Either way, it was Saturday morning, the dojang would be open until noon, and I felt a need to work out some of the kinks.
Gunner took one look at me hitting the heavy bag and excused himself from a new kid he had been showing some basic blocks. He came around to the other side of the bag and held it, peeking around at me.
“Come on, Nikki, you gonna hit it or you gonna play tiddlywinks with it?”
I clenched my teeth and hit the bag harder, wincing as my sore pecs twinged.
“That’s not a hit. I’ve seen six-year-olds work harder,” he taunted. “Come on.”
I whaled on the bag again, letting out pained grunts as my punches landed. The bag barely moved. I just didn’t have the muscle behind it today. But all I could see on the face of that heavy bag was Gibson Talley’s face. All I could hear was his voice behind my ear as he pressed his hand over my mouth. If he were to decide to surprise me again, I would be ready.
“What is this? You’re hitting like a girl,” Gunner said, shoving the bag toward me. “You here to play around or be serious?”
I was used to Gunner’s taunts. Telling me I couldn’t do something was the best way to ensure that I absolutely would do it. I was just built that way. Oppositional, my dad used to call me. Determined, my mom used to correct him. Maybe she was oppositional, too.
I’ll show you how a girl hits, I thought.
I hopped back a step, my whole body readying itself into a parallel stance. Light on my toes, muscles flexed, lips pulled taut. With a growl, I went at the bag, hitting it fast with both fists, with elbows, and then lunging in for a kick that went wild and knocked me off my feet. I hit the mat with an oomph.
“Whoa,” Gunner said, coming around the bag and reaching out a hand. “Never seen that happen before. Not with you, anyway.”
I started to lift my head, then flopped back onto the mat to catch my breath. After a moment, I took his hand and let him pull me up. I felt nauseated, my shoulders aching.
“Seriously, Nik, everything okay? What’s going on?” Gunner asked. He placed his hand on the small of my back and led me to a spectator’s chair off the mat. “You are definitely not yourself today.”
I collapsed into the chair. “Got in a fight last night,” I said.
Gunner raised his eyebrows at me. “I assume you came out on top?”
I nodded. “But it was a guy. Bigger than me. My muscles are shredded.”
Gunner rubbed his index finger down one side of his goatee, and then the other. “Sure, sure,” he said. “A guy, you said? You okay?” He leaned over, grabbed a water out of the mini fridge next to the front desk, and handed it to me.
I took the water and gulped it. “Yeah. Just sore. And sc . . .” I trailed off. Scared. I was scared. Scared of Gibson Talley, sure, but more than that. Scared of whoever had hurt Peyton. Scared because I was now pretty sure Gibson Talley hadn’t been the one who did it, and scared because that meant that maybe Chris Martinez was right and Dru had been the one. And scared because, no matter who it was, I was definitely caught up in it now. Admitting fear was not one of my strengths. I hated feeling weak. Weak girls stood in their mother’s blood and trembled and sobbed and pounded at the crimson in their eyes. Weak girls didn’t get out of bed for weeks. Weak girls were afraid to be home alone, afraid to go to bed at night. Afraid of the murderer who had never been caught. “Scraped up a little,” I finished instead.
I lifted the leg of my dobok and showed him the scabbed knee, where I’d knelt against gravel while subduing Gibson. There was a bit of bruising around the scrape, but it was the part of me that hurt the least.
Gunner inspected my knee, and then sat next to me, stroking his goatee and nodding, as if he were contemplating what all this meant.
“You were attacked,” he said, matter-of-factly.
I nodded.
“Did you contact the police?”
I took another drink and shook my head, ignoring the guilty feeling that wanted to press in on me. “I left him unconscious in a parking lot.” In truth, I’d also dropped his guitar strap on top of his back. A message that if he was guilty, I could prove it.
“Do you know this guy?” I could sense irritation in Gunner’s voice. We’d known each other for a lot of years. We’d trained together. We’d sweated together. We’d bled together. He was protective of me. Of all his students, actually. Gunner was single and in his early thirties. Tae kwon do was his life.
