Page 81 of Rage
It stops. Perfectly. Blocking the whole exit.
Garret says something that ends with dick.
The tinted window comes down maybe four inches. Enough for the light to blanket the darkness inside.
“Get in,” Saint demands in a hard voice.
Two words. Pitched under the engine so it lands on me and nobody else, except everybody else heard it, because the alley is a tin can, and Saint has never once needed volume to be loud.
Azriel exhales through his nose. “Saint.”
He says nothing.
The window doesn’t move. The car doesn’t move. I don’t move either.
Here is the thing, and I have exactly four seconds to think about what I’m going to do.
I had a plan. The plan involved cold air from a walk, and at the last minute, Azriel’s easy company. The plan was good. The plan had self-respect in it.
I hesitate.
And the car door opens.
It scissors upward, because of course it opens upward, and of course this ridiculous car must have cost a fortune as Saintunfolds out of it to his full height in the narrow alley. The amber light finds his face, highlighting his angular jaw and full lips. His hood is down, and his eyes are set on me like the rest of the alley is a rounding error.
He comes around the front of the car. Unhurried. Every step a countdown, the way he moves when he wants me to see exactly what he’s doing.
He stops and opens the door and holds it. The dark leather inside is inviting in like it has a secret to tell.
“I won’t ask again,” he says, quietly leaving no room for negotiation.
It’s not a threat. Saint doesn’t issue threats. Threats are for people who might not follow through. It’s worse than a threat. It’s an order.
Heat climbs my neck. Not all of it is anger. That’s the part I’ll be dealing with later, in my notebook, in two columns.
I look around the alley. Rose, one eyebrow at maximum altitude, fighting the corner of her mouth.
Garret studies the chained bike like it’s about to be on an exam. Azriel with his hands in his pockets and his jaw tight, caught between brother and his ego and losing both jobs at once.
A couple of students are at the alley mouth now too, phones half-raised, because a Lamborghini with its door up at 1 a.m. is content.
I could make this a scene. I have years of training in standing still while a man waits for me to fold.
But every camera in this alley would make me a story by morning.
The scholarship girl and the lost son of Kenyan, arguing in an alley. I’ve been a story before. I didn’t like the edit and the last thing I need is for Roman to find me here.
I cross the space.
My heels are loud on the asphalt. I stop in front of him, close enough that he has to look down and I have to look up and neither of us pretends to be annoyed.
“This conversation,” I say, low, just for him, “is going to cost you.”
Something moves behind his eyes. Not triumph.
He’s too unhinged for triumph.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he says, before I slide inside the car.
