by Kit Rocha
Besides, you could still find honor among thieves, if you knew the right ones.
Trix handed the bottle back to him. He took a few careful sips and ignored the empty rumble of his stomach. “Looks safe to move,” he told her, stowing the bottle next to the meager remains of their rations. There’d be food soon enough—unless there wasn’t, in which case she’d need every advantage he could leave her. “You ready?”
“Finn.”
He fixed his expression before glancing at her.
She stared back, serious and pensive. “I’m not delicate,” she whispered. “Not anymore. I can do this.”
He reached for her hand, and his thumb brushed the bandages around her wrists. They covered more than her wounds—they covered her ink, the tattoos Dallas only gave to full members of his gang.
No, whatever the hell else she was, she wasn’t delicate. This confident creature at his side, with her healthy glow and her serious eyes, was nothing like the dreamy-eyed waif who’d first crawled beneath his skin. But the parts of her that had attracted him were still there—her wit and her smiles and her style. Three things she always clung to, no matter how shitty a hand life dealt her.
Squeezing her hand, he smiled for real this time. “Let’s go boost a car.”
The first three vehicles parked along the darkened street were outfitted with biometrics. He could bypass the sensors, maybe even rekey them to his own prints, but they didn’t have that kind of time. The longer they lingered, the more likely they were to run into trouble.
He kept looking.
The fourth car was an older model—with both back tires missing. Finn stopped by the fifth, a huge, four-door monstrosity with pitted beige paint and a cracked windshield. But the interior was spotless, and the tires looked new.
Best of all, it had an old-style manual lock.
Finn passed the bag off to Trix and knelt to tug at one of the laces on his boots. Her shoes caught his attention, black-and-red two-tone pumps with straps around the ankles, and he mentally kicked himself for not having noticed sooner. “How the hell are you still walking in those things? Your feet must be killing you.”
She avoided his eyes as she shifted her weight and leaned against the car. “If I can pull a double and still dance a set in them, I can certainly walk.”
The lace almost snapped beneath his fingers. “O’Kane’s making you dance?”
“No one’s making me do anything,” she shot back. “I’m damn good at it.”
Something else that was new—Tracy had never had a temper. Finn concentrated on dealing with his bootlace and tried not to picture Trix on stage in O’Kane’s bar, burning up with all that new fire.
Fuck, with that body and those smiles, she wouldn’t even have to be good at it.
She was still glaring at him when he straightened, but his apologies would have to wait. He looped a sturdy slipknot into the bootlace and worked it under the edge of the car door, finessing it until the loop dropped over the lock. The first tug pulled the knot tight, and the second dragged the lock up with a soft click.
“That’s resourceful.” Trix hauled open the door, tossed the bag inside, and climbed in after it.
“Life in the sectors, baby doll.” He slid into the driver’s seat and reached beneath the wheel to pry off the plastic covering on the steering column. “We work with what we have.”
She watched him as he teased out the bundle of wires that led to the battery. “There’s no back seat. You think the owner’s a smuggler?”
“Probably. Smuggling food to other sectors is this hellhole’s second biggest industry. Grab that flashlight, would you?”
She flicked it on and aimed the beam toward his hands. “Can you get it?”
He’d hotwired dozens of cars in his youth, plenty under less optimal conditions than this—but he’d also punched a lot of faces. It didn’t matter how steady he could keep his hands when the cold made his joints stiff and his fingers had always been too big for delicate work.
Pride was nice. Weighed against her safety, it meant shit. “Get your tiny fingers over here and separate the wires, huh?”
Trix laughed softly and passed him the flashlight. “Hold this.” She leaned over, her head almost in his lap as she peered beneath the steering column.
Great, now all of him was getting stiff.
She shifted closer, her arm rubbing his leg as she fiddled with the wires, and he didn’t have to imagine what it would feel like to sink a hand into her hair while she opened his jeans and slid those lips around his cock. She’d done it before. Fuck, she’d done it in a car before, laughing before taking him deep, not caring if she fogged his brain with so much pleasure that he ran them both off the road.
