Chapter 2
Two
Raven
All goddamn weekend I stew over that encounter.
Not the Kawasaki baby. He’s not worth a second thought.
No, it’s the blue eyes.
Fireblade.
I don’t even know his name.
That near-perfect face. Brutally handsome like he’d look good dirty, look good tired, look good in bad light. No one has a right to look that good. It shouldn’t be possible.
That intense stare. Watching me, so damn unruffled. Not even offering to defend me—not that I needed it.
And that line.
“Do you fuck the way you fight?”
Last night, I dreamed that line. Today’s Sunday, and I’m cranky.
More than usual. Poking around my one-bedroom apartment in Tujunga.
Watching MotoGP doesn’t help, and neither does going for a run, no matter how loud I turn my AirPods.
Then You Look So Fine by Garbage comes up, and that shit isn’t appreciated, not one bit.
Good song, though.
My thoughts keep circling back to Fireblade.
I hate that it’s been so long I was almost tempted to take him up on his offer.
There’s no doubt it was an offer.
Part of me wants to ride out to Franco’s and see if the bastard is there. Part of me knows that’s crazy. First, he won’t be. Second, I don’t want to be in range of his friends. I might be reckless, but I’m not stupid.
Third, I can’t afford distractions. Not now, not this week.
Monday, I’m down in Palm Springs, back on my bike, going over my routes.
Tuesday, I meet with Kurt.
I owe Kurt a lot. When I first came to LA, I was the stereotypical Pretty Woman girl—left behind a boring life to follow a man I shouldn’t have followed. I saw the damn film and still went and did it. Kurt stopped me from ending up on the streets—well actually, that was Lou, and his custom shop.
Six years ago, dirty and hungry, I wandered in and told him I knew my way around a wrench. He gave the scrawny eighteen-year-old girl on his doorstep a dubious look, buried his sympathy, and waved me over to a disassembled carburetor soaking in carb cleaner.
I was twelve when I first did that in my dad’s garage back home.
Lou stood with his arms folded, watching as I made sure each part was clean and scrubbed out the deposits, then carefully aligned the jets, floats, and gaskets, putting it all back together.
Then he took me out for lunch. At Subway.
It was a week later that Kurt found me, about to take one of Lou’s customer’s bikes for a test ride. He gave me what he called ‘courier jobs,’ that rather quickly went up in pay and illegality.
I didn’t care. It was either deliver drugs or go home, and I never wanted to go to college anyway. This was much more fun; I got to ride bikes all day.
Kurt keeps a unit in the Arts District, and though he moves locations after every big job, they’re always around here somewhere. It’s a legitimate hangout given he’s a true artist, even if his medium is graffiti. Half the murals in the ’hood are his.
Tasha’s already there when I turn up. She’s an artist too, with a shop nearby and a different type of ink. Some of her work is on my body, including the stooping raven on my shoulder blade, wings spread and talons extended. I’m certain it helps my riding.
She greets me with a grin and slaps my ass, my leather pants absorbing most of the sting.
Then she takes her usual seat on the moldy couch behind her open laptop—another artform—phishing, hacking, whatever Kurt needs.
The coffee table is covered with papers—security systems, floor plans, some tech sheet with the heading of cellular jammer.
Three pairs of little black boxes sit on the pages.
I know what those are: relay attack devices. Steal a bike in seconds with those.
“Genesis.” Kurt nods to me. He’s thin in a wiry way, lean and hard. Black jeans, black T-shirt. I’ve never seen him wear anything else.
He’s the only one outside my parents who calls me by my birthname. Even my brother settles for ‘Gen.’ It’s not like ‘Raven’ is hard to say; Kurt’s just that stubborn.
Genesis Greer needs a nickname the way a Ducati needs an open road.
I set my crash helmet down, helping myself to lukewarm coffee from the pot—black because Kurt doesn’t believe in milk—and take the armchair I prefer.
It’s faintly musty with a couple of stains I don’t want to think about too hard, but wide enough to tuck my legs up.
Just not while wearing leathers and my boots.
By then, Dario and Cole have arrived. They’re our muscle.
Dario greets me with an easy grin, sporting an Iron Maiden T-shirt that’s taut over his chest. Cole’s the quiet, brooding one, handsome in a distinctly British way, almost too beautiful for me.
He was a lieutenant in their army until they cashiered him for punching an officer somewhere in Afghanistan.
Cammy turns up late, which is ironic, given that she’s the driver. Cars, not bikes—she drives the van. She’s my age, dirty blond, blue eyes, none of my tattoos but we share the same attitude and for much the same reason, though she never opened up to me about her past relationships.
And that’s the crew—or it will be, when Hank gets here.
