Chapter 31
RAJAN GLANCES DOWN at Simran, crouching on the floor, only momentarily. Only to reassure himself she’s alive.
He’d thought the worst, when he leapt out of Nick’s vehicle behind the café. He’d ignored Nick telling him to wait for the reinforcements.
He nearly got shot in the service hallway—bullet went clean through his hoodie. Rajan’s fist, on the other hand, didn’t miss. After the Ace was out cold, Rajan broke into the kitchen and saw Simran’s ledgers scattered on the table, a pen rolling off, and...and...
Simran’s glasses. Wire frame, completely dated, but always so straight on her nose. Now, twisted on the floor. One arm snapped off. The lenses crushed to dust.
Rajan felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. A cool rage swept over him, pushing out all other thought. Although he had a gun courtesy of Nick, he paused to select a heavy marble rolling pin from the rack. Weighed it in his hands. And set out to make whoever was responsible pay.
Well, he found him. Now that he’s determined Simran’s alive, he hauls her attacker up by the jacket and leans him against one of the busted pastry display cases.
His head lolls into it, resting against the metal trays.
The flickering light from the display illuminates a small wound oozing in his throat.
Clearly it hadn’t hit anything vital. Rajan can fix that.
He drops the rolling pin and takes out his gun. He raises it, and points it between the Ace’s eyes.
His finger is curling around the trigger when Simran’s voice cuts through the roaring in his head.
“Don’t.”
She sounds calm somehow. Rajan doesn’t fire, but he doesn’t lower the gun either. “He came for you.”
She stands slowly. “That’s not a reason to kill somebody.”
“He saw your face.”
“You just knocked him into next week. He’s not going to remember his own face, let alone mine.” Her voice softens. “Rajan. You don’t want to kill somebody right in front of me, do you? Don’t kill him.”
He wishes she’d shut up. She doesn’t.
“Let’s go, Rajan. My truck isn’t far.” He doesn’t move. Until her hand touches his wrist.
Then he looks at her. Her braid’s coming undone. His own cold expression reflects back in her luminous eyes. Good. Look at me, he thinks. See what you’ve been ignoring.
But Simran doesn’t look afraid. “Don’t you hear the sirens?”
And then he does. Faintly, but getting louder by the second. Damn it.
He flicks the safety on and tucks the gun away, ignoring her relieved sigh. “Fine. Stay close.”
He leads them through the dark back to the kitchen, avoiding the glass. She shadows every step, only pausing to pick up her purse. They peer into the service hallway. It’s dark. Empty.
He beckons her to follow, stepping over the Ace he knocked out earlier. They’ve almost reached the exit when gunshots erupt outside again.
Automatically, he shoves Simran down, covering her body with his. But a moment later he realizes nobody’s shooting into the café—they’re shooting at someone outside. Nick and the others must’ve run across some Aces.
Rajan presses his face against the top of Simran’s head. A minute passes; sometime during it, her body begins trembling beneath him. Eventually, the gunshots slow and stop. Tires squeal from the front of the store. Sirens blare.
He pulls away from Simran, then peers through a crack at the edge of the door. Coast is clear—Nick finally did something useful. “Okay, let’s go.”
He reaches for the door handle. Glances back.
Simran’s still on all fours, her wide eyes staring at nothing.
“Let’s go,” he repeats, more urgently. Simran covers her face.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“Why not?”
“I—I can’t see.”
The hitch in her voice hits him right in the chest. Of course. It’s so easy to forget this isn’t her life. She’s so good at pretending normally that sometimes even he’s fooled.
But no. She should be studying calculus right now. Shooting the shit with her annoying-ass cousin. She should be singing, she should be dating Jassa Singh, she should be living her life, not fighting for it here in the dirt with him.
He kneels at her side. The darkness makes him bolder, and he takes her face in his hand, sweeping a thumb over her fuzzy cheek. She jerks in place. “You don’t have to see. Just—” Trust me, he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat.
