8. Tink
TINK
In and out. In and out.
It’s already cost me my beach day.
I breathe behind my helmet and shake my head.
In and out. In and fucking out, Pan.
It’s a beautiful day in London Valley: sunshine, warm air, blue skies, and green lawns—at least in the rich part of town where everyone runs sprinklers 24/7, which we’re riding straight past. But if you do exit here, take the coastal road for a few miles…
suddenly you’re there, sand and surf and sun.
Sun, sun on my face, sun on my skin, all of my skin.
I needed that. I still do. More than ever given how my night ended—
What the fuck are you even doing down here? It’s three in the fucking morning.
But I can’t have it.
Tink can’t have it.
We keep riding south, way south, me zigzagging after Pan, him darting between vehicles, leaning hard into turns, shirt flapping with no jacket to pin it down. Ten, twenty, maybe thirty miles over the limit, whatever.
It’s better that way, I tell myself as we exit for Cottage Grove, the main road through Kensington.
Being out, in the real world, as a girl was a risk no matter what.
Better not to tempt fate after that close call with Blue—not that I think he suspected.
Just…pissed at getting interrupted. Pissed at a dickhead roommate.
Pissed, generally. Which is Blue all over.
The sun glares as we turn, bouncing off of aluminum roofs and heat-slick street tar. Kensington is the opposite of the Hills. It’s as about as sketchy as the Strip, just more residential. Fox is here a lot, finding bikes. Me and Pan have the occasional drop or pickup. But it’s mostly just houses.
And lots of houses like the one we stop in front of.
It’s unremarkable, a little gray bungalow with a pebble front yard, dying palm tree, and cracked sidewalks. Blinds down. Far cry from a real casino, but it’s where real money can be made.
Or lost, in Pan’s case.
Mike and JD’s. Where, supposedly, Pan’s going to get his jacket back for way less than he owes.
Pan dismounts in a flash and cocks his head to the side. “Hmm.” He folds his arms, studying the place. “You think anyone’s home?”
He glances sideways at me. I shrug, look around to see if the coast is clear—no one outside, but we’re wall-to-wall with neighbors, any one of whom could see us and know we don’t belong here. But before I can even turn all the way back, he’s on the move again.
“Yo,” I call, jogging to him. “Wait up. You can’t just walk in—”
“Why not?” Pan raps a knuckle against the door as he turns the knob—locked. “Hey, anyone home?”
“That was different,” I say, catching up and breathing hard. Whoever these guys are—Mike and JD, the hosts and I guess the owners of this place—didn’t really keep the game invite-only, so us and all the other takers just kind of waltzed in.
Now, though…
“Hmm.” Pan leans one ear to the door, twisting and turning the knob as he does. I look back over my shoulder, uneasy, just in time to see the curtains in a picture window across the street snap shut.
Great. Just what we need. Eyewitnesses.
“No deadbolt,” Pan mutters, giving the door another tug. “And no chain. Bet I can just…”
He digs in his pockets, searching, and finally fishes out his Fill-R-Up loyalty card, which he shrugs at.
“That’ll work.” With the knob gripped in his left hand, he slides the card through the crack between the door and the wall, and—
Click.
“Look at that!” he cries—loud. “Open fuckin’ sesame.”
Instinctively, I whip my head back around. Just in time to catch the curtains flutter a second time.
“Would you shut up?” I say through my teeth. “I think someone saw us.”
Pan laughs. “Let ‘em look.” He swings the door open and takes a few strides into the dark living room. Big mirror on the wall, big TV, big brown leather couch, all vaguely familiar. “Hello?” When there’s no answer, he shrugs. “Guess we start looking around.”
A prickling feeling crawls up the back of my neck. “Dude—”
“Hello?” he calls again. “Eh, they probably have jobs, because they’re boring and they suck.” Seeing me, he snickers. “C’mon, relax.”
He grabs my shoulder to shake it, and I slide out of his grasp just in time. Instinct—I can’t risk being touched. Don’t like it, even with my own jacket on and protecting me. All I get is the brush of his fingertips.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to do anything stupid,” I say. If whoever it was across the street knows their neighbors, then they’re gonna know that the two biker boys—one with stupidly bright red hair—are not Mike and JD.
