19. Tink
TINK
Wendy Darling.
I have a name. A full name. An honest-to-God government name.
I try not to jog back to my room so I can grab my phone.
Pan might be confident that shoring up the usual suspects for his house game is going to get us what we need to know about Wendy’s family, but I’m…
less certain, let’s say. The thing about the kind of guys—and it is mostly guys, unless one of them brings their old lady—who show up to underground poker games is that they’ve probably been kicked out of the legit card rooms for a reason, and that reason isn’t going to be “being too honest.”
And the more I think about it, the more that poking around Mike and JD’s stories at all feels like a bad idea.
If people know what happened to them—and the odds of that seem high, given what happened to both them and their house—then asking too many questions, or even any questions at all, feels risky.
But a name, something I can Google…
This is perfect.
Fox, I could kiss you, I think as I flop into my bed and grab my phone from by my pillow. I mean, not actually. And I’m sure finding out her last name wasn’t his plan—although him taking Wendy on a library trip is admittedly sweet—but still.
I roll into my stomach and swipe my phone unlocked.
Of course, I’d already tried searching up what I could.
I’d looked up news articles after the fire, but they were bare-bones, to say the least—two unidentified victims, fire marshal still investigating the cause, neighbors never spoke to the residents and property deed registered to the LLC of some landlord who didn’t answer calls—and I hadn’t seen any updates since.
Searching “Mike and JD” returned absolutely nothing useful.
Same for “Mike JD London Valley,” “Mike JD Kensington” and every other combination of info I could string together.
I threw Wendy’s name in there, too, just in case, but “Wendy London Valley” just got me targeted ads for two-for-one Frosties at the local franchise.
I even opted in to Amber Alerts on my phone—nothing.
I swallow against my excitement, adrenaline spiking in my veins at the thought that I might be able to fix all of this.
With my feet dangling off the edge of the bed, I bump the edge of my lock box—shoved halfway back under there to replace my period cup now that that nightmare is over—and, on impulse, I pull it back out, flick the numbers around, and lift the lid just enough to extract one of my girly cocktail cans.
Fuck it, if I’m playing private eye, why not do it over a drink like an old-time movie?
Heel-kicking the lock box far back under the bed, I crack open my Rum Punch and dump the contents into a used—but clean—red Solo cup on my bedside table, then crumple the can, cross over to my window, and chuck it into the alley, aiming for the little patch of grass by the dumpster so that it doesn’t make a sound.
Bullseye. I give myself a toast, slam the window shut and yank the roller shade, and return to my bed.
The sweet burn of sugared alcohol floods my tongue as I set down my cup and pick up my phone again.
I chew my lip and thumb-type frantically, nothing but the glow of the screen in my room: Mike Darling JD Darling London Valley, search.
The loading circle spins and spins and spins until finally, finally the results pop down the screen.
I flick down to the first few, heart in my throat.
Loved this place’s open mike, darling atmosphere for a coffee shop…
…darling London Valley location close to Marina shops and attractions…
Fucking stupid reviews. Why would that be what I want to see first? I scroll past, but the results break down pretty quickly from there, just grabbing random phrases from the terms and trying to string it together logically—fucking AI. What happened to normal Google?
I take another sip of my drink and try again, this time splitting out each brother’s name individually.
No good: a bunch of rando LinkedIns, some Facebook profiles of guys the wrong age, wrong race, or wrong continent, and then more slop.
“Michael Darling” does turn up an obituary listing at the top, which I tap on immediately, heart back to hammering—but it’s from 2007.
Goddammit. I blow out a breath, gulp nearly half of the remaining cocktail, and give it one last try: Wendy Darling, search.
The circle spins and spins and finally loads. But of course there’s nothing for her. No Amber Alerts I’d somehow missed—thank God. No secret Instagram profiles. Not even so much as a Roblox account.
“Rgh.” I make some wordless, frustrated sound and chuck my phone into my pillow.
Then I follow it, and flop face down on the mattress in the dark.
I lie there a moment, still in the quiet of my room.
Usually, I love nights—privacy, seclusion—but right now, disappointment settles over me, heavier than I’d expected, swimming into my veins alongside the definite buzz I’ve now acquired.