“Yeah, I know him,” I said. “But it’s taken care of now.” I hope, I added internally.
“I can give him a visit, send a message.”
“No,” I said. “Leave it alone.”
“He’ll never know.”
“Of course he will.”
Gunner leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers tenting together. He turned his head toward me. “What are you in the middle of, Nikki?”
I pressed my lips together. Squeezed the water bottle so the plastic crackled under my fingers. “I’m not sure,” I said honestly. “But I’ll be okay.”
“Can you guarantee me that?”
I felt a familiar wave of steel wash over me, driving out the fear that had tried to set up shop. Gibson Talley had come after me in the worst possible way—by surprise, from behind, in an abandoned parking lot. And I’d taken care of it. I’d been fine. Nobody could defeat me. Not Gib, not Vee, not the shadowy man in the kissing photo. I believed that. I had to. I was too far in to ask for help now. “Yes, I can,” I said.
To prove that I knew what I was talking about, and to shut Gunner up, I went back out onto the mat and spent the next hour pummeling the sparring dummy with everything I had. Elbow strike. Mule kick. Elbow strike. Mule kick. Mule kick, mule kick, mule kick—the moves from the night before rolling off me over and over again until I could feel the crunch of Gibson Talley’s ribs, hear the wheeze of him taking my foot to his groin. My arms and legs groaned from all the work, and I was covered with so much sweat it dripped down into my eyes and off the end of my nose. But the soreness was gone. The fear was pushed away.
Gunner put his hand on my shoulder just as I geared up for another elbow strike. I whirled on him, grabbing his hand and turning, angling my body so that his arm was stretched, palm up, his elbow resting on my shoulder. One sharp tug downward and I could have put some serious hurt on him.
“Whoa, I tap, I tap!” he said, patting my back with his other hand. “Dojang’s closing for the day. Time to call it done.”
I let up. “Next move, broken elbow,” I said, bowing.
He bowed in response, then cocked his head at me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Better than ever.”
He looked unconvinced. “Go on in and get changed. I’ll see you next week.”
“Yes, sir.” I bowed again on my way out, feeling much better.
I made my way to the changing room and grabbed my things out of my cubby, sliding my taxed limbs into my clothes.
Gunner was waiting for me by the front door, ready to lock up, when I was finished.
“Have a good afternoon, Nik,” he said as I slipped through the door past him. “And be careful, okay?”
I turned and gave him a devious grin from the sidewalk. “I don’t need to be careful. I just need to be deadly.”
He chuckled. “Be a little of both, you hear?”
“Of course,” I said, and headed for my car.
I stopped in my tracks when I saw who was leaning against it. I rolled my shoulders back and kept walking reluctantly. Chris Martinez was apparently not on duty. He was wearing a Stussy baseball tee—white with blue sleeves that made his skin glow. A pair of mirrored aviators kept me from seeing his eyes. I couldn’t see one, but I imagined a gun was tucked into the waistband of the relaxed jeans he was wearing. Two violet wisps danced across the yellow I’d come to associate with him. I blinked, hard. That violet was not okay. I was clearly going crazy.
“Detective,” I said. “
I wish I could say I was surprised to see you here, but you seem to be showing up everywhere.”
He pushed away from the car and slid his hands into his pockets. “Miss Kill. Have a good workout?”
“I did okay in there,” I said, stopping a few feet away from him and crossing my arms. “But something tells me you didn’t come all the way over here to ask me about my fitness.”
He smirked, and I wished I could see his eyes so I could know what he was thinking. “Nope, you’re right, I didn’t. I just wanted to talk to you.”
Of course he did. He was always just wanting to talk to me. I held up my car keys. “I would love to, Detective, but I really have to go.”
He took a side step away from my door, and I moved around him.
“Really interesting coincidence happened the other night,” he said to my back. I stopped. “That guy you were telling me about? Gibson Talley? Showed up in the emergency room with a laceration to his head.” He paused to assess my reaction, so I was careful to keep my face guarded. “Twenty-six stitches on his scalp.”