She’d never cared about much of anything, as long as he handed over her next fix.
The engine turned over and rumbled to life, and she straightened with a satisfied smile. “I remembered how. Rachel’s gonna be proud.”
Finn gripped the steering wheel, the guilty arousal of his memory clashing with a newer, simpler sort of appreciative lust. She’d always looked good, but it was so much hotter to watch her be a little bad. “Nice trick.”
Her gaze flicked to his lap and back up, so quickly he might have only imagined it. “Life in the sectors, baby doll.”
The urge to laugh—really, honestly fucking laugh—hit him for the first time in months. Years, maybe. He let himself as he pulled away from the curb, the engine rumbling quietly. “You’re about to see a whole different side of it. How much do you know about this sector?”
“They grow things, right?”
“Most of them. Some people who live along the reservoir fish, but that’s a special privilege. ’Cause it’d be a city-wide crisis if a fancy lady in Eden wanted to serve fish at her dinner party and the day’s catch ended up in the belly of a starving sector brat instead.”
Trix looked out the window. “Some things are the same all over.”
“Bad,” he agreed. “When they’re not worse. The farms here aren’t much better than the communes. A bunch of farmers, taking as many wives as they can knock up, everyone spitting out kids as free labor. Everyone works fifteen-, maybe eighteen-hour days. I used to move more stimulants through Six in a month than all the other sectors go through in a year. Combined.”
“Is that where we’re headed? To one of the farms?”
“Technically.” He took a left turn onto the road that followed the reservoir out to the edge of the sector. “We’re going to the people who moved the stims.”
“Drug runners?”
Finn imagined Shipp’s outraged expression at being called something so distasteful and almost laughed. “Moving product for me was more of a sideline to fund their real passion.”
She nudged him. “Which is...?”
Teasing her felt good. Sharing Shipp’s place with her would feel better than good, even under shitty circumstances. How many times had he taken the long ride out to this outlaw village and wished he’d discovered it before she was gone, so he could share the magic of midnight races across the desert and the blinding shine of lovingly polished chrome under the noon sun?
Words couldn’t describe the oasis of peace Shipp and his old lady had built, so Finn didn’t try. It would be more fun to watch the delight in her eyes when she got her first good look around the compound come dawn tomorrow. “Let’s just say they like cars. They really like cars.”
Finn had a talent for understatement.
He’d told her they were going to a farm, but it turned out to be a loose cluster of cabins and workshops that looked more like a small settlement. He’d also said they liked cars, but nothing prepared her for the roar of engines echoing through the still desert air out past the buildings. More cars were parked in a large circle, their headlights shining toward the center, blocking out the darkness of the night.
“They have so many,” she whispered. Dozens of cars—classic, cherry. The kind Dallas would have drooled over.
“
They fix ’em up. Trade for them. Shipp’s got some guys who range all the way out to the old cities. Vegas, Reno...places I can’t even remember.” Finn threw an arm around her shoulders and led her closer to the circle of light. “I think anyone in the sectors who really loves cars probably ends up here, sooner or later.”
Some of the people at the edge of the gathering had turned to look, and Trix was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that she’d been tromping through the tunnels. She’d cleaned up, but she couldn’t do a damn thing about her bruised face or her hair or the blood and dirt smudging her torn dress.
“Finn!” called a voice from their left, and a woman strode toward them through the swiftly parting crowd. A beautiful woman, lean and tough in jeans and a leather jacket, with her brunette hair tied up in a long ponytail that swung with her swift steps.
She stopped abruptly in front of them, hands on her hips, her expression darkening as her gaze swept from Finn to Trix. “I know you weren’t about to drag this poor girl into the middle of a rally.”
Finn’s eyebrows drew together, usually his first sign of irritation. “Trix, meet Alya. This is her farm.”