After a moment, once it’s hard to breathe smashed into my phone and pillow, I roll back over and stare at the ceiling, my eyes adjusting somewhat to the dark.
In hindsight, I don’t know why I thought this would get me more than I already have.
My research skills begin and end with Google.
I know enough not to leave my own paper trail, online or otherwise, but that’s more like common sense.
Not like I ran out of Gram’s with my freaking social security card tucked into my bra anyway.
But I don’t know what else to do. Pan won’t be any better than I am as a detective—obviously—and he thinks his poker game is going to tell us whatever we need, besides. Fox and Kit, I doubt it. The only one who might be able to turn anything up would be…
Blue.
I roll onto my side and fold my arm under my head, thinking.
I don’t want to ask him. No, I’m definitely not going to ask him.
What the fuck would I even say? He hates most people on a good day, and me, for whatever reason, especially.
I know he thinks it’s my fault that Wendy’s even here, even though I’d still really, really love to hear what you would have done, genius.
I sit up now, grabbing my drink back and taking another healthy sip.
And he does think he’s so much smarter than me. Than all of us, probably. Just because he’s got his own alter-ego thing going. Except for his alter ego is all about exposure, I think, snorting into my cup. I assume, anyway. I’ve never actually looked at his page.
Although…
I set the cup back on my bedside table. Pick my phone back up.
I lick my lips, tuck my elbows to my chest so my phone’s right in front of my face, and type.
blue biker instagram. Search.
And for the first time all night, the top result is actually what I’m looking for.
It’s him, all right. His profile picture’s got a helmet, but the most recent reels at the top are unmistakable: if the eyes didn’t give it away, the tattoos would.
I clutch my phone tighter and frantically jab the volume down button, pulse racing, and sit frozen for a few seconds. Ten. Thirty. Finally, after at least a whole minute, I relax.
From his Instagram, it’s just a few clicks to his bio, to his link-in-bio landing page, to his…professional page.
A warning window pops up in the middle of my browser. You must be 18 years or older to view this content, it informs me. I smirk, slug back the remainder of my cocktail, and tap the YES, DADDY button.
And…I’m in.
I’m looking at Blue. At so much of Blue. Shirt on, shirt off. Body shots and close ups. Muscles, abs, arms, shoulders, neck. His thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, smirking.
WANT A RIDE? reads the banner at the top.
And in spite of myself, my throat goes a little dry.
Most of the thumbnails are overlaid with a padlock icon—subscribers only, and there’s no way I’m entering payment info here, even if all I have are prepaid gift cards. But the three at the top are available—for freeloaders , reads the subheading—and before I can stop myself, I tap on the first one.
The clip zooms to full screen, and I stare, fascinated, as Blue—my asshole roommate, the guy who hates my guts for no good reason—leans into the camera, nice and close. He’s shirtless. Smirking. And he’s talking right to me.
It’s still muted, the volume icon slashed through. So without thinking, I scramble for the cheap Bluetooth earbuds that are somewhere in my nightstand drawer and stuff one in my ear.
“…watch me stroke my cock for you?”
I clap my hand to my mouth as heat rushes over my chest, up the sides of my throat, blooming over my face, an electric tingle at the back of my neck.
“Is that what you want, pretty girl? Want to see me come?”
Dear fucking God.
It’s Blue’s voice, for sure. I know what he sounds like. But I’ve never heard him like this. Not deeper, exactly, but…warmer. Closer. More intense, if that’s even possible.
The kind of voice I’ve never heard from him.
And I can’t stop listening.
“I’ll do it for you.” On my screen, Blue smirks. Eases back and sits—there’s a chair behind him. This is his room, I think, the room that’s literally just down the hall from me. “But you’ve gotta make me a promise first.”
One hand spans his chest, his thumb grazing his own pierced nipple, and his throat bobs in response, a wordless, masculine sound escaping his lips as his other hand skims lower, toward his waistband. His belt.
“You’ve gotta promise…”
He’s loosening the buckle. The button. The zipper.
“…that if you watch me…”
His fingers are sliding deeper. Flexing. Tightening. Gripping—
“…you’ll be playing with that sweet little pussy of yours…”
Heat, pressure, clenches deep inside me.