“And I thought you said you were going to stop me if I did.” Pan unceremoniously starts pushing things around, flipping up sofa cushions, kicking the dining room chairs apart. “Hmm, hmm, hmm.”
I trail him, nervous now. Because he’s right.
I should’ve stopped him, stopped him as soon as the door was locked.
That’s my job—stop things before they escalate.
I’m not an enforcer, or even a good fighter.
That’d be Fox, or Blue, if it comes to it.
I didn’t think this was something we’d need one for.
But now…
I don’t know. Pan may be feeling this little B&E moment, but I’m not. There’s something about this house, I think. Empty and dark like this, in the blazing Valley sunshine. The quiet streets. The maybe-possible witness across the street.
I don’t like it.
I don’t know if women’s intuition is real or just sexist bullshit, but I know it’s something I can’t seem to shake.
Even now.
“Jacket?” Pan calls, like it’s a dog he’s ordering to heel. “Where are you?”
“Dude,” I say, my teeth clenched. “Shut up.”
Except the faster we find it, the faster we’re out of here, I realize. Sometimes, with Pan, once he’s already pot committed, the only way out is through.
And I guess this is one of those times.
Pan wanders to the kitchen, and I watch in the gap of the pass-through as he picks up a box of Lucky Charms, shakes it, and digs in a hand. Spotting me, he laughs. “Come on,” he says, chomping a handful. “Lighten up.”
There aren’t a lot of situations that I have to ask myself what would a guy do?
Not consciously, anyway. I’ve gotten good.
But now is one of those times that I do.
Second-guessing myself. Am I being too anxious?
Too much of a pussy? An unfamiliar setting and unclear contexts are all running together in my mind.
But it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter because all I know for sure is that we’re not getting out of here until he gets his jacket.
So I swallow whatever I’m feeling and start helping him look.
The table’s still set up in the dining room: a few chips scattered around, empty beers, but nothing else. From the kitchen, I hear Pan banging around: opening the fridge, it sounds like.
“The hell are you doing?” I yell.
“Getting something to drink,” he calls back. “Damn. Nothing.”
Christ, I think, as I hear the fridge slam. Okay, focus. Jacket. Find it. Nothing in here that I can tell. Floor’s pretty bare, nothing hung over the backs of the chairs. I stride back out to the living room, rub my forehead.
“You’re sure they kept it here?” I say, and as soon as I do, I regret it. I don’t want to make this any more complicated than it needs to be. It’s gotta be here. It will be here. We’ll find it, and then we’ll go.
“Yeah.” Pan strides back out of the kitchen. “Like, 90 percent. Where else would it go?”
Then he disappears down the hallway to his left.
“Dude.” I jog after him, skidding as the carpet balls up under my boots. “You can’t just walk through someone’s house.”
“Why?” Pan flicks me a grin as I catch up. “Nobody’s home.”
We don’t know that, I think.
Outwardly, I just grunt.
“It’ll be like we were never even here,” Pan says, trying the first door he comes to. Locked. He shrugs and moves on to the next one, which pushes right open—just a bathroom. Blue tile. Blue walls. Ratty shower curtain bunched in the corner. Nada.
He tries the next one: linen closet, barely any linens. Two guys living alone with no towels—that checks out.
At the end of the hall is a window, small, facing the other side of the street, the corner. And as Pan tries the next door, the third one, I see something flicker through the closed blinds.
My imagination? Or was it—
“Holy shit.”
Pan’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
Instinct. I run to his side. To where he’s staring into the small, dark room.
To two people, two bodies slumped on chairs, bound in place with duct tape.
And half their heads gone.
My stomach heaves. Bloody, crusted, congealed—the sight is horrible, the smell is horrible, rust and raw meat. It’s them, Mike, JD, the guys who own this place, ran the game, guys we barely know, but guys who were obviously in some kind of trouble.
Shot. Dead. Execution-style.
“Fucking hell.” Pan’s eyes are wide, his skin white as a sheet of paper. I am frozen, and then no, I am not. I force a spark of movement through my muscles, yank on his arm.