Trix held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Alya clasped Trix’s hand and turned it over, studying the hint of ink peeking out from beneath her bandages. But she didn’t comment, just smiled. “Come to the main house with me, honey. We’ll get you fixed up. Finn can tag along, I suppose. Shipp’ll want to see him.”
The woman made it sound casual, but Trix had lived in Sector Four too long not to recognize what it meant—they wanted to check her out, and they had questions for Finn.
Not that he seemed worried. He reclaimed Trix’s hand and followed Alya around the edge of the crowd. “I was just gonna show her the cars.”
“And they’ll still be there in the morning.”
The woman moved deeper into the darkness, past several small, squat adobe structures and a few greenhouses. They reached a gentle rise, and Trix picked her way gingerly up the dirt and stone path.
The main structure was several stories tall and made of wood, wide boards cut from what must have been huge trees. A generous porch wrapped around both sides that Trix could see, and the glass-paned double doors sat open.
Two men dressed in denim and leather stood by the doors, smoking. One nodded to Finn. “Little early, aren’t you?”
“Situation’s changed.” Finn’s voice stayed relaxed, but his fingers tightened around hers. “I need to call in that favor.”
The man brushed his dark blond hair out of his face and studied Trix. On the surface, it was a lazy perusal, slow and indifferent, but his gaze was sharp, and she knew he missed nothing.
Finn tensed as Alya reached over to pluck the cigarette from Shipp’s fingers. She took a hit, exhaled toward the porch ceiling, and crushed it out into an ashtray. “Hawk,” she said, nodding to the second man. “Head over and get things started. We’ve got business.”
“You got it.” He lumbered off into the darkness, but not before Trix got a good look at the giant handgun strapped to his hip. It looked like a cannon, for Christ’s sake.
Whoever Finn’s friends were, they were deadly.
Shipp tilted his head toward the open door of the cabin. “You hungry?” he asked Finn.
Finn exhaled slowly and relaxed, as if the offer had answered a silent question. “We could use a decent meal.”
“We’ve got leftover stew. Some bread and cheese.” Alya waved them into the cabin after her. “You both look like you could use a drink.”
“Just water, please.” The last thing Trix wanted was to feel groggy again, out of control.
Shipp took the chair at the head of the long table. “Introduce me to your friend, Finn.”
Finn hauled out a chair and held it while Trix sat. “Shipp, meet Trix. I knew her back in the day, but for the last few years she’s been running in Sector Four. With Dallas O’Kane.”
“Is that what those are?” He nodded to the ink peeking above the tops of the bandages on her wrists. “His cuffs?”
Trix fought the urge to hide her hands in her lap. “Yes.”
He grunted in response.
Alya brought a pitcher of water to the table and set it down beside two glasses. “If you’re waiting for us to fill in the blanks, honey, we’ll all be here a while. You know we don’t hear shit out here. No vid network, no wireless.”
Finn rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“Probably not. As I recall, that was a damn big favor.”
“I know.” Finn met Shipp’s gaze. “I need to get word to Four, let them know she’s here. And we need a safe place to stay until they can come and get her.”
Shipp’s jaw clenched. “Who’s after you?”
“Most of Five.”
“Must have really pissed off your boss this time.”
Finn snorted. “Something like that.”
Alya thumped a bowl of stew down in front of Finn so hard that a little slopped over the edges. Then she slid a second one in front of Trix. “How do you expect us to send a message? I just told you, we don’t have access to the network.”
“You could send someone.”
Shipp laughed. “You make it sound easy. Maybe you forget that it isn’t, not for everyone.”
Finn pressed his lips together, one big hand clenching his spoon until Trix thought she saw it bend. “Not easy, but you could do it. All they have to do is get to Four, and O’Kane will come get her. I know he will.”
