Chapter 22 Miles
Miles
The streetlights blur as I pull into the lot behind the old auto shop, engine idling low, the kind of purr that says keep moving or get caught.
Rico’s already there, leaning against his car, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers.
He flicks it away when he sees me, stamping it under his boot.
The faint hum of freight trains from the south line fills the air.
“Got it all?” he asks, popping the trunk.
“Yeah.” I grab the duffel, unzip it just enough for him to see the neat rows of orange bottles. Adderall, pressed and packed, ready for the midterm rush. “University kids can’t get enough of this shit.”
Rico snorts. “Yeah, they think it’s just brain fuel. Never mind that they’re paying for Victor’s next Mercedes.”
I toss the bag into the back of his car. The transaction’s quick, routine. Cash moves one way, product the other. By the time we finish, the only thing left in my hands is the familiar ache in my stomach—the one that never leaves when I think too hard about what I’m doing with my life.
Rico checks his watch. “You heading to your uncle’s?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, wiping my hands on my jeans. “He wants a report.”
“Good luck, man,” he says with a crooked grin. “You know he’s been extra jumpy since the Marano thing.”
Don’t remind me.
The drive to Victor’s warehouse is short, but it feels longer. My uncle’s men are posted outside, smoking, watching. I nod to them, step inside. The air smells like beer, old grease, and power—Victor’s version of perfume.
He’s sitting behind his desk, hunched over a ledger, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow. His thick silver ring taps the wood as he flips pages. When he looks up, his eyes are small and sharp, like a hawk’s.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I made the drop. We moved everything.”
He leans back. “Good.” Then, unexpectedly, “You play tonight?”
That makes me blink. He is not one to be interested in any of my hockey games at all. “Uh—yeah. We won.”
Victor nods once. “Good. A man should be good at something that doesn’t get him killed.”
I don’t know if that’s meant as advice or warning. But a puck to the face at the right angle? I’m a goner.
He sets his pen down. “Now. About that little thing I asked you to look into.”
I freeze. My pulse kicks up a notch.
“You mean—?”
“The girl,” he says. “Ashford’s daughter.”
My throat dries out. “Yeah,” I say carefully. “I found her. She’s at the university. Keeps to herself, quiet.”
From the corner, Rico makes a low noise that might be a laugh. “Quiet, huh?” he says. “Didn’t seem that way last time.”
My head jerks toward him. He smirks, and I have to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from lunging. Last time—the kidnapping. The warehouse. The smell of duct tape and fear. Her eyes, wide and shining in the dark. She hadn’t kept her mouth shut even once.
Victor doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care. “I told you she’d resurface,” he says. “Ashford’s been pulling strings from inside. Tried to get transferred. Had to remind him what a mistake that would be.”
I swallow. “You—reminded him.”
He waves a hand. “He’ll live. But he’s scared now, which means he’ll listen. Trouble is, he still owes me money. And rumor has it his little princess has a nice trust fund. Won’t cover all the money he and that bastard Marano leeched from me, but it’s a start.”
My heart stutters. “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep an eye on her.” Victor pours another drink. “Find out her patterns, who she talks to, where she goes. We might need her sooner than later.”
“Got it,” I say, though my voice sounds hollow even to me.
He narrows his eyes. “Something wrong, boy?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“Good.” He drinks, dismisses me with a flick of his hand. “Go on, then. You’ve got that game crap and your college girlfriend, don’t you?”
I don’t answer. If I stay a second longer, I’ll say or do something stupid.
Outside, the air feels thinner. I sit in my car, head spinning, heart hammering. Chloe’s name echoes in my skull, over and over. Keep an eye on her. The same words he used months ago. The ones that ended with duct tape and tears and the kind of guilt that never washed off.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. “Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck.”
The Gatorade bottle in the passenger seat is warm. I drink half of it just to keep my hands busy. Then my phone buzzes—Jamie.
Jamie: Meet me at Sammie’s.
Me: falafels?
Jamie: Yeah and we can finally talk.
My stomach drops again.
Sammie’s is loud. Jamie’s already there, sitting in a booth near the back, hood pulled up, tapping at his phone.
He looks up when I sit down. “You look like shit.”
“Appreciate that,” I mutter, flagging down the waitress. “Two falafels. Extra sauce.”
Jamie doesn’t smile. He’s never good at pretending when something’s bothering him. “You know she’s leaving.”
“Who?”
“Chloe.”
I blink. “Leaving?”
“Paris. But she has visa issues, apparently.”
I slump back. My brain’s still stuck on Victor’s voice, on keep an eye on her. I rub a hand down my face. “When?”