“We gotta get out of here.” I almost forget to lower my voice. Pull him back into the hallway with all I’ve got. Panic pumping me to action.
“Holy shit,” Pan says again. I look left and right, double triple checking we’re alone, and then I see it again, through the slats of the blinds: another flash, red blue red blue.
Oh fuck, I think. Oh fuck. They must have seen us, whoever it was across the street, and called the police. For what they thought was just a B&E.
And was, until about sixty seconds ago.
“Dude.” I nod at the door. “Cops. Go. You can’t be fucking—”
Pan’s just frozen. Like I was.
“Move.” I push him in the side of the shoulder, jolt him down the hall for the door.
We can’t be here. Of course, we can’t be here. Our bikes are parked outside—our bikes, I realize, and his full of God knows how many thousands of dollars worth of goods from Krye—
And two dead bodies in the fucking bedroom.
No. I can’t. I can’t think it. I can’t think it.
I turn every part of me to steel, grip the doorknob, slam it shut.
Pan’s still not moving. “For Christ’s sake,” I mutter through my teeth, “Go!” I shove him again, the shoulder blades this time, and it makes him stumble enough that he actually takes a step. And then another.
“I’m going, I’m going,” he says. He lets out a low whistle.
I swear to God, if he says one word about that goddamn jacket.
I jog past him. And as I do, the first hallway door opens. The one that was locked. Just a crack.
And out of it steps…
A kid.
A girl.
Oh shit.
I see her eyes go wide as she takes in Pan and then me.
She’s just in a T-shirt and shorts. Freckles.
Brownish-red hair all messy over her ears, maybe ten or eleven—I can’t tell—and a cartoon character on the front of her shirt, some robot thing I don’t recognize.
But I do recognize the look on her face when she sees him.
It’s a look I’ve had myself. Awe, astonishment.
I hear the sirens now, the wail picking up and taking my heart rate with it.
“Come on,” I grit out. “We’ve gotta—”
“Who are you?” the kid says.
Pan blinks at her. “We’re—”
No, I think. Don’t stop. Don’t talk. Don’t let her get a look at you.
For some reason, Krye’s voice echoes in my mind. This is not low profile.
“Are you friends of my brothers?” she says, folding her arms and frowning. “Because you guys were really loud last night.”
“We’re—” Pan blinks. “So sorry about that.” He grins. Presses his palms together and does a little bow. “Anyway, we’ll just be on our—”
I grab him by the back of the T-shirt. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I mutter into his ear.
“Are they awake yet?” The girl’s voice has just the barest hint of concern in it.
“I don’t think so,” I say hurriedly, stomach squeezing. It’s not really a lie. The lights flash again. “We have to go,” I say, half to Pan, half to the girl.
Pan slumps. Then salutes her. “So sorry, ah—”
“Wendy,” the girl supplies.
He nods, smiles, like he likes the name. “Wendy,” he repeats.
Stupid idiot, I think, my pulse tick-ticking in my neck so fast I feel dizzy. Stupid, stupid fucking idiot. “What are you doing?” I spit at him, my panic spiraling so high that my voice sounds thin, too thin. “Why are you still talking to her? You—you—”
I can’t form the sentences.
You’re gonna let the cops show up, find two guys shot dead in their own house, and leave a witness who can pull you out of a lineup.
You just had to have that stupid tomato-red hair and that stupid one earring and those stupid distinctive tattoos.
You just had to break in when the door was locked.
Oh, and for good measure, in case that’s not enough, you’ll let them catch you with whatever’s in your bike from Krye.
You’ll get yourself hauled away, arrested, locked up.
You’ll leave me. You’ll leave me.
Pan blinks. Bright eyes on mine.
“You’re right,” he says.
My throat tightens. “I didn’t say—Pan!”
He’s moving. Turned back to the kid, crouching down…
No. My body clocks it before my brain. No, no, that’s not what I meant, don’t—
“Hey.” He looks her in the eye, smiles all big and broad. “Wendy, is it?”
She nods.
“You ever wanted to fly?”