“What did he tell you?” Kyon demands.
“I don’t know—something about taking me back to my family so that I can pay for my crimes,” I retort. “It didn’t appeal, so I had to say no.”
He flashes me a lightning-fast smile that dies just as quickly. “He has no idea what you’re worth.” Somehow I know he’s being truthful, or at least, he believes what he’s saying is true. “It’s a pity…your eyes…they’re Rafe, but you have your mother’s face—her hair. You look Alameeda, too.” A shiver escapes me.
“You knew my mother?” I ask, seeing the cold calculation in his eyes. I’ve always known that I’m different. My first haircut made that shockingly clear and is the very reason one foster family returned me to DSS the next day. The caseworker didn’t take my foster mother seriously and I never let anyone cut my hair again after that. I’d scream and cry and make a huge fuss until they’d give up.
“Your ignorance makes you less appealing. You should try not to speak,” he says, ignoring my question about my mother with an arrogant twist of his lip.
I ignore his suggestion. “So, what are you going to do now?” I can’t see any way out of this because not only does Kyon have a death grip on my arm, his friends, Forester and Lecto, are flanking us.
“Now I—” Kyon doesn’t get a chance to finish because the sound of a shotgun racking cuts him off.
CHAPTER 3
STRANGERS
“Bug, you okay?” Luther’s deep voice calls from the stairs behind us, holding the shotgun trained on Kyon next to me. He inches down the basement stairs toward us, watching my eyes. Shaking my head, my eyes drift to Kyon, trying to read what my defiance will cost me. Kyon’s murderous scowl speaks volumes.
“We called the police,” Jimmy yells from behind Luther on the stairs. He’s near Scott, the beafy head bouncer.
“That is a shotgun, is it not?” Kyon directs his question to Luther.
“You’re damn right it’s a shotgun and it’s liable to tear a hole clear through you if you don’t let go of Kricket,” he replies, clenching his teeth.
Kyon smiles down on me, tightening his fingers on my upper arm. “Kricket,” he grins. I close my eyes briefly, knowing my lie has been exposed. “It’s such a powerful name,” he breathes. Not taking his eyes from me, he says to Luther, “You fire that weapon, and you will hit Kricket as well.” Kyon turns, hauling me again toward the cargo door.
“Shit!” Luther says behind us. “Scott, hand me your piece.” An instant later, the sound of a slide being engaged echoes behind us. “That’s the sound of a Glock 22PT pistol, black, 40 S&W, 15 rounds, polymer full-size frame with a 4.49” barrel and night sight. Personally, I would’ve gone with something that has more bling, but Scott here has a hard-on for law enforcement.”
“Am I supposed to be frightened?” Kyon asks, turning back to Luther and grinning.
“That’s the general idea,” Luther says, matching his grin except his is capped with gold teeth. “Now, let her go before I see how many rounds it takes to drop you.”
Holding my breath, I wait to see what Kyon will do next. Deliberating for a moment, Kyon lets go of my upper arm abruptly. Feeling his gaze on me, I want to hide from him as he’s memorizing everything about me. Slowly, I take a step back from him, watching his blue eyes follow me.
“Don’t go far, Kricket,” Kyon says softly, smiling his shark smile at me again. I grimace, seeing the look of confidence in his body language, a second later, Kyon strides menacingly toward Luther.
Luther tightens his grip on the gun. “Blondie, you’re about to get capped. Stay where you are!” Luther stresses the last few words, but Kyon continues to cut the distance between them. Not thinking at all, instinct takes over when the loud report from the gun sends a burst of adrenaline through me. Running out the cargo doors, I look over my shoulder just in time to see Kyon stagger back from the bullet entering his shoulder. Pausing, my heart lurches painfully in my chest as Kyon reaches Luther, picking Luther up off his feet and throwing him back into Jimmy on the stairs.
Seeing Forester and Lecto look in my direction, I don’t waste any more time, but run full out into the alleyway between the buildings. Running down the dark, snowy street, the sounds around me muffle. All I can hear is my heavy breathing. Entering the busy sidewalk, I cut through the crowd of people waiting to get into the club. I run like a butterfly, dodging between parked cars and traffic to get to the other side of the street. Glancing over my shoulder, Forester emerges from the alley, spotting me.
I whimper before darting down the street and turning onto Clark when I come to the corner. Ducking into a head shop, I look wildly around for a place to hide amongst the racks of t-shirts and shelves of old vinyl records. The clerk doesn’t even look up from his comic book as he sits on the stool behind the counter.
“There’s a back door—straight through, behind the black curtain,” he says in a bored, monotone voice.
“Thanks,” I breathe. I find the back door leading to a parking lot. Sprinting to the next street, I go north toward Wrigleyville. Running flat out for about a mile, I have to revert to a fast walk as I pinch my side, trying to relieve the stitch in it while looking over my shoulder. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary behind me, I enter a diner that has a payphone. Pulling change and a wad of singles from my pocket, tips from my job tonight, I insert the change into the payphone before dialing Enrique’s cell.
“Yeah?” Enrique answers.
“Enrique? It’s Kricket. Listen, I need your help. I’m at Leo’s Diner in Wrigleyville. Can you meet me?” I ask, hearing the desperation in my own voice.
“Yeah…okay. What’s the 411, Kricket? You sound like you’re trippin’,” he replies.
“Just…can you hurry, Enrique? Please?” I plead, trying to remain calm.
“Yeah, of course. This new club is filled with Abigails anyway…lame. Can I bring Michael?” he asks.
“Yeah, just hurry,” I repeat, peering through the glass doors of the diner.
“Okay. I’m on the way,” he says. Hanging up the receiver, I walk into the diner. Finding a seat near the back, away from the doors, I sink onto the bench seat, picking up the menu and hiding my face behind it. When the waitress comes over, I order a coffee.
Glancing at my watch every few seconds, relief pours through me when Enrique and Michael push through the doors. When Enrique sees me, he grasps Michael’s hand as he leads him to my booth.
“Two coffees,” Enrique says, holding up two fingers to the waitress before turning to me, “Girrrl, ‘sup with you?” Enrique asks, his eyebrow rising in question. “You got a braid on one side and your hair’s just hanging loose on the other side. I gotta say that I’m not loving this look—it’s very Cher meets high school cheerleader.” He’s dressed for the club; his dark eyeliner makes his brown eyes appear almost black.
“And never the twain should meet, in my opinion,” Michael adds, sitting next to Enrique on the opposite side of the booth. He shrugs out of his Burberry coat, keeping his meticulously wrapped scarf in place. “Where’s your coat? It’s arctic out there. All we need are penguins and Nanook of the North.”