Page 8 of Bad Attitude
“Fine,” I say between clenched teeth. “I’ll do it for that alone.”
“Thank you.”
That’s a please and a thank you from Kurt on thesame day. Almost as disconcerting as Hale’s unblinking stare.
“You’re welcome. But I’m not spending another minute in a room with him.” I jerk my chin at Kawasaki, collect my lid from by the coffee machine, and push past Briggs to get to the door.
“See you Thursday,” Cammy calls after me.
It’s a show of support, but I’m not in the mood to receive it. I pull my helmet on, tuck my braid in, fix my gloves, then throw a leg over my Ducati.
And I’m gone.
I’m half way to Lou’s shop before I realize Declan Hale never said a word.
He’s only ever spoken one line.
“Do you fuck the way you fight?”
Lou’s shop is in Tujunga, not far from my apartment, and it’s always full of bikes in various states of disarray. An engine hangs on a hoist, oil everywhere, and Miguel is up to his elbows with a bottom-end rebuild. He grins at me, hair slicked back, a dirty smear on his cheek.
“Hola. Where’s Lou?”
He nods to the corner. “Office,chica.”
It sounds a lot better when he says it than that dick Kawasaki.
Walking through Lou’s shop is always bitter-sweet for me. Too many memories now. It’s beenthree years, but I still see Mistake Number Two everywhere I look. Brandon replacing a chain against that wall. Brandon changing a tire in the pit. Brandon holding his hand out to me for a socket and ratchet.
Before he fucked off with Vera and never came back.
It doesn’t matter how many bikes I fix, how much oil I wash out of my hair, I still can’t overlay new memories over those old ones.
God, I hate men. Except when there are heavy things to lift.
Lou’s sitting in his chair, feet up on his desk. He’s pushing fifty now, which makes him about a hundred years older than me. A real father figure, with all the advantages and none of the angst. A wave of guilt washes through me as I realize I haven’t spoken to my dad in months.
It’s not just that I’m avoiding my mother—who makes a competitive sport of disappointment—it’s that I’m too ashamed.
“Resting bitch face, Raven,” he says in greeting. “What’s bugging you now?”
That’s harsh. I don’t have resting… whatever.
I flop down on his couch with a sigh. “I need a favor.”
“Of course you do. Why else would you be here?”
That’s harsh too. “What put you in a bad mood?”
Lou shrugs a shoulder and gestures to the papers spread out on his desk. “Money. Or not enough of it.” The wave of his hand turns into a dismissive flap in the air. “Never mind.” He kickshis feet off, straightens in his chair, and swivels it to face me. “What do you need?”
“Maybe we can help each other,” I begin tentatively.
“Uh-oh,” he says, then shoves away from the desk, rolling his chair back until he can hook the door with one hand. He slams it shut. “Kurt?”
“Yeah, Kurt.” I hate asking Lou for this, but I don’t have any other options. “You want a cut-in on my share of a job?”
“Drug running?” Lou shakes his head sadly. “It’s not my scene.”
