11. Tink
TINK
“Whoa.” Wendy’s eyes go wide as we reach the landing of the loft. “You guys live here?”
I look around. The TV that covers almost the whole wall and the giant black leather couch.
The army of game consoles all plugged in and the surround-sound speakers as tall as she is.
The gamer lights, the foosball table, the dart board, the freaking punching bag that Blue put up and never uses, the wet bar with its glass-door minifridge and green-lit shelves of bottles…
I guess it’s a lot.
“Yeah. Happily.” Pan flops onto the couch, hands behind his head. “Why?”
Wendy looks around some more, at the crumpled bags of various snacks, a T-shirt someone left on the couch, a vape pen someone left on the couch—fucking Blue—and the crusty stain on a cushion that’s probably also ketchup.
“How long did Mike and JD say I had to stay here?”
She looks at Pan. Pan looks at me.
“I…don’t know.” It’s not exactly a lie. “Not that long, I don’t think.” My mind is spinning a hundred miles an hour, my temples pounding as I try to think fast. “Do you…want something to drink, Wendy?”
“Um, sure.” Wendy nods. Her hair’s really a mess, especially after a bike ride under a helmet. I briefly wonder if there’s anyone who can do her hair, besides herself. Besides her brothers.
Their taped-up, lifeless, mutilated bodies flash in my mind’s eye.
Was there anyone, I mean.
Nope. No. Can’t go there, can’t think about it.
“Here.” My voice comes out half an octave lower than usual as I grab for the TV remote. “There’s, like, everything on there that you want to watch.” I hold it out to Wendy. The slightest flicker of interest crosses her face.
“YouTube?”
“Yeah, probably.” I’ve never pulled that up, but I assume Fox or Kit has it installed.
Wordlessly, she reaches for the remote. Stares at the buttons. Then stares at me. “Thanks, Tink.”
By the time I manage to say “you’re welcome,” she’s already on the couch, sunken into the cushions and scrolling through a brightly colored wall of what looks like makeup and skincare tutorials on YouTube, which Pan is also staring at.
“Dude,” I hiss at him. Jerk my head toward the hall.
He gives me that quizzical look. Eyebrow raised. Feather earring dangling. Lips just curved in a smile.
I blink. Twice.
“Kitchen?” I say, leaning hard on the word. “Help me find her something?”
Pan lifts both eyebrows—got the message, thank God—and heaves to his feet while Wendy stays glued to her screen. Fine. Good. She’ll zone out like an iPad kid, and we can just—
I don’t know what.
Okay. Think, I tell myself as we shuffle into the kitchen. How long do we think we have to wait this out? Two hours, maybe three?
I glare across the room at Pan. Of course he didn’t have a plan. I can’t even be mad, because…well, you just can’t get mad at him, not really. And it’s not like I had any better ideas in the moment, really.
But now that we’re here…
Well, we can’t keep this kid here.
“Kit’s sure in a pissy mood, huh?” Pan saunters to the fridge, casual as all get-out. I roll my eyes.
“You think?” No shit, I guess after us barging in on…whatever he was doing with that Mermaid. Which, if I’m being honest…I didn’t think Kit was the type. But none of my business, anyway, and I’ve got bigger problems to solve.
Like what the hell we’re doing with this kid.
Pan opens the fridge, and I take a step closer. “Anything she’d like in there?” But as soon as I ask it, I know he’ll have no idea, so I come the rest of the way over and stare in.
He crouches. I crouch. We’re now both crammed in the narrow space between open fridge door and the wall, staring into the glaring white shelves.
But then Pan grins, and this wave of something hits me. Nostalgia, I guess. Like we’re kids playing sardines or something. Hiding from the grownups.
It makes this whole stupid thing feel kind of okay. Fun.
Kind of.
“Dunno.” He reaches in, pulls out a can. “Blue raspberry. Kids like that, right?”
I practically snatch it from him. “Dude, that’s hard seltzer. It’s basically liquor.”
“Okay, so…” Pan scratches the back of his head. “Beer?”
“Dude.”
We’re close, crouched down here. Close enough that I can smell the warm, spicy, slightly sweaty scent of his body.
I swallow very hard.
“What’s the plan here?” I say, my voice a little lower.
“I mean, we could pour her a glass of water, I guess, but I don’t know how clean—”
“Not for her drink, dipshit.” I give his shoulder a little shove. Warm and firm. Before I think better of it. “For…her.”
Pan shrugs, his face lit bluish-white from the fridge. “I dunno. Hang out until it’s time to make the drop for Krye and take her back on the way, I guess.”
I stare at him. “You want to take a kid on a fucking drug drop?”
“Okay, okay!” Pan widens his eyes and spreads his hands. “So we drop her back first, and then we drop Krye’s stuff. Happy?”
Now he looks right at me. Right through me.
I swallow again. Harder.
“Sure,” I mutter, and throw in a “dumbass” for good measure before I turn back to the fridge.
For a bunch of guys who live like fourteen-year-olds, we don’t have much here that an actual child would like.
