“I thought you might be able to help me,” I say, making sure I maintain eye contact with her. She has soft brown eyes, like those of a baby deer. Jesus Christ, what am I doing here? At best, I’m going to get Sara Young killed. At worst, she might end up hunting the Havoc Boys down as a part of some justice warrior plot.

Sara frowns, but only a little. Unlike me, it seems as if she’s used to smiling. She’s young—I’d peg her in her late twenties—but she has little marks on her face from smiling too much. Looking at her is like shoving an entire stick of cotton candy down a parched throat. I’m choking on sugar and sweetness; it’s basically poison to me.

I crack my knuckles in the awkward silence and her eyes find my HAVOC tattoo again.

Something shifts in her expression, a flood of hormones that I liken to … empathy?

Oh.

Oooooh.

She thinks I’m here because I want to leave the gang, I bet. I think about Ms. Keating and the soft sympathy in her face when she told me I had options, that she used to be in a gang herself once upon a time.

“Do you want to come in, Bernadette?” she asks me. “Neil should be here soon. The three of us could sit down before our shift—”

I cut her off by raising both hands and taking a step back. This time, I don’t have to fake the revulsion in my face at the mention of my stepfather.

“No, I … I don’t want him to know I was here,” I start, and Sara pauses a moment before nodding briefly. She’s probably making up some story in her mind, where I’m too afraid to talk to my ‘father’ or some shit. In reality, he’s the monster I hate most.

Sara combs her blond hair over her shoulder with her fingers as she waits for me to continue.

“How can I help, Bernadette?” she asks after a moment, when I just stand there in that stupid white dress, wondering if my cup’s going to overflow and I’m going to bleed all over it. I glance to the right, down the row of fifties bungalows with their American flags waving in the wind. There are no trees left in this neighborhood. Over the years, the homeowners have cut them down, one by one. I don’t think it was intentional, but the look of it is … austere, at best.

I turn back to Sara.

“Do you think it’d be okay if I came and talked to you sometime?” I ask, tilting my head to one side, hoping I look young and desperate enough for her to take pity on me. “I know we don’t know each other, but … I don’t have anyone I can trust.” I blink my green eyes and keep my face as neutral as I can.

“Are you in danger, Bernadette?” Sara asks me, stepping out onto the small front stoop of her home and looking up and down the street, like she can sense the Havoc Boys waiting around the corner for me.

“Yes,” I tell her, because that’s the truth. I am in danger. From her partner. From the Charter Crew. From my own strange, black, fractured little heart. “Would it be okay if I came over here sometime? I mean, if you can’t talk to a cop, who can you talk to?” I almost gag on the words, but I feel like I just pulled that off. Sara’s face softens and she nods, smiling at me in what I can only assume is a sincere way.

“Why don’t I give you my phone number? Text me, and we’ll set up a time to chat. Whatever it is that’s going on, Bernadette, it isn’t too late. It’s never too late. We can always fix what’s broken.” I almost laugh at that, but the sound would be so caustic, it’d burn Sara’s pretty face off. Is she kidding me? When glass shatters, it cannot be fixed. You can collect the pieces, but your hands will bleed after. There is no putting those little shards back together. They will forever remain dangerous fragments of a thing that used to be.

“Thank you,” I tell her instead, handing over my phone so she can input her number. I wonder if I’m being too awkward or weird, but maybe that’s what helps my case? Gives my lies a sense of believability. “I’ll be in touch. I really appreciate this.”

“If you ever need anything—beyond just a chat over coffee—call me. Don’t leave yourself in a dangerous situation because you’re scared to ask for help.” Sara looks down at me on the second step of her porch, her savior complex shining so bright that I want to look away. Instead, I stare at her until there are white splotches in my vision.

“I appreciate it,” I say after a moment, turning and heading back down the pathway. The grass has been cut back on either side, but there are no other plants of which to speak, adding to the strange fifties catalog-style Americana bullshit with the freakishly green lawns and shiny cars in the driveways.

It’s a relief to climb onto the back of Vic’s Harley and wrap my arms around him.

“Don’t ever stop me from riding with you,” I murmur against the sun-warmed leather of his jacket. I might be showing my cards a bit, but I can’t help myself. Victor isn’t allowed to cut me off from his influence. Not anymore.

“Even when Hael finishes your car?” he asks, a bit of a laugh hiding in the smooth fluidity of his voice.

“Even then,” I confirm. “Don’t cut us off from each other to punish me, Victor.”

He stays still for a moment before kicking the engine to life.

“Never,” he agrees, the wicked purr in his voice telling me that it’s just clicked for him. He’s figured it out, and I am fucked.

We take off down the road and into an entirely different sort of business transaction.

“What the hell is this place?” I ask as Vic parks his bike in the dirt outside of what looks like, quite literally, a haunted house. “This is your idea of a wedding venue?” Victor climbs off the bike, lighting up a cigarette as the Bronco and the Camaro pull up alongside us. I’m getting mad déjà vu from when we visited Billie’s trailer to find a dress for the brunch thing at the country club.

“You don’t like it?” Victor asks, studying the admittedly beautiful foliage. This place is the opposite of Sara’s neighborhood. The house is falling apart—not all shiny and perfect like hers—but the land is alive. There are mature trees with lineages far deeper and more beautiful than my own. And the ancient rhododendron near the porch? It’s such a far cry from South Prescott with its tract housing and shitty duplexes, all that cement and chain-link and urban decay.

“Whose place is this anyway?” I ask as the other boys climb out to join us. I’m surprised they’re all here, seeing as Vic is possessive as hell over this whole wedding idea. “Enjoy your time as a free woman because I’m counting down the nights until I fuck that wedding dress off of you.” I’m still not entirely sure what Victor expects after the wedding, but … glancing Aaron’s direction, I know that I’m not ready to give him up, not with all the time lost between us.

He doesn’t look like he wants to give me up either. His gaze is angry, and his fingers are squeezing into fists and then relaxing, a sign of the tension riding hard and heavy inside of him.

“My grandmother’s house,” Victor says, throwing a smile over his shoulder at me. Well, I’m not sure that I’d really call whatever that expression is, a smile. More like a fucking anti-smile. Yep, that’s what it is: an anti-smile.