Kurt’s chair is a bona fide wingback he calls his Chesterfield. It’s a villain look if ever I saw one, and it suits him. He props his elbows on the arms, steeples his fingers, and that usually marks the start of our meeting. The rest take seats, and I frown.
“Hank’s not here.”
Tasha goes still. Cammy looks uncomfortable.
“He’s not coming,” Kurt says coolly.
“What?”
“He came off on Mulholland Drive, doing about fifty.”
“Shit.” I wince. “How bad? Tell me he was at least wearing…”
Kurt slowly shakes his head, both anticipating my question and giving me the answer.
If I’ve told Hank once I’ve told him a fucking hundred times: wear gloves. Nine times out of ten, they’re more important than a lid. The instinct is to put your hands out; at low speed, head injuries are much rarer. Fifty is nothing on the bikes we ride.
“How bad?” I ask.
“Lost his skin down to the subcutaneous tissue,” Kurt says without emotion. “Fractured his scaphoid, stripped his tendons.”
Fuck. I feel sick, and not just because it brings home how easy it is to do that.
“It was last Friday,” Tasha adds softly, in counter to Kurt’s indifference. “He’s at the UCLA medical center.”
I suppose I should go and see him. But I won’t. “So what, we’re bouncing Thursday?”
“We’re bouncing nothing,” Kurt says.
My eyebrows go up. “You want me to ride alone?”
“No.” A pause. “I’m bringing help in.”
“You fucking what?” I’m leaning forward, almost on my feet. Anyone else, I’d already be walking out. “We’re two days away, and you’re bringing in another rider now?”
“No, I’m bringing in two more,” Kurt replies, his total indifference even more irritating than usual.
“Okay, whatever.” I stand up, setting my cup down on the coffee table. “Then you clearly don’t need me.”
Great. Hours spent riding around Palm Springs for nothing.
“Told you,” Dario murmurs. I give him the look that deserves and go for my lid by the coffee machine.
“Sit down, Genesis,” Kurt says before I reach it. His voice is calm, the way it always is.
I resist the temptation to obey, but it’s an effort. Instead, I turn to him. “You bring two fresh faces in here, two days before a job, and you expect me to be happy?”
“I expect you to play your part.”
“And when they take off with our cash?”
“Then I hunt them down and break their legs,” he says like it’s a school trip. “They won’t. They’ve been vouched for.”
“By whom?”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Are you questioning my contacts?”
Dario chuckles. “She’s so hot when she does grammar,” he mutters to Cole.
“Just because your education is lacking,” Cole murmurs back.
Dario shrugs. “We can’t all be British toffs.”
I ignore their banter, focused on Kurt. I don’t want to go to prison because some asswipe I don’t know screws up, screws the job, or gets cold feet when it matters. But he does have a point: it’s his gig, his crew, his contacts. And he’s always been solid.
“Fine,” I huff, dropping back into my chair with bad grace. “Where the hell are they then?”
“Here in…” He checks his watch. “Now.”
“Except they’re not,” I point out, just as a badly-timed knock comes on the door.
I glare as Cammy gets up to open it. Just let Dario make a comment about that, and I’ll rip him a new one.
Three men enter. The first I think I know; the second and third I definitely do.
It’s Kawasaki, and the other guy was at Franco’s too. And Fireblade brings up the rear.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I’m back on my feet. “That’s a no, Kurt. A hard no. I’m out.”
“Yeah, take a walk, little girl,” Kawasaki says, swaggering in like this is his place.
He’s sporting a wicked welt on his cheek, the skin a deep purple-black, running to yellow-green at the edges.
That eye’s half-closed from the swelling, but his other doesn’t look much better, both of them ringed with shadow.
The bruise on his temple is a pleasingly vivid violet, and his nose has a kink in it I’m sure wasn’t there when he got in my face.
“The fuck happened to you?” Dario asks, amused. That earns him some brownie points back.
Kawasaki nods at me. “She did.”
“It was either that or sucking his cock,” I say, folding my arms. “Not much of a decision.”
“You don’t know what you missed,” Kawasaki replies.
Fireblade’s head turns awfully slowly to stare at him, and for a moment, those pale-blue eyes go cold and empty.
Then his expression wipes clean. I’m not sure anyone else noticed; they’re all looking at Kawasaki with varying degrees of disgust. It’s not like I’m hyper aware of Fireblade’s expressions.
Or his proximity to me. Or his half-open jacket, the flash of bare chest beneath, the hint of a skull tattoo, and ink work all the way from there and up his neck.
“Genesis.” Kurt’s on his feet too. Then surprises me by adding, “Please.”
Fireblade’s attention snaps to me, like he’s clocking my name.
“Raven,” I mutter, not looking at him and really hating life right now.
Kurt turns to the third guy. “Briggs, would you explain?”
The man called Briggs gestures at Kawasaki. “This is Diablo—”
I scoff, drawing a few glances.