Simran seems to hear them anyway. She exhales shakily, then presses her truck keys into his palm. “I’m ready.”
So they run.
Rajan begins to relax ten minutes into their drive. He’s been keeping an eye on the rearview, but nobody seems to be following. He takes plenty of random detours in case.
As he’s doing yet another U-turn, Simran says, “You’re not supposed to drive.”
He glances at her. She’s unbraided her hair, and is finger-combing the waves while staring out the window. It’s the first time he’s seen her hair loose and it’s extremely distracting. “I think we’re way past giving a shit about probation, Rapunzel.”
The passing streetlights glint off the glass dust embedded in her arms. The collar of her shirt is torn. Without glasses, her eyes are huge, unguarded. But the bags under them are more pronounced, too. There’s a gash on the inner corner of her nose, next to her eye.
Rajan’s grip tightens on the wheel. “What happened to you before I showed up?”
She shakes her head. “He—hit me a couple times, that’s all. He didn’t know who I was. And it was dark. I think I’m safe.”
He hit me a couple times. She says that like it’s nothing. It’s messed up. “You have to quit.”
“I—”
“I’m not screwing around anymore,” Rajan snaps. “They hit the café because they were looking for the bookkeeper. For you. Do you understand that? Do you understand what they wanted to do?”
Simran closes her eyes briefly. “Rajan—”
“I’ve watched you destroy your life for the Lions for months, and I’m done. Fuck the end of July thing. Do you see how dangerous this is now?”
“I’m—”
“Doesn’t matter how careful you are. As long as you’re with them, you’re not safe, you could die, like you almost did tonight—”
“Rajan!” Simran shouts, loud enough that he almost crashes into the curb. She so rarely raises her voice. “I agree, okay? It’s time to leave. I just don’t know how. It’s like you said...I doubt Nick will listen.” Her hand trembles as she pushes up phantom glasses.
Rajan almost doesn’t know what to say now that she’s agreeing. “He might listen to my baseball bat,” he mutters eventually. “We’ll figure something out.”
A foreboding silence falls. Because they both know that’s not a real plan.
The closer they get to her house, the slower he drives. “Where should I park?”
“Driveway. My parents are at the gurdwara for an Akhand Paath.” Simran rakes her hair back. It’s so long it’s spilling over her seat. No wonder she keeps it in a braid. “They won’t be back until morning.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
Simran avoids his eyes. “I said I was working on Hillway stuff.”
“Jesus Christ.”
She ignores this. “How are you going to get home?”
“Don’t know.” Don’t care. He just has to see her inside. He parks in reverse in case she needs a quick getaway. But as he twists to look behind him, his shoulder sharply reminds him of what happened earlier.
Simran notices. “You’re hurt!”
He finishes parking. A little lopsided, but whatever, he’s rusty. “Just my shoulder.” He jumps when Simran reaches over and starts running her hands down his chest. “Get off me. I’m fine.”
Unfortunately, right then she finds the bullet hole in his hood. Her voice hits a new pitch. “When did this happen?”
“Tonight. Probably.”
“Probably?”
He doesn’t know how to tell her he’s been shot at before. “Relax, dude. It went straight through.”
Simran isn’t reassured. She grabs his hoodie. “Take it off. Right now.”
She has no clue he’s about to be psychologically tortured by those words for months to come. He pushes her hands away. “No way am I doing this here.”
“Then you’ll come inside.” Her voice firmly indicates she won’t get out of the truck until he agrees.
Rajan sighs and turns off the ignition. Only when he gets out and shuts the door does she follow suit. Then she trails him to the front door.
The two-storey house looms over him, the windows darkened. The lawn is well-trimmed. Hedges out front. Intimidatingly perfect, even when he knows the inside isn’t. “Are you sure—”
“Yes.” Simran unlocks the door, and his heart thuds faster than ever when she glances over her shoulder at him. He hovers on the doorstep, feeling like a goddamn vampire. Entering her house is...crossing a line.
But she holds the door open, so with a deep breath, he steps inside.