Chapter 4 #2
“No.” I shake my head. “I really don’t. I’ve tried to think about it, but I can’t come up with anyone who would—“ I gesture around the apartment. “—do this.”
Tacoma nods, slow and deliberate, like he’s turning the information over in his head. Then he looks at Bash. “Have Cyber pull the account history. Every handle that’s messaged her.”
Bash already has his phone out. His thumb moves across the screen without a word.
I blink. That’s it? No forms to fill out? No can you describe the individual in question? Just—done?
Okay then. Good to know how the other half lives.
Tacoma looks at Journey, and something passes between them. One of those silent conversations that men who’ve known each other a long time have.
Whatever Journey reads in that look, he doesn’t like it.
“No,” he says flatly.
Tacoma’s brow climbs toward his hairline.
“I’ve got Stella to deal with.” Journey crosses his arms over his chest, and I notice the coffee stain on the front of his cut has already started to dry. My fault. Again.
Gator snorts. “Thought that’s what the bootlicker was for.”
“Fuck off,” Journey snaps.
“Then what’s the problem?” Tacoma grunts.
Bax stiffens from his spot by the door, and I watch the tips of his ears go red. I feel a little sorry for the guy.
“You’re such an asshole,” Brooklyn says under her breath, shaking her head.
Gator swings those ice-blue eyes in her direction. “Says the girl who told me last Friday that my mama should’ve swallowed.”
Brooklyn lifts her chin. “I stand by it, too.”
“You always got something to say.” He tilts his head, studying her like she’s a puzzle he hasn’t figured out yet. “Every single time I walk through those doors, you’ve got something rude lined up and ready to go.”
Brooklyn narrows her eyes. “If you think that’s rude, you should hear the voice in my head.” She taps her temple. “That bitch is ruthless.”
Bash doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Honey, if you think you’re putting him off, you couldn’t be more wrong.” Finished with what he was texting, he lifts his head and smirks. “He likes ‘em crazy.”
Brooklyn opens her mouth.
“Enough.” Tacoma growls.
Everyone shuts up. Including me, and I wasn’t even talking.
Yikes! He’s a little scary.
Tacoma looks at Journey, his jaw set. It’s crystal clear that the discussion they were having before the Gator and Brooklyn Show is not over. “You’re staying with the girl.”
Journey’s eyes cut sideways to me, then back to Tacoma. “Prez—“
“I can’t have people in this town thinking the club doesn’t have a handle on things.”
“Fine.” Journey stares at the wall, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
I should say something. Right? I mean, he can’t stay here. That would be… yeah, he can’t stay here.
“Uh—“ Every head swings in my direction, and I lose my nerve immediately. “I just—“ Nope. Gone. It’s gone. I clear my throat. “That’s—I mean—“ I look at Stella for help.
She bites her lip.
Traitor.
“What I mean is, that’s really not—he doesn’t have to—“ my eyes slice to Journey. “I don’t want to put anyone out.”
Tacoma’s brows snap together. “You’re not.”
O-kay. And that, apparently, is that.
He turns toward the door, pausing to look at Bash and Gator.
Whatever silent instruction passes between the three of them has both men straightening up and heading for the door.
Gator’s gaze skims over Brooklyn one more time on the way out.
She’s staring very deliberately at the wall above his head.
Tacoma pauses in the doorway and looks back over his shoulder at Journey. “Keep the girl safe.”
“Yeah,” Journey says. He doesn’t sound happy about it. He doesn’t sound like much of anything, actually, which I’m starting to think might just be his default setting.
Tacoma nods once, then disappears with his entourage behind him.
Bax shifts by the door. “I’ll be outside.”
“Oh, sure,” I say, because my default response to literally any situation is be polite. “Thank you.”
He grunts and disappears.
Me, Stella, Brooklyn, and my new houseguest leaning against the wall—are quiet for a moment.
“So,” Brooklyn says as she looks at Journey. Then at me. Then back at Journey. “Where are you sleeping?”
Stella covers her mouth with both hands.
My face goes so hot I could probably fry an egg on it.
Journey’s gaze travels over the sofa that’s spewing foam, to the tiny kitchen, and finally settles on the bed tucked against the far wall.
The small bed.
The singular bed.
He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I’ll take the floor,” he finally says.
“You—“ I start, because again, my default is to be nice.
“Floor’s fine,” he says, and the way he says it closes the door on the conversation before I even had a chance to walk through it.
Stella is not even trying to hide her smile anymore.
I point at her. “Don’t.”
She holds up both hands, the picture of innocence.
I look back at the garbage bag I dropped by the window. At the smashed lipsticks, the broken palettes and the eyeshadow dust ground into my white rug that I will never, not in a million years, get out.
The flutter of fear that’s been living in my chest since we got here pulls tight, and just like that I’m very, very glad that Tacoma is the kind of man who gives orders.
Even if the man he gave them to looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth than stuck here with me.