Chapter 5
Five
Raven
It’s gone midnight by the time I get back to Tujunga, and I’m pissed.
At Kurt, at Kawasaki, at myself for letting this happen.
How long until he sings? Is my face already plastered on the news?
No… it can’t be. Not yet, anyway. Kawasaki doesn’t know my full name, just my first.
Yeah, because so many people are called Genesis.
Shit!
So what now? Skip the city, ride far and long? On what cash?
I’m wearing a backpack loaded with valuables, but I can’t touch that. Kurt would kill me. Besides, I wouldn’t do that to the crew. And I have to drop it off before I can go, for the same reasons.
There’s no choice. Head to my apartment, pack shit up, ready my bike for a long trip, drop the bag off with Kurt tomorrow night. Then go.
I can’t even head for home. If they’ve got my name, they’ve got my family. My parents are going to be so disappointed. My brother… well, he probably won’t be surprised. He might even come and visit me in whatever penitentiary I end up at.
God damn it.
I kick the door open to my apartment, slam it shut behind me, the petty acts of violence doing nothing to take the edge off my anger. Backpack goes under the bed, just so I don’t have to look at the damn thing.
The TV will have the confirmation I’ve been dreading, and I almost don’t turn it on. But I need to know how bad it is.
It doesn’t take long to find a channel; the coverage is everywhere.
I see the headline. I sink down into the couch, staring at it. Whatever the anchors are saying just washes over me.
Kawasaki’s dead.
Not just captured. Dead.
I watch long enough for the footage to play again. I have to see myself. But there’s no doubting it, not with that headline and the way his body twitches under multiple impacts.
He pulled a weapon on a police roadblock.
Was that just pure stupidity? Or was he so against spending years in a steel box he’d rather be dead instead?
Hell, on that, I can sympathize with him.
But he’s dead, and the risk has gone. There’s no mention of clear leads of other suspects. No Yamaha fleeing the scene, no Honda Cbr caught somewhere south. And if they had Cammy’s van, they’d be crowing.
We got away with it. Clean.
I shut the TV off, still in a daze. Then I strip out of my leathers, hanging them up to air, and take a much-deserved shower. The hot water works its way into tired muscles, and I brace a hand on the tiles, my head hanging as I stand there for ages.
Intense, pale blue eyes. Strong jaw. Shoulders to hang onto.
Jesus Christ. I need to get my head on straight. I am so not doing this again. Not with another man who’ll treat me like shit, until I wake up one morning and find him gone.
Or like Brandon, taking one of my friends with him. That double betrayal is still an open wound, three years on.
You going to be alone the rest of your life?
It’s not a helpful thought, but the short answer is yes. I’ve been half tempted to hook up with Tasha; she swings both ways, she might be up for it. Except the only appeal is that she’s not a man.
Before I know it, one hand has found its way to my breast, cupping, squeezing, flicking over my nipple. The other is between my legs, discovering just how wet I am. And it sure the hell isn’t Tasha I’m thinking of.
I stop, shutting the shower off in disgust, find a towel and dry. It’s late, I’m tired, and this is not the time to be thinking about this. About him.
Some man I don’t know who now seems to be intertwined into my life.
The smart thing to do would be to go early to Kurt’s place and drop the bag off. Ride away before anyone else arrives. But since when have I been smart?
It’s a problem for tomorrow. Right now, I need sleep.
But I lie awake, despite the lateness. I tell myself it’s still adrenaline. Or the relief of Kawasaki being dead—couldn’t have happened to more of an asshole. No pangs of guilt there.
No, the guilt comes from the way my hand once more finds itself between my legs, and the voice I can’t get out of my head.
“Do you fuck the way you fight?”
God, I want to find out how he fucks. I really, really do.
It takes two orgasms and a wave of self-loathing before sleep finally finds me.
I wake to the sun streaming in, morning long here, and text messages.
One from Kurt, telling me the location of his new art unit, and confirming a 7 p.m. meet. The other is from my brother.
I’m guessing the fun on the news last night has absolutely nothing to do with you.
I pull on a robe and pad through into my living room, flicking on the TV as I make coffee. They’re not talking about the robbery, only the shooting. The robbery is just setting and flavor. That’s good; it means they have nothing else.
Listening with half an ear, I wait to hear them talk about suspects, bikes, vans, or evidence left at the scene. But it’s all noise. One throwaway line about the FBI’s LA field office assisting local law enforcement. Standard stuff. Not even a mention of what’s been stolen.
