Chapter 2
KNOX
Salem is the reason we’re leaving the studio. I should expect nothing less by this point. We’re in our forties, for fuck’s sake. He’s always angling us toward trouble, or at least toward a story. Consoling our brother’s ex doesn’t sound like a headline that ends with a mugshot.
Probably. But I’ve learned to never say never with Salem.
We spill out into the late light. The lot behind Sagebrush is bare and hot.
Our bikes sit where we left them. Houston straddles his, waiting for us to do the same.
Salem twirls his keys on a finger and grins at Lou like he’s found something he wants to steal and keep.
I step between that look and its destination without making a scene.
Lou is guarded, not like the girls Troy usually dates.
She’s got that long dark hair up, copper streaks catching the light, pierced ears, and a black tank top and leggings combination.
Curvy. There’s something nerdy hot about her.
Might be the tank top—it reads, I’m not a nerd. I’m just smarter than you.
In Troy’s case, she’s right.
She stops short beside the bikes. “Where do I…ride?” She gestures at the lineup like there’s a wrong answer, and somehow it will be her fault.
Salem’s eyes light. I know that look. His go-to solution for fear is speed and flirtation, preferably layered. He lifts his chin at his ride. “With me.”
“Hold up,” I say before Lou can even process the invitation. I keep my voice light. “Ride with me.” I slap the back half of my seat and offer her my spare helmet. “I’ve got more room and a more comfortable bike for two.”
Salem rolls his eyes at me, the exact way he has since we were kids and I took a match out of his hand on a windy day.
That’s how I know I made the right call.
If Salem hooks up with Lou tonight, we lose any shot at smoothing things with Troy later.
And no, that isn’t the only reason. But it’s a good one to tell myself while I ignore the rest.
Lou glances between us. There’s a flicker of relief, then a shrug that tries to look like it doesn’t care.
“Okay.” She takes the helmet, fits it, and tightens the strap with quick fingers.
She steps close and climbs on. Her hands hover like she doesn’t want to assume.
I reach back and guide them to my waist.
“Hold on. Lean when I lean.”
Houston swings onto his bike. “We’re taking surface streets,” he says for Lou’s benefit. “No freeway.”
“Boring,” Salem mutters.
I roll my eyes. “Safe.”
“Same thing,” he shoots back, grinning.
The engines come alive, a chorus I know in my bones.
I check the mirrors, Lou’s grip, the quiet in my chest that shows up any time the road opens.
Lou fits against my back like she belongs there.
She doesn’t squeeze too tight. She doesn’t float either.
She does exactly what I ask and leans when I lean.
The city unfolds in low stucco and palm trees before it spikes into glass and glowing lights.
The Strip grows from glare to structure, all screens and moving color.
Valet lanes snake like rivers in flood. Houston cuts into ours first. The crew out front knows us.
If they didn’t know us before we were booked for a residency, the residency taught them our names, our tells, our tips.
Heads turn, phones tilt, but it’s early evening, so most people pretend to be casual.
There’s always paparazzi outside of The Gold Bar Resort, but we’ve gotten good at ignoring the shouts and flashbulbs.
I park, kill the engine, and kick the stand. Lou peels off the helmet and hands it to me. Her hair’s a little wild from the ride. It looks good on her. She looks like she could do math on a napkin and hand you the answer before you finish your drink.
“You okay?”
She nods. “Better than okay.”
I nod too. I don’t press.
Salem hops off and stretches. “The suite first?”
“The suite,” Houston confirms. He clamps a big hand on Lou’s bag like he’s worried gravity might steal it and gestures her toward the doors. The lobby swallows us in cold air and golden lights. The elevator opens on our floor. I tap the key and swing the door wide.
The suite fits us without effort. Living room, bar, a wall of glass that sells a view people would pay rent for. Six bedrooms split off to either side, each with a bath big enough to qualify as its own room. There’s an extra den we use for gear or naps.
Lou steps in and stops. She keeps her bag on her shoulder like this is temporary and she plans to move through clean. That’s fine. It’s her call.
“You can put your things in here,” Houston says, opening the door to a spare bedroom. “It locks from the inside.” He sets her bag on the dresser and steps back so she doesn’t have to walk around him.
“Thanks.” The word is small and flat. It’s the voice of somebody who learned a long time ago not to owe anyone for a favor. Guarded. Careful.
Salem drops his keys in a bowl by the bar. “We’ve got a few hours before we go out. Food, showers, decisions worse than average. Pick your poison.”
“We’re getting cleaned up,” I say before he can talk her into anything on the wrong side of smart. “Then we go.”
