Chapter Thirteen
Maren
“ H onestly?” Zayn says when we’re settled into a booth. “It’s kind of a relief to see you guys.”
The diner Zayn picked is humble, to say the least—yellowed windows all scratched up and rips in the upholstery—but it smells cozy, and it’s relatively empty.
“This whole bounty hunter thing?” he goes on, picking up a menu but not opening it. “Wanted posters? I mean, what is this, the wild west?”
“It’s not great,” Will agrees, drumming his fingers on the table and glancing around like he’s mapping potential exit routes. I sigh as quietly as I can and give the waitress an extra-big smile. For as rough as the joint itself looks, she’s very well turned-out: pressed uniform, beautiful makeup, even a flawless coral-colored manicure that practically glows against her light brown skin. She can’t be older than twenty.
“Coffee for the table, your honor,” Zayn says, bowing his head. “If it please the court.”
“Of course, sir,” she says, scribbling dutifully on her pad. She looks up. “Anything else?”
“Just coffee,” Will and I say at the same time. “Thanks,” I add.
“One question, actually.” Zayn throws an arm over the back of the booth, raising a single finger. “How are your studies going?”
The waitress’s polished demeanor dissolves as she cracks a smile, and suddenly she’s a goofy teenager, folding her arms and pouting. “Straight A’s, okay? Jeez. Why are you always on my case?”
Zayn just grins. “I’m just asking! Doing a little undercover investigating.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, still smiling, and walks off.
Zayn watches her go, nods at her. “My cousin. Graduated early, doing community college now. Going for law school after. Makes me look like the family disappointment.”
I nod. “That’s awesome.”
“And explains the choice of venue,” Will mutters.
“Coffee’s good too,” Zayn says. “Trust me.”
I’m not loving the vibe of the conversation, so I fold my arms on the table. “Hey, uh. Before this gets too cozy...look, Zayn, Will should apologize. I know that and you know that and probably he knows that. But I’m not sure that he will apologize, so allow me to do it for him?” I give him a genuine, contrite, smile. “I’m sorry.”
Zayn’s own smile softens. “Yeah, he should.” Next to me, I feel Will stiffen a bit. “But maybe I should too.”
I cock my head. “Really?”
Zayn leans back, runs a hand over his jaw. “I dunno. I get it now, y’know? The way y’all are with Maren...damn, I don’t know. If I had somebody I cared about that much, I’d probably be just as overprotective. And I don’t even have a murderous ADA on my tail.”
“Neither do we,” Will says. “Technically.”
I sigh. “Not like that’s really made things that much better.”
Will doesn’t argue.
Zayn’s cousin comes back with our coffee—three steaming mugs, two of which have visible cracks. She sets them down like she’s performing a delicate surgery, along with a chipped bowl of creamers that none of us touches.
Will takes a sip and blinks. “Holy shit. This is... this is actually good.”
“Told you.” Zayn takes a sip of his own.
Will nurses his coffee for a long moment. Then: “I am sorry. You’re a good guy, Zayn. And I’m an asshole.”
Zayn shrugs. “I...wouldn’t go that far. But I’ll accept the apology.” He nods, offers a hand, which Will shakes.
“And with that taken care of,” Will says, “I’m going to use the facilities.”
He scoots out of the booth and catches the eye of our waitress, who directs him around a wood-paneled corner. I watch him go, then look back at Zayn.
And he looks...concerned.
“So how are you?” he says. “Really? I mean, you’re alive. And Guy...”
“Isn’t?”
He laughs, though there’s not a lot of humor in it. “Basically. I can’t say I haven’t been wondering about y’all. Worrying, more like.”
“We’re in one piece,” I reassure him. I run it all down for him as quick as I can: back at the house, all more or less intact, the bounty, the bounty hunter , the fact that my bastard ex-guardian is the one funding the hit.
“And now Rob’s got us back on his usual operations,” I finish. “Which is what we’re out here doing today.”
“Usual operations?” Zayn lifts an eyebrow.
I blow out a breath. “You’re not gonna narc on us, right?”
“To Wheatley? Nah. Not unless he reinstates my paycheck. Kidding,” he adds hastily. “Not for anything.”
I nod. I believe him. “Stealing,” I say. “And...redistributing. To whoever needs it. Today’s just random drops, just a general good karma thing, but soon it’ll be more targeted.”
“The drops?”
“And the thefts,” I admit. “Although I’m not really privy to how that part works.”
Zayn waves his hands in the air. “I don’t wanna know, anyway.” He nods, absorbing the information. “So that’s the plan, then? Just carry on as usual?”
I trace the rim of my coffee mug. “I...guess so.” I shake my head. “Actually, I don’t know. Rob’s theory is that if people aren’t desperate, then a fat bounty won’t really be all that tempting to them. Hence all the...redistribution. But...I don’t know.”
“Makes sense to me,” Zayn says.
“Does it?” I look up into his eyes, which are deep and friendly. “We still have Wheatley to worry about, even if the delegates in Richmond have him financially neutered. And then there’s all the...”
“Magic shit?” Zayn offers. I consider, then nod.
“Yeah, that.” I squint my eyes shut. “I don’t know. It all feels like so much.”
“I can help,” Zayn’s voice says. I open my eyes.
“I mean, dunno how much good it’ll do,” he says. “But y’all are on the right side of things. On the side of the right people.”
“Really?”
“Sure,” Zayn says. “Besides, Lord knows I’ve got the time on my hands.”
He’s just agreeing to come back with us to the house when Will returns, looking irritated.
“Damn ATM’s outta cash,” he gripes.
Zayn laughs, a little incredulous. “What, you need me to spot you or something?”
“No, no,” Will says, face morphing to a smile. “You misunderstand. I’m the reason it’s out of cash.” He flashes a wad of twenties, discreetly. “Got like sixty texts from our overseas bank to confirm the transactions, but we’re good.” He nods at Zayn. “You gonna say goodbye to your cousin?”
“Huh? Oh, sure.” Zayn cranes his neck around the diner and spots her off in the corner, wiping off a counter. As he strides off, Will folds a bunch of twenties—one, two, three, four, five—and slides them under his coffee cup. Then, with a quick glance around the dining room—where the other patrons are two in total, one of whom looks old enough to have learned the ABCs in hieroglyphics—he sidles up to the cash register and hits it hard with his fist.
“Will,” I hiss, as the cash drawer springs open. “What are you doing?”
“Relax, greasemonkey.” He leans over and fills each of the register compartments with bills, slams it shut, and slides his hand into his jacket pocket, smooth as ice.
“Ready to bounce?”
I want to groan, but don’t want to risk the attention. Zayn’s back from his goodbye, having noticed nothing, apparently.
“So y’all driving, or what?”
Will jingles his keys. “Naturally.”
I wince, thinking of the sad beige Chrysler.
“Just don’t judge us on our ride, okay?”