“Wow,” I said. I swallowed, sure he was going to reach around and pull out a pair of handcuffs. “That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, said he got drunk and fell, hit his head on an amp.”
I let out a breath, white specks floating in front of my eyes. “Really?”
Martinez snapped his fingers and pointed one at me, shaking it up and down. “That was exactly what I said. I mean, this guy’s had a hell of a week, you know? His bandmate gets beat up, he’s questioned about that by me, someone breaks into his apartment, and then he has this . . . freak accident.”
“That’s a crappy week,” I agreed. “But why are you telling me about it?”
He rubbed his chin with his palm, his other hand on his hip. “I don’t suppose you were anywhere near the amp he fell on, were you, Miss Kill?”
“Why would I have any reason to be near him?”
“You don’t appear to need a reason these days, it would seem. Did you know that he gave a description of the person who broke into his apartment?” I didn’t answer. “Tall, thin girl. Long, dark hair. Dark jeans, black jacket, black boots. Very familiar style, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sounds pretty generic,” I said. “But I’ll keep a lookout. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
He nodded, then leaned against my car again, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m warning you again, Miss Kill. You need to back out of this. Let me do my job. If I keep having to watch after you, I can’t watch for Peyton’s attacker.”
“Then stop watching after me,” I said. “I don’t need your protection.” My mind briefly flashed to Gibson coming at me from behind, and how, for a moment, I was sure I was in real trouble. How I’d kept thinking maybe I needed to let Chris Martinez know what I’d found, until things got so complicated.
“That’s not going to happen. What you’re playing with here, it’s not a game. Whoever attacked Peyton meant business.”
“I thought it was Dru who attacked her. Isn’t that why you arrested him? You should probably make up your mind, Detective. Either Peyton’s attacker has been arrested, or I’m in danger.”
“Or both,” he said, his voice taking an annoyed edge. “Just because we didn’t have enough evidence to hold him doesn’t mean he’s innocent.” He bit his bottom lip. “Listen, I can’t sit by and watch you get hurt. I can’t go through that aga—” He broke off.
It was the first time I’d seen his cool crack, even a little bit. I’d suspected before that there was more to the detective’s past than he wanted me to know. Now I wondered if maybe my guess was right.
He pulled out a pen and placed it in my palm. My heart skipped a beat. I recognized it—shiny black with silver trim. The penknife I’d left in Gibson’s apartment. He pulled his sunglasses down so that our eyes locked. “I’m doing you all kinds of favors right now and you know it,” he continued. “But I will take you in if I have to do it to keep you safe.”
I rolled my eyes, as though his threat didn’t worry me in the least. “Thanks for the warning,” I said, curling my fist around the pen. He was doing more than favors; what he was doing could get him in trouble. But why? “Now if you don’t mind . . .” I motioned for him to get off my car.
Reluctantly, he did, stepping up onto the walk as I got in.
“Be careful, Nikki,” he called just before I shut the door.
I gave him a wave, tossed the penknife back in my glove box, and turned the key in the ignition.
I backed out of my parking space and threw my car into drive. Just before I started moving, my phone buzzed with a text. It was from Dru.
I’m out. Want to get together tonite?
I chewed my thumbnail, Detective Martinez’s warning still fresh in my mind. Maybe he was right and I’d be wise to just ignore that I’d ever gotten Dru’s text. Stay away from Gibson, stay away from Dru, stay away from this whole thing.
But that would mean staying away from Peyton. And if I did that, I might never know what she had wanted from me.
Sure. Where and when?
There was a pause while I waited for him to respond—long enough for Gunner to come out of the dojang and give me a long, questioning look as he locked the doors and went around the building, where his bike was parked. He had his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, so thankfully he couldn’t give me the third degree about why I hadn’t left yet. Gunner was a good friend, a big brother, almost, but he could be a little overprotective sometimes. And I wasn’t the biggest fan of overprotective.
Finally, my phone vibrated in my hand.