Lou brushes a hand over her hair like she’s thinking about what it would take to tame it. “I don’t have anything to wear.” She says it straight, no apology. “I packed for a cheap hotel.”
“Easy fix.” I pull out my phone and call downstairs. The concierge picks up fast. I keep it simple. “We need options for a night on the Strip,” I tell them. “One guest. Dresses, jumpsuits, shoes. She’s five foot four, curvy. She’ll make the choices. Bring a variety. Ten minutes.”
“Of course, Mr. Turner,” the voice says. “We’ll bring a range.”
I hang up. Lou stares at me like she’s waiting for the catch. “You didn’t ask my size.”
“We’ll send back what doesn’t work.”
“I don’t want you spending money on me.”
“It’s the hotel’s money,” Salem says without missing a beat. “And if it wasn’t, it would be mine. Let us be useful.”
She looks at him, then at me. The smallest edge of her relaxes, not enough to celebrate. “If it’s not a problem.”
“It’s not a problem,” I explain. “You can pick and wear whatever makes you feel like you.”
She nods once and disappears into the spare bedroom, shuts the door, and locks it.
Houston opens the bar fridge and sets waters on the counter. “You good?” he asks me.
This is the part of the day I understand. Logistics. People. Steps in order. “I am. You?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Troy’s going to call.”
“He won’t.”
“Let him,” Salem says. “I’m going to answer.”
I look at our brother. Salem is flipping through the room service menu like it’s a zine. “He won’t say anything that makes tomorrow worse.”
“We’ll see,” Salem says without looking up. “Do we want fries now or fries later?”
“Later. We’ll eat out.”
There’s a knock at the door. Two attendants wheel in a rack with covers and boxes that look like gifts. “Perfect. Thank you.” They give quick nods and zip out.
I knock on the den door. “Packages.”
Lou opens it, face set to neutral. I can tell she’s not used to this, and I don’t push. “You can say no to everything. Try it all, send it all back. We’ll figure it out.”
“Okay.” She looks at the rack like it might bite.
Then she reaches for a garment bag, unzips it, and something in her face shifts.
She pulls the dress partway out, and the color picks up the warm tones in her skin even from across the room.
She doesn’t smile. Her mouth softens like she remembered an old word and how it fits in her mouth.
I take a step back. “Take your time.”
She nods and closes the door again.
Salem leans around me. “Did you see—”
“No. You’re going to your room.”
He scoffs, mock-offended. “You’re no fun.”
“That’s literally my job. I’m the oldest.”
Houston laughs once, low, and heads to his room. The suite gets quiet. I set my phone to vibrate and drop it on the bar. I don’t call Troy. There’s no reason to invite him into this.
Lou deserves a night of peace.
And if I’m honest, I don’t want him here tonight. Not after what we saw with him. Fucking shameful behavior. Hard to believe he’s even related to us.
I look at her bedroom door again and then look away. This isn’t about me. Lou isn’t a problem to solve; she’s a person who just got the truth pulled like a splinter. Anything would feel like kindness after the day she had. I’m not going to stand here and take credit for basic decency.
The shower in my room hisses to life in my head before I turn it on. I grab clothes, nothing dramatic. Dark jeans. Black shirt. Jacket I can ditch if the night goes off-axis.
I turn on the water and let it heat while I strip down. I step in and let the day run off and go down the drain. Sagebrush. Troy’s jaw set hard. Lou’s face when the truth landed.
It’s hard when your little brother continuously disappoints you.
On some level, you feel responsible. Troy was Mom’s surprise pregnancy.
Technically, we all were. But she thought she was too old to get pregnant when he came along.
Troy is twelve years younger than me, but in some ways, he feels decades younger.
I made things too easy on him when he was a kid. So did Mom. If we had done things differently…doesn’t matter now. He’s thirty-two. He’s responsible for his own actions.
Still sucks, though.
When it comes to Lou, I’m not looking for trouble. I’m looking for a clean night and a clean exit. We’ll take her out for a good time, we’ll keep her off the radar if she wants, we’ll make sure she gets back to her hotel or stays here with a locked door. Like we all said, one night of fun.
When I step out, steam has blurred the mirror.
I wipe a stripe with the side of my hand.
Same craggy, lined face. Same hair that’s turning silver sooner than I’d like.
Less dust. I dress. I keep the wallet light, the phone charged, and the pockets empty except for what a night might need.
I leave the jacket open. It makes people think I’m not about to say no to the next idea.
It also makes it easier to move if I have to be the one who says it.