Fuck. I slam my eyes shut—I am not turned on watching this. I am not turned on watching this—but that just makes it worse, the hot ache between my legs now pulsing with the need for attention, for touch, and I have to sink my teeth into my lower lip just to avoid letting out a sound.
And yet I can’t look away.
“…that’s it.”
His fist pumps, and as his hips buck into his knuckles, the thick head of his cock glistens between his tight fingers.
Holy shit, holy shit, I think. I am watching Blue jerk off on camera.
Even under all my layers of clothes, I can feel my nipples prick up.
“You see what you—fucking—do to me?”
No. No. I close my eyes.
“Just thinking about you—”
On that last line, his voice dissolves into a moan, and I gasp.
My eyes fly open. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even want to. But I couldn’t not. Like some animal instinct, like he knows exactly how to do what he’s doing.
Like he’s speaking right to me.
“That’s it,” Blue murmurs in my ear. “That’s it, that’s—”
Something raps at my door.
Someone.
“Fuck!” I choke on the word in surprise, dropping my phone like it’s a lit fuse. “Fuck,” I say again, lower, even more panicked now that I realize I basically shrieked the first time. I sit perfectly still, heart jackhammering in my ribs. Did I actually hear that, or am I just imagining things?
I don’t have to wait long to find out.
“The fuck’s going on?” comes a voice. “You in there?”
Not just a voice.
Oh, God.
In three seconds flat I rip the earbud from my ear and throw it across the room, swipe every last app on my phone closed, and throw it on the bed for good measure. Pulse ripping through my veins, I all but fall to my feet getting up for the door.
When I open it, Blue’s hand comes out so fast I think he’s going to punch me in the face.
But no, he’s…holding something.
I blink at it. A cell phone.
“Yours?” he asks.
“Huh?” My brain’s a little fuzzy from the rum-in-a-can, but my pulse is caffeine-quick in my veins as I look down at what he’s got. “No, it’s—” I start, then shake my head, because it doesn’t take long for me to recognize what he’s holding.
And…
Shit, I think.
“Thing’s been buzzing all fucking night,” Blue growls. “It yours, or not?”
Because this is the phone Krye gave to Pan. Specifically. On purpose.
“Shit,” I say out loud. “I mean, uh. Yeah, sure.” I put out my hand. “I’ll take it.”
Blue drops the phone and seems to make a point of staring me hard in the eye, like he wants to look at me, into me for some reason.
I pretend not to notice. That’s the only thing I can do. Just take the phone and drop my arm to my side.
And yet…
Maybe it’s that I’m secretly half-buzzed on white-girl cocktails. Maybe it’s that I was just minutes, if not seconds, ago watching this same man about to get himself off on my phone screen.
But something about the moment is too weird not to remark on. Like if I don’t say something, it’ll seem more suspicious.
So I swallow. “You good, man?”
Blue barely blinks. I haven’t really ever stared into his face for long.
Not sure why I would have. Most of the time when I’m around him, he’s either got a helmet on or half shaded in the lighting of the Lagoon.
But now, even in the low light of the windowless hallway that spans across the loft and all of our rooms—
He’s handsome.
No. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, fairytale word for someone like this. Someone who does what he does.
But he’s got that broad jaw, high cheekbones that cut in, dark hair and brows against fairly pale skin.
And his eyes…
He holds them on me a beat longer. Cold fire.
Then he smirks.
“Look any longer, and I’m gonna have to charge you.”
But the smirk doesn’t reach his eyes.
Then Blue turns, and the door slams after him.
“Keep better track of your shit,” I hear him call.
Then footsteps, and nothing.
Shit.
Shit.
“Shit,” I say out loud. I bite my lip hard in my teeth and rake my fingertips through my hair.
I give my heartbeat five seconds to slow down before I snap back to reality and remember what I’ve got now.
I flick open the phone, scrolling on the thing’s pathetic little click wheel to the missed calls with my free hand.
Blue was right: there’s at least a full screen’s worth: no voicemails, no numbers listed, just BLOCKED. I mash the center button with the most recent call highlighted, just to see if it’ll redial, but…nothing. A woman’s voice informing me that your call cannot be completed as dialed and that’s it.
Slowly, phone to my chest, I slink backwards toward my bed.
That was close, I think.
Close to what, I don’t know. But close.