The spiral — his unraveling — is my fault. The guys never asked for me to show up that night at the bar, much less to ultimately be dragged behind the scenes of grey-market dealings.
Just like on the side of Steel Field Road, I grab his face between my palms. “Crow… Hey…” I hush out, brushing my thumbs against his skin.
Only then do I realize the red. So much red. An arch of it transfers from my thumb over the defined line of his cheek. “Oh my God,” I heave, dropping my hands back into my lap. Bile creeps up my throat. The buzz between us zaps off like an antique television, giving one final spark before humming into blackness.
“My… Hayes… I have blood all over me. Oh no… Your car!” Even in my lunatic state, I still worry about the condition of their vehicles — a practice that has been ingrained into me since birth. Born and bred. A shaky, psychotic chuckle bubbles between my lips at the realization.
When I seek out Hayes in the rearview mirror, I discover Trenton is actually the one driving; his sepia eyes crinkle in the corners, and he shakes his head in delirious amusement. None of us are in our right minds right now; a diabolical, drunken psychosis, fed by fear and the high of rebellion, figure eights through the car.
Guy by guy, my surrounding spins into focus: The steering wheel practically vibrates under Trenton’s white-knuckled grip; Crow’s fingers dig into his knees and his chest rapidly rises and falls, his system bordering on hyperventilation; Hayes is in the passenger seat, seemingly oblivious to everything around him as his wide eyes dart through the bundle of papers.
Papers. The stack he has been harboring all evening. In another wave of clarity, I realize that those papers were the catalyst for some of tonight’s events. Hayes had mentioned the reasons why they didn’t want any information delivered to my brother were in those papers.
What did he find?
Hayes freezes under my scrutiny, the muscles in his shoulders cording and bunching. He gently lays the papers in his lap and smooths them with shaky fingers before angling his chin over his shoulder and looking at me through his glasses. “I need more time,” he responds to my unspoken question. I squint at him.
How did he know what I was thinking?
Trenton chuckles, and my attention whips back to the rearview mirror. “Your eyes speak louder than you do sometimes,” he explains.
Ah… so Trenton passed the message onto Hayes in that uncannily wordless way that they do. Apparently it works outside of the bedroom, too.
“More… time?” I ask, returning my attention to Hayes.
Hayes swallows hard and his eyebrows curve inward.
My heart plummets.
They don’t trust me.
I lost that trust when I submerged these amazing guys too deep into a version of the automotive world in which they don’t belong. Whatever Hayes hoped to share, he changed his mind; the truth is in the set of his shoulders, the glassiness of his eyes, and the hard swallows he tries to mask.
I gulp down my shame and disappointment and change my focus to Crow. His elbow is propped on the plastic beneath the rear passenger window, hand splayed over his mouth and jaw. He senses my adjustment, and his eyes slant sideways for a heartbeat but quickly return to the window to watch cars, lights, and signs pass.
With each mile farther away from the port, another blast of clarity hits me — the dreamlike experience quickly fading to my real-life nightmare. The realization of my awaiting situation slams to the forefront; I have nowhere to go. The game of tug of war has abruptly ended with the rope snapping, leaving me alone in the center and grasping for either frayed end. Not because the guys would refuse me shelter — even despite the situation, I know in my heart that none of them would put me out on the streets — but because I can no longer be the reason for the tension force in the rope that caused resistance in the rope to begin with.
I need to distance myself and do what I should have done the first day Porter and Jude forced me into the job. Walk away.
Or, in my case, ride.
“Trenton? Take me to my bike.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Already on it,” Trenton responds, flicking on the blinker and coasting into a smooth stop at the intersection light where I made Porter crash. Now that we’ve crossed the bridge and are a good enough distance away from the port, he relaxes into the seat.
Trenton had pushed Hayes aside and took it upon himself to drive so Hayes — lost in the distraction of hypotheses and conspiracy — could study those mysterious papers. Seeing Trenton drive the Bimmer makes my thoughts relapse to the night we met. My heart twists at the memory of our conversation about imports versus domestics.
Driving an import doesn’t suit Trenton. His very build and mannerisms scream domestic — the hint of his anger earlier an even better partnership for the muscle of his Monte Carlo. I have only been inside his car once — the night we slept together for the first time. The twisting of my heart kinks so tight I fear all the blood will be squeezed out until there’s nothing left but lingering drips.
As though Trenton can sense my thoughts, his focus leaves the road occasionally to meet my gaze in the rearview mirror. Every glance holds a question. An uncertainty. An accusation.
The entire car ride, messages are spoken with our eyes.
Please forgive me.
You’ve given me no reason to trust you.
My feelings are separate from the drama.
So are mine.
I’m sorry.
Me, too.
The car jerking into park so soon comes as an unexpected surprise. My attention finally leaves him and travels out the window. My bike, an ink of black in the navy-blue night, sits parked under the stilted deck. I skip asking how he figured out where I lived, how Porter’s car got back into the driveway after the meet, and at what point Crow drove here and parked that V Coupe across the street — the unfamiliar vehicle I saw in the woods off of Steel Field Road just hours ago.
My heart judders as I curl my fingers over the top edge of the driver seat. Trenton avoids my gaze as he steps out and pops it forward so I can exit. His eyes wander the opposite direction of my house — through the line of commercial buildings toward the beach where he had picked me up, noticed the bruise, and helped remove the sand spurs from my shoes.
With one foot out the door, I hesitate.
“Trenton—”
“No.” He responds so quickly his word nearly engulfs mine.
My second foot joins the first, and I climb out. He immediately clicks the seat into the upright position and climbs back in. Before he can close the door and close me out completely, I quickly dip down and place my hand over his. Brushes of fabric and the creak of movement paints a vivid picture of Hayes and Crow reacting, finding the interaction interesting enough to adjust in their seats and pay attention. That… or to come to his aid.
I might be walking away, but not like this. Not with that wordless conversation left unfinished. If he drives away right now, our shared emotions going unchecked, there will be no recovery — no closure.
This is my window.
Tonight, while his mind is muddled and confused.
Right now.
The blood on my hands transfers as I push my fingers between his over the steering wheel, giving me a sick sort of fascination. His head falls back against the headrest, and he closes his eyes and takes controlled breaths.