Page 25 of Violent Skies

“It means you don’t have a blood debt on your hands, if he’s not dead… they aren’t as pissed off,” he explains quickly.

“Good. Now we can find him, and I kill him.” Birdie chucks two paint cans on the bench beside her and cleans her hands on her black overalls.

I swallow tightly and she wanders closer, hanging herself over Murphy to stare at his screen. “Hell yeah.” She steals the sucker from him and ruffles up his hair with her hands. “I know exactly where to find that asshole.”

“What?” I look at her.

“I’ve seen him before, I’d never forget a man that ugly,” Birdie snorts. “He’s always downtown at that EDM joint.”

“Soundwave?” Murphy turns in his chair to watch her walk away.

“We could go?” Birdie fiddles with a knife in her hands as she leans against the bench behind her. “I could use a gin to go with my blood lust.”

“Is that a good idea? Rafe and Riggs are gone to Tucson to get some specialty part.” Murphy stares at her and I can see them sharing the same thought.

“Not our problem,” Birdie hums, pointing the knife in his direction.

“No one will be here to stay with Cress,” he tells her.

“I’m thirty-five and don’t need to be babysat.” I clear my throat.

“Riggs will flip and that’s not a fight I ever want to pick.” Murphy swallows his nerves as Birdie moves back toward us.

“He doesn’t have to know. We’re just going out for drinks,” she says, leaning over Murphy and closing the video. “I want to dance. If some asshole winds up dead, it’s not my fault unless you’re snitches…”

“Bird.” His voice drops. “It’s a bad idea.”

“It’s the best idea I’ve had all week. And I’m not sitting around pretending like we need to be protected.” She uses the arm rests to get in his face and he leans back in his chair to stare at her. “He taught us how to do it ourselves. He doesn’t get to tell us when to use those skills.”

“If he finds out,” Murphy sighs.

“I’ll deal with it. I want that asshole off our list,” Birdie pushes and I can see Murphy cracking under her convincing. “Please, Murph!”

The whine does him in, and he nods. “Call Jesse. I’m not going into this with just me to have your back and if shit goes sideways.” He looks at me. “Which it will.” He returns to Birdie’s stare. “I want someone to be able to get Cress out of there.”

“Fine, Jesse can come. It’ll be a party.” Birdie giggles. Her smile turns vicious and she spins the chair he’s sitting in before backing away. “You can’t wear that,” she says to me. “Come on.

Murphy’s Evo is easily the oldest of the three sports cars in the garage, but the white paint is immaculate, the rims are new and the sound of the refurbished old engine is heaven as he pulls into the club's back lot.

Birdie climbs from the car and wanders around into the headlights in a leather skirt that melted to the upper skin of her tattooed thighs and wrap top that clung to her chest and left nothing to the imagination. The connection wasn’t made earlier when they mentioned his name, but Jesse Mele steps out of the shadows and does a quick, enthusiastic hand shake with Birdie.

No longer the scrawny shit disturber I remember, Jesse is made up of more muscle, and every inch of his warm skin is stained with heavy ink. He turns his head as Murphy and I get out of the car, the only thing about him that’s remotely the same is the unkempt, shaggy brunet hair and its chunky, faded dirty blond highlights.

“Who told you that mustache looked good?”

His face curls up in annoyance as he takes me in.

“I need to talk to them about lying.” I smile at him and his eyes widen.

“Cress?” His shock turns to excitement and he charges toward me only to bring me into a massive bear hug. “There’s no fucking way.” He pulls back to stare at me again, baffled in the funniest New Zealand accent. “I like this mustache.” He feigns offence and rubs his hand over it. “Lookin’ slick, Murph.” He nods.

Murphy is a different animal tonight, like he’s playing a part. His hair is brushed and styled, the glasses are gone, and his green eyes follow the commotion around us. He changed out of his sweater into a white muscle tank and a flowy button-up t-shirt that he’s got tucked into a pair of black jeans. Gone is the nerd from the garage. It’s almost jarring, but he smiles and I remember that beneath the change he’s still there, soft as ever.

“You look hot,” Jesse huffs and steps back from me, still holding my hand. “If Koa wasn’t in his grave, he would be from this.” He jokes but no one laughs; the subject is a bit touchy. “Sorry,” he grimaces, “might have been a little dark.”

“It’s okay,” I hum, “and you’re right.” I look down at myself in the tight black dress and swallow tightly. I’ve never worn anything like this in my life. But Birdie had insisted that we look good to commit murder, for half a second I was concerned and then remembered who I was dealing with.

“And you’ve been running around stabbing men?” Jesse chuffs. “It’s like I don’t even know ya.”