“You think my name’s funny?” Kawasaki sneers. “Raven?”
God, I hate that guy.
“—and Declan Hale,” Briggs finishes firmly.
At least Fireblade hasn’t stylized himself. Shit, how disappointed would I have been if he’d gone with Blitz, or Rogue, or Cobra?
Not disappointed at all. You don’t care.
“I said two,” Kurt replies.
“It is two,” Briggs says. “I won’t be riding.”
Kurt nods. “Very well.”
“Take Briggs too,” I say. “Then I get to go home.”
Kawasaki—I can’t bring myself to call him Diablo, even in my head—curls his lip, flicking his fingers like he’s shooing me away. But Kurt steps past the coffee table, puts one hand on my hip, and leans in.
His voice is quiet in my ear. “You need the money.”
“I don’t care,” I reply, not bothered who hears. He’s right, I do. But at this price? Not worth it.
“Then do it as a favor to me.”
Shit. Now there’s no backing out. I owe him too much, and the bastard knows it.
Fireblade—Declan Hale—is watching. His eyes are on Kurt’s hand, on my hip, and a muscle twitches in his jaw.
There’s way too much testosterone in this room.
“Fine,” I say between clenched teeth. “I’ll do it for that alone.”
“Thank you.”
That’s a please and a thank you from Kurt on the same day. Almost as disconcerting as Hale’s unblinking stare.
“You’re welcome. But I’m not spending another minute in a room with him.” I jerk my chin at Kawasaki, collect my lid from by the coffee machine, and push past Briggs to get to the door.
“See you Thursday,” Cammy calls after me.
It’s a show of support, but I’m not in the mood to receive it. I pull my helmet on, tuck my braid in, fix my gloves, then throw a leg over my Ducati.
And I’m gone.
I’m half way to Lou’s shop before I realize Declan Hale never said a word.
He’s only ever spoken one line.
“Do you fuck the way you fight?”
Lou’s shop is in Tujunga, not far from my apartment, and it’s always full of bikes in various states of disarray. An engine hangs on a hoist, oil everywhere, and Miguel is up to his elbows with a bottom-end rebuild. He grins at me, hair slicked back, a dirty smear on his cheek.
“Hola. Where’s Lou?”
He nods to the corner. “Office, chica.”
It sounds a lot better when he says it than that dick Kawasaki.
Walking through Lou’s shop is always bitter-sweet for me. Too many memories now. It’s been three years, but I still see Mistake Number Two everywhere I look. Brandon replacing a chain against that wall. Brandon changing a tire in the pit. Brandon holding his hand out to me for a socket and ratchet.
Before he fucked off with Vera and never came back.
It doesn’t matter how many bikes I fix, how much oil I wash out of my hair, I still can’t overlay new memories over those old ones.
God, I hate men. Except when there are heavy things to lift.
Lou’s sitting in his chair, feet up on his desk. He’s pushing fifty now, which makes him about a hundred years older than me. A real father figure, with all the advantages and none of the angst. A wave of guilt washes through me as I realize I haven’t spoken to my dad in months.
It’s not just that I’m avoiding my mother—who makes a competitive sport of disappointment—it’s that I’m too ashamed.
“Resting bitch face, Raven,” he says in greeting. “What’s bugging you now?”
That’s harsh. I don’t have resting… whatever.
I flop down on his couch with a sigh. “I need a favor.”
“Of course you do. Why else would you be here?”
That’s harsh too. “What put you in a bad mood?”
Lou shrugs a shoulder and gestures to the papers spread out on his desk. “Money. Or not enough of it.” The wave of his hand turns into a dismissive flap in the air. “Never mind.” He kicks his feet off, straightens in his chair, and swivels it to face me. “What do you need?”
“Maybe we can help each other,” I begin tentatively.
“Uh-oh,” he says, then shoves away from the desk, rolling his chair back until he can hook the door with one hand. He slams it shut. “Kurt?”
“Yeah, Kurt.” I hate asking Lou for this, but I don’t have any other options. “You want a cut-in on my share of a job?”
“Drug running?” Lou shakes his head sadly. “It’s not my scene.”
“You know I haven’t done that in years. This is a bank job. Private deposit boxes. Jewelry, Rolexes, untraceable cash. High value.”
“Yeah?” His interest piques. “What do you want me for?”
“We’ve got a full crew, and it’s competent.” Except for the new boys. One of them in particular. “But I’m cautious, and…” Uncomfortable. Especially with the new boys. One of them in particular. “…like to have options.”
“Fifty percent?” Lou says hopefully.
“One, it’s a cut of my share, not the job. Two, twenty percent tops.”
I let him beat me up to twenty-five. It’s worth it, knowing I have an ace in the hole.
On this job? I know I’ll need it.