Energy drinks, White Claws, Tecate…shit.
I shove things around—more beer, a flat mini bottle of tonic water, a bunch of ketchup packets that Fox probably left—until I finally find a single can of Coke Zero.
Thank God. I grab it, pop to standing, and head back to the shop.
Wendy hasn’t really moved from the couch. Just paging through some of the art binders Kit keeps like they’re coloring books or something. Looking surprisingly comfortable. She’s still that age where you’re all legs and don’t really look like a little kid but you’re obviously not a teenager yet.
Coltish. Is what Gram used to call it.
I shake the memory away.
“You like Coke, Wendy?” I ask her. Forcing my voice to sound nice. Light. But not too light.
“Sure.” Wendy perks up, then slumps when she sees what’s in my hand. “That’s diet.”
“Is not.” Pan, leaning on the counter, tosses a pen up and down in the air like a tiny baton. “That’s Coke Zero. Completely different.”
Wendy rolls her eyes. “Same thing. It’s just diet for boys.”
Pan blinks. Then cracks up. And when he does, I realize something. Remember something. Wendy thinks I am a boy.
Somehow talking to this kid, this girl, has almost made me forget exactly who I am and what I am doing here.
All the more reason to get her back home ASAP.
Assuming there…is anyone at home.
I clear my throat. Lower my voice for good measure. “Well, diet for boys is all we have.”
“Unless you want beer,” Pan adds. “But Tink said you’re not allowed.”
Wendy giggles. Then she sighs, an exaggerated sound. “I guess I can try it.”
I hand over the can, and as I do, I throw Pan a meaningful look.
He raises an eyebrow. What?
Who’s back at her house? I mouth, cocking my head and jerking a thumb at Wendy.
Pan frowns. Then realization dawns. Oh, because they’re… He draws a finger across his throat, sticks out his tongue like a corpse.
Dude. I bug my eyes at him, stomach clenching. Fucking morbid as shit.
And I don’t want to think about that any more than I absolutely have to.
Pan breezes forward. “Yo, Wendy.” He frowns, rubbing his chin, like he’s just thought of something. “It’s just you and the guys, right?”
“Huh?” Wendy pauses, mid-crack of her Coke.
I cringe. He’s really not asking very delicately. “Back at home,” I add quickly, my arms flung over the back of the couch so I come off all casual, too. “You, your brothers, and…your mom and dad?”
“I have a dad, if that’s what you mean.” She crosses her arms, suddenly defensive—and God, do I remember what it’s like to be ten years old. “But he…” She pauses. “He had to leave when I was six. For business.”
“Aha,” Pan says, as though he’s sincerely interested, then glances at me. No way she has a dad, he mouths.
And yeah, I hate to agree, but.
“So there’s no one else?” I press, still as casual as I can. “Living with you?”
Wendy blinks. “What, you mean, like…Nana?”
“Yeah.” Pan throws me a told-you-so look. “Exactly. Duh. Nana.” He smacks his forehead. “Can’t forget good ol’ Nana.”
Wendy frowns. Pauses a little longer this time. “How do you know my brothers again?”
There’s the thinnest little edge in her voice. Like she trusts us, more or less, but needs to verify. Or else she’ll panic.
And I do not want her to panic.
“Work,” I say quickly.
“Work?”
“Yeah, you know.” I don’t even know what kind of work those guys do. Did. Besides underground gambling, anyway. “Business.”
“Okay,” Wendy says. Like she’s satisfied with the answer, but maybe doesn’t like it. Or me.
“Just boring grown-up shit. I mean stuff.” Pan does an apologetic grin at Wendy, and she rolls her eyes. He presses a hand to his chest, fake-offended. “What?”
Wendy laughs. “You guys aren’t real grown-ups.”
Pan sticks his tongue out at her. She laughs again.
Him, at least, she likes.
“Who the hell is that?” growls a voice.
Fuck.
Blue, scowling and shirtless, looms at the entrance to the hall.
Just seeing him kicks my pulse up again. I’m not scared of Blue, not even after last night. But he is…a lot. Like, you get why people pay for the privilege to see him. His shoulders span the whole doorframe, his arms are thick and wreathed over with ink, and his chest—
Jesus. His chest is glinting with those stupid nipple rings. In front of a kid.
Blue stares at Wendy, then glares at me. Then stares at her again, grabs the abandoned T-shirt on the island, and tugs it over his head.
The whole time, Wendy doesn’t even flinch. Which is pretty badass of her.
“I’m Wendy,” she replies, her voice a little craggy, but strong. “Who are you?”
Blue doesn’t get a chance to answer.
“That,” interjects Pan. “is my good friend Blue.” Now he flings an arm over the back of the couch, cocking his head to the side. “Hey pal,” he says brightly. “What’s new?”
Blue gives him a smoldering glare.
“I know, right?” Pan laughs, but not a laugh with a lot of humor in it. “Been a fucking day.”
Blue looks, for some reason, at me. Again.