7? Lujo on 18th
I had heard of Lujo. Overheard, really, was more accurate. Most of the spoiled girls with their fancy manicures and their sports cars spent their Monday mornings in the school hallways comparing their weekend conquests at Lujo. Lujo was not really a Nikki Kill kind of establishment. Actually, it was not at all a Nikki Kill kind of establishment. But I wanted to talk to Dru. I wanted to find out more about what had gone down with his dad. Maybe he would help me figure out who was in the photo.
See you then.
17
I HAD EXPECTED Lujo to be swank, but this place was swank to the extreme. I could practically smell the money when I walked in, and had the lights not been turned down so low, I might have been blinded by all the ice draping the customers. So many of them. Young ladies hanging all over old geezers. Older ladies surgically made young again. Middle-aged men in suits, their hair slicked back with product, their money clips flashing as they motioned for waiters.
It wasn’t the kind of place where you might spot Lindsay Lohan or a Kardashian, but it wasn’t stodgy, either. Not like the golf clubhouses that dotted the suburbs or the old-world Italian restaurants with their candelabras and red velvet. Lujo was modern, plush, with black, angular booths and white suede seat cushions. Trendy tableware and flashy drinks. The thump of EDM beneath the conversation as waiters hurried, their eyes turned upward in a way that suggested they saw and knew nothing.
I stood in the doorway, tugging on the hem of the denim miniskirt I’d put on. It was the nicest item of clothing I owned, and it was so far beneath Lujo, it wasn’t even funny. I scanned the crowd for Dru, but didn’t see him.
“May I help you?” a snooty hostess wearing all black asked. She wrapped her stilettoed black fingernails over the edges of a menu, smiling at me as if to humor me.
I stepped toward the podium, wobbling a little on my heels. “I’m here to meet someone.”
Her eyebrows arched, but she didn’t consult any sort of list.
“Dru Hollis?” I said, my voice turning up into an annoying question mark as I said his name. As if I were unsure that Dru was who I was actually meeting. I cleared my throat. “He’s expecting me.”
She studied me for a moment longer—very skeptically—and then nodded. “Right this way.”
I followed her as we wound through the tables, the music getting louder
as we made our way toward the back corner of the room. She stepped to one side and waved her hand toward the table.
“The Hollis booth,” she said.
Jesus, they had their own booth? Suddenly the black sequined tank top I had paired with my skirt felt as shabby as a garbage bag. I tilted my chin upward and scooted past her, my bare legs sliding over the suede of the bench. “Thank you,” I mumbled.
“Can I get you something while you wait for Mr. Hollis?” she asked, the note of bitchiness still saturating her words. “Something to drink?”
“Just, um . . . water,” I said, hating the way her pert little smile seemed to be mocking me. I wanted to get up, yank her perfect blond ponytail right off her head, and feed it to her. You’re no better than me, I wanted to scream, and I wanted to do something to prove it. But in a place like Lujo, there really was no proof. Here, everyone looked better than me. “Thank you,” I said again, trying to convey everything I was thinking by making my eyes as dead as possible.
The hostess scurried away, and a few moments later a waitress arrived and plunked a sweating glass of ice water on the table in front of me. She walked away without a word. I sipped the water and checked the time. If Dru didn’t arrive in ten minutes, I was out of there. We could meet somewhere more my speed, like a food truck.
To while away the time, I pulled the photos out of my purse and flipped through them again, pausing for a long time to study the blurred man walking through the open door. I squinted, trying to make out the details of his wrist. Maybe there was a bracelet there. Maybe it was the same man. Maybe someone was cheating, and Peyton had caught them. Maybe that was who had beaten her. It was a working theory, and, really, the only thing I had at the moment, with Gibson Talley cleared. I felt like I was starting back at square one, especially if I ignored my doubts about Dru. Which Detective Martinez was making easy to do, given how much he was still watching my every move.
But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see any jewelry on the man’s arm. All I could really make out for sure was the shoe lifted in midstep as the man disappeared into the doorway. I thought maybe I’d seen it before, but I couldn’t place it for the life of me. I had no color to anchor it to. If only it had writing on it.
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