The backpack is visible from here, tucked safely under my bed. It was heavy. Whatever Kurt pulled from those vaults is…
Wait. No reports of stolen goods on Pablo’s body?
I pick up my phone, googling the news. Check one article. A second. A third. There’s nothing.
Kurt gets a text back.
See you at 7. What was in P’s backpack?
While I’m at it, I type a reply to my brother, too.
Nice to hear from you, Asswipe. There are 30k crimes a day in this country. Just coz one hits the news in CA, you immediately assume it’s me?
I grin at myself and send it.
Kurt replies first.
Drills.
My grin turns into a chuckle. Clever bastard.
Then it fades as I sober. I just committed to seeing him tonight, when I was planning to drop around early, then leave.
Shit.
I almost type a reply, telling him my change of plans. But that’s not my style, not once I’ve said I’d do something.
Now I’ll have to see Firebla—Declan Hale again. Exactly what I didn’t want. Exactly what I do want, for all the wrong reasons.
Not only that, but it means I’ve got half the loot. Unless it wasn’t just Kawasaki that Kurt screwed over.
What did you give D?
I fully expect him to say half. But his response comes back like he was anticipating the question.
Drills.
Declan’s going to be pissed. The thought makes me catch my breath, imagining him angry. My nipples tighten, my stomach flips. Heat stirs, like it did last night. God, I want to see him when he’s angry. See some passion in those cold blue eyes.
Damn. Why did my thoughts go straight there?
But now that they have, I think about it more. Did Kurt even tell Declan the new location? Has he cut them loose? Maybe I won’t have to see him after all, and I’m torn on whether that’s good or not. But it’s not wise to screw with a gang like Briggs’s. I hope Kurt knows what he’s doing.
And I’m still pissed at him. He got lucky that Pablo was killed. Otherwise, we’d all have artist’s impressions on the TV this morning.
A text comes in from my brother.
I was going to message you anyway, Snotnose. Dad’s not well. He had a heart attack last night—before you didn’t hit the news, so don’t feel guilty. He’s in the hospital. Mom wants you to visit… if you will. I told her you will. You will, right?
How long has it been since I spoke to either of them? Christmas. Not the last one, but the one before.
And since I saw them? It takes me a while to remember. Too long.
I scroll up through my text history with my brother. Messages at birthdays, plus one or two more each year. Nothing more than that. I really am the black sheep.
Yes, I’ll come. Soon.
The message sends, and I’m committed now. I won’t go back on my word.
First, I have to see Kurt, and that’s not for hours. I can’t even go for a run, or see Lou. Not with a bag of stolen goods stuffed under my bed. And it’s not like I can take it with me.
I’m stuck in my apartment, nothing to do but watch TV and try, very hard, not to let my thoughts wander.
Shitty day.
This many hours cooped up means I’m in a bad mood by the time six rolls around. I take another quick shower, pull my leathers back on, lever the bag from under my bed and work it onto my back.
Then I’m on my Ducati, riding the twenty miles through LA to reach the address Kurt has given me.
His new place is an upgrade on the old, on a slightly smarter street, a chic boutique coffee shop opposite.
His building still has a ‘Creative Office To Lease’ sign strapped to the brickwork outside, but within, it’s almost homely.
We’re on the second floor, the main space open plan with a couple of rooms at the back, and the moldy couches have been replaced with two shiny ones, cheap but with deep seats, and an enormous fucking beanbag. Like who’s going to sit on that?
Kurt’s Chesterfield has survived the move, of course, and he gets up from it as I walk in, closing a book he was reading and stuffing it down the side of the chair. He has paint on his hands, out with his graffiti cans again. I hope none of it goes on that book.
“Well done, Genesis. Good work.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, out of reflex, and not with any civility.
He helps me with my backpack, taking the weight as I undo the straps. Then I turn on him.
“The hell was that clusterfuck with Pablo?”
He raises a mocking eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re upset he’s dead.”
“Not for a minute. But you got lucky. What happens if they took him alive?”
Kurt sets my bag down on one of the couches before he answers. “I didn’t think that was likely.” He undoes the flap. “Did you look in here?”
“That’s not an answer,” I retort, warming to my theme.
“Even you can’t predict everything. What happens if he came off in the desert, knocked himself out, woke up in a cell?
” I glare at him. “Too many ways that could’ve gone wrong.
” I jerk my chin at the bag. “And of course I didn’t open it. You know me better than that.”
“And if it had gone wrong?” he asks, voice far too calm for my liking.
“Then we’d have the cops raiding your unit—”
“—Which I’ve left.”