from IKEA, bigger than mine. I’ve been here a handful of times before, once with Cammy when we did a girl’s night thing. Tasha spilt blue nail polish on the couch, and the stain’s still there.
“Red or white?” she asks, pulling glasses from a cupboard.
“Red. Please.” I divest myself of my jacket, kick my boots off too, and rest my backpack on the floor.
“On the balcony?” she asks, a glass of wine in each hand.
I can’t help my hesitation at the thought that I could be seen up there, but that’s just being silly. LA is a big place, and Declan was too… preoccupied to be following me, even if he knew I was there.
I’m certain he didn’t.
But I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t check my mirrors that well. Right after I just proved how easy it is to tail someone.
“Oh, baby.” Tasha looks at me with sympathy. “We can stay in here. It’s all good.”
“Just…” I brave a smile. “Balcony’s fine.”
A sliding door lets out onto a concrete space just big enough for two wooden chairs, and it’s pleasant with the sun shining down. Relaxing, actually, and I take a deep drink of my wine, feeling some of my tension abate.
Letting the hurt rise to the surface.
“So… um… want to tell me?”
“Not much to tell.” I shrug one shoulder. “You remember Chad and Brandon?”
“Sure.” She grimaces.
“Turns out they were training for the real thing. Declan is all the worst bits of both of them.”
Her eyes widen. “No way!”
“Lucky me, huh?” I stare into my glass. “I sure know how to pick ’em.”
Her eyes cloud with anger. “Has he hurt you?”
I know she means physically; I did say Chad. “No…” Yes. So much it’s fucking agony. My heart hurts more than anything Chad ever did.
“He hasn’t hit you?” She’s scanning me like she’s looking for bruises.
He did, actually. Slapped my face. My breast. It’s not what she means either. And it wasn’t even the same. It was… different. Not wrong.
Wait. Not wrong?
Fuck.
Tears fill my eyes. I don’t know if it’s shame, humiliation, loss… pain…
“He hit you.” She makes it a statement. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“He didn’t,” I say quickly. Still protecting him. “No, it’s not that. He hasn’t…”
“What did he…” She pauses. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shift in my chair. “Kurt mustn’t know. Not yet.”
“That’s probably for the best,” she says slowly.
Not the response I was expecting. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, well…” She looks awkward, waving a dismissive hand, the motion jerky. “He’s protective of you.”
Protective. One step away from possessive. Seems everyone wants to own me.
“Declan didn’t… hurt me.” He just ripped my heart out. Hardly counts.
Tasha doesn’t buy it. “No bruises doesn’t mean no pain, girl.”
“I suppose not.”
Silence falls. A sparrow settles on the railing for long enough to think better of it, fluttering off again. We both watch it.
“Do you love him?” Tasha asks.
“No, I—” The answer comes fast, but I stop myself. It’s not that simple. I like him—liked—but that’s not it either. “I haven’t known him long enough to love him,” I say carefully.
“What difference does that make?”
Fair.
“I don’t think I love him.” I bite at my lip, then take another gulp of wine.
“It just hurts a lot, you know?” He got inside me, in more ways than one.
My heart feels broken, but I don’t know if it’s our relationship I’m mourning, or my own na?ve hopes.
“To be honest, I think it’s more me than him.
He ripped open wounds he didn’t know I had. That’s not really… his fault.”
But sleeping with me when he’s married is totally his fault.
Tasha shakes her head. “I hate when men make us think we’re the ones to blame.”
Except I am the one to blame. At least in part.
“Can I ask what he did?” Tasha’s tone couldn’t be more tentative.
“Fucked me really hard, twice.” Best sex I’ll ever have.
“Oh.” She looks down at her glass. “…Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Yeah. Then I found out he’s married, with a kid.”
Her head jerks up, eyes widening. “No. Fucking. Way.”
“Yes-way.” I nod. “Saw them with my own eyes.”
“Fuck,” she breathes, drawing the word out. “And Kurt doesn’t know,” she continues, more to herself than me. “Which means Briggs doesn’t know. Which means Declan’s kept it hidden all that time?” A pause. “I can’t believe that.”
“Yeah. Well.”
“How did you find out?”
A slightly tricky question. “I… uh… followed him.” Not proud of that.
“Wow.” She gives me a nod of respect. “Ballsy.”
Was it, though?
Tasha drains her glass and stands up. “Getting the bottle. Don’t move. Ever done a job with a hangover? I think we should.”
I laugh and look out over the balcony at the city. “Bad idea.” My laughter fades quickly, because tomorrow, I’ll have to see Declan again. “Fuck it. Good idea.”
Three bottles and two-and-a-half Disney films later, we’re sitting on Tasha’s couch when my phone vibrates on the table.
I reach over, pleasantly tipsy if not probably quite drunk, but I’m sober as soon as I see the number.
Declan.
“Shit.” I hit the call reject button.
“What?”
“He called me.”
It’s six thirty. We never did settle on our evening plans.
I’m still gazing unseeing at the phone when a text comes through.
Hi Hellcat. I’m assuming you like Italian, and I’ve booked a table at Bestia for eight. Close enough to stagger back to my place. That doesn’t work, let me know soonest. Ever sixty-nined?
I close my eyes as my blush suffuses my face, the images in my mind visceral, immediate, and so inappropriate. The man’s married.