Shipp reached for the glass in front of him, but instead of filling it from the nearly empty bottle of O’Kane whiskey at his elbow, he spun it around on the table. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Tense silence. Finn slanted Trix a look, but jerked his gaze away the moment her eyes clashed with his. “Mac Fleming was trying to start a sector war between Four and Five. Kidnapping her was part of it. I put him down.”
“Put him...” Shipp blinked. “You fucking killed him?”
“Shit got complicated.”
“No kidding.”
Alya sank into the chair next to Trix. “They’ll do this all night, you know. Dance around what happened one sentence at a time. Finn’s drugs are more affordable than his words.”
“We don’t have to dance around what happened,” Shipp said lazily, with no trace of humor to match his light tone. “Our buddy Finn killed a sector leader and came here. But what’s done is done.”
“What’s done is done,” Alya agreed. “I won’t turn you away from the farm, but you’ll have to let Shipp decide when it’s safe to send a messenger.”
Shipp rubbed his chin and sighed. “Tomorrow’s soon enough. We’ll have to spend tonight on guard, just in case.”
A muscle in Finn’s cheek clenched as he finally looked at Trix. “Is that okay?”
As if her input mattered to Shipp and Alya—but at least it did to him. She smiled gently, grateful for the chance to pretend, if only for a moment, that her answer carried weight. “It’s more than generous. And I’m sure Dallas will show his gratitude.”
“I wouldn’t mind a little.” Alya leaned across the table to snag the whiskey bottle. “You wouldn’t believe what we have to pay for a bottle of this stuff.”
Dallas’s appreciation went far beyond free liquor. “He’ll take care of you.”
“And we’ll take care of you.” Alya rose and circled the table, brushing her fingers along the back of Shipp’s neck. A casual touch, soothing, the kind Trix had seen Lex give Dallas a hundred times. “I’m going to start the water heater. Trix, love, when you’re done eating, follow the hallway to the stairs. I’ll have a bath and a med kit waiting.”
“Thank you.” She avoided Shipp’s gaze as she picked up her spoon.
He had danced around things, all right—like the fact that harboring them, even overnight, was dangerous. It was impossible to know how far Beckett would go to catch Finn or recover her, but they had to assume the worst—that
he’d tear apart the sectors, not to mention anyone who got in his way.
Chapter Four
Finn didn’t blame Trix for rushing through her meal. Shipp looked perfectly amiable, sprawled in his chair—but she had spent her life around dangerous men. She wouldn’t miss the tension in Shipp’s eyes.
It didn’t explode until she’d vanished down the hall. They both listened to the old wooden stairs creak gently as she climbed, and Shipp lit another cigarette as the sound receded.
Then he swore viciously. “You put me in one hell of a goddamn spot here, Finn.”
“I know.” He reached for the empty glass by Shipp’s elbow and poured himself a generous helping of whiskey. “I’m sorry, man. I am. If I’d had any other option—”
“Forget Fleming’s men,” he interrupted. “Or Beckett’s, or whoever the fuck took over. The other sector leaders could want your head.”
It was true enough. For the first time in forever, the thought of dying stirred a twinge of regret. He’d been barreling toward death for so long, it was hard to believe he could still have a reason to live. But there she was, upstairs in a bathtub, trusting him to get her through this.
“My head, yeah.” He knocked his glass against the whiskey bottle. “If it comes to that, they can have it. But if you keep Trix safe, O’Kane’ll keep you safe. Believe me, Shipp. That man has more pull with the other sectors than anyone else.”
“If you’re so ready to die—if you’re not after that pull yourself—then what are you doing with Ginger up there?”
“You know that favor you owe me?”
“No need to be delicate,” Shipp shot back. “You saved my life. I remember.”
It hadn’t been a big deal—for Finn. He’d been cold already, still grieving the loss of Tracy. But he’d been in the wrong place at the right time, and so fucking tired of watching good people die. “Yeah, well, I didn’t save hers.”
“Did you take a whack to the head? Because you...” Shipp trailed off, his confused expression easing as realization dawned. “That’s her.”