“Soon. She’s packing.” He hesitates. “She came by the bar.”
That hits me harder than I expect. “The Crest?”
He nods. “Dropped off a box of my stuff. Said she didn’t want me to hate her.”
I let out a long breath and almost laugh. “Do you?”
“No.” He looks down at the table. “Do you?”
I don’t answer right away. The food arrives, steaming and smelling like garlic and oil. I pick at the pita, not tasting it. Finally, I say, “I just came from Victor’s.”
Jamie goes still.
“He brought her up again,” I say quietly. “Told me to watch her. Said she might be useful soon.”
“Useful?”
“Her father still owes him. Victor found out she’s got a trust fund. It’s not enough to clear the debt, but it’s something.”
Jamie mutters a curse under his breath. “Christ.”
“I told him she’s quiet, that I’d keep an eye on her. But if he really decides to—” I break off. “She’s leaving, so maybe that’s good. Maybe it buys her time.”
“Or maybe it pisses him off more,” Jamie says darkly. “He doesn’t like when people run.”
I stare at my plate. “What the fuck are we supposed to do, man?”
He leans forward. “First, you’re gonna breathe. Second, you’re not gonna tell her any of this.”
“She deserves to know.”
“She deserves to live,” he snaps. “You tell her, and she’ll go straight to the cops or her mom, and Victor will find out.”
He’s right. And then I go to prison for kidnapping and Victor will use me an inside man there. The train never ends.
Jamie drags a hand through his hair. “You’re in too deep, Miles. We both are. But at least this way, if she’s gone, she’s safe. You’re safe.”
I nod slowly, though the word safe feels foreign now. “So that’s it?”
He studies me. “You care about her.”
I snort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t play dumb. I’ve known you since we were twelve. You don’t lose sleep over girls.”
“I’m not losing sleep.”
He smirks. “Bullshit.”
I shove my plate away. “What do you want me to say? That she’s in my head? That every time I close my eyes, I see her face and I don’t know if it’s because of what we did to her or because I want her again?”
Jamie’s quiet for a long time. Then he says, “Maybe it’s both.”
“Jesus, Jamie.”
He shrugs. “I’m serious. You said she’s leaving. You want to do something? Tell her the truth. Tell her you like her.”
“She won’t believe me.”
“Then make her.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, because that’ll fix everything.”
He gives me a look. “You think this—whatever the hell is happening between the three of us—is gonna fix itself?”
I lean back, glare at him. “The three of us?”
Jamie’s expression doesn’t change. “You’re not the only one she got under.”
“Don’t start.”
He smirks again, but there’s no malice in it. “You’re telling me you haven’t thought about it?”
“About what?”
“Sharing her.”
I nearly choke. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He shrugs, calm as ever. “We’ve done it before.”
“Bella doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because that was Bella, and this is Chloe.”
He laughs softly. “And that’s the point. Maybe that’s why it’d work.”
“Jamie—”
He holds up a hand. “I’m just saying. She likes both of us. You like her. I like her. She’s leaving, and we’re running out of chances to stop pretending this isn’t real.”
I stare at him. “You’re out of your mind.”
He finishes his drink, pushes it aside. “Think about it. What’s the worst that can happen?”
I shake my head, but my chest feels tight, my pulse uneven.
He smiles faintly, tired. “You’re in love with her. Don’t look so surprised.”
I want to punch him, but I also want to laugh. Instead, I just sit there, staring at the cracked vinyl table, thinking about Chloe’s face, her voice, the way she said my name that night like it meant something.
Outside, the rain starts. Sammie’s neon sign flickers against the wet pavement, red and blue bleeding into the night.
Jamie stands, tosses a few bills onto the table. “Think about it,” he says again. “Before she’s gone for good.”
I don’t move until the door shuts behind him. And then I sit there alone, falafel untouched, heart pounding, knowing that no matter what I decide, it’s already too late.
I get lost in my head for a little.
Then I stand and follow him out.
Jamie’s cigarette glows orange against the dark, the ember cutting through the night like a warning light. He leans back on the hood of his car, smoke curling lazily into the air, a grin tugging at his mouth like he’s been waiting for me to show up.
“It’s about time,” he says, flicking ash to the ground.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, slamming the door shut. My chest is still tight from the conversation with my uncle, the weight of it pressing against my ribs. “This could end really, really badly.”
Jamie laughs—low, reckless, the kind of sound that makes you want to punch him and follow him at the same time. “If it’s terrible, we still have hockey.”
I can’t help it, I snort. “And Bella.”