Page 95 of Dizzy

“Can you take me to the pawnshop?”

“How ‘bout I take you to my place? Lay low for a spell?”

Ugh. No.

“I need cash. I got to get to the pawnshop.”

His brow furrows, but eventually he nods. “All right. Don’t think it’s open, though. Saddle up.”

I hop on, and we peel off, my Mama’s voice rattling in my head about the devil you know versus the devil you don’t. For the life of me, I can’t remember which is worse, but if I have a choice between going with this guy and watching Dizzy choose to hand me over to his club, I’ll pick this guy every time.

I can deal with a broken heart. Broken dreams. It hurts, as if my chest has been sliced open, but I’ll endure it.

But I can’t handle more concrete proof that ultimately, I mean nothing to anyone in this world. There’s an orneriness that kept me alive in that hundred and five degree shed. It gave me the courage to leave Dalton. Maybe it’s survival instinct. Maybe it’s grace. I don’t really know, but it’s damn clear about one thing.

You can’t trust anyone but yourself.

And now Dizzy doesn’t have to choose between his club and me. It’s like that cat in the box we learned about in Mrs. Flynn’s physics class. Schrödinger’s cat. Until you open the box, the cat’s not alive or dead.

As the wind whips my hair into knots and numbs my cheeks, I’m in that space. Dizzy didn’t choose me. And he didn’t betray me, either.

It’s a cold place to be, but I’m not stuck. I’m flyin’ forward.

10

DIZZY

Heavy’s between me and the door. Any second now, there’s gonna be an epic showdown where I use my tool cabinet to bulldoze his gigantic ass out of the way. Nickel can get a piece, too, if he steps into it.

“Listen.” Heavy raises his palms. “It looks bad.”

“Don’t give a shit how it looks.”

Heavy could have shown me Fay-Lee snappin’ pictures of blueprints with one of them James Bond cameras, and it wouldn’t make no difference. She’s mine. She done somethin’ wrong, I’ll make sure she don’t again, but no one else gets to lay a hand on her. Ever.

“She clearly knows Rab. She lied about it.”

“Did you ask her if she knew Rab?” I ask.

Heavy scoffs. But it ain’t a stupid question.

“Did you?” I direct the question to Nickel. He shrugs. Dude’s a single-use tool. He kills shit. Questioning shit ain’t in his wheelhouse.

“I don’t think ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ means you’re on good terms with a person,” I point out.

When I find Rab Daugherty, he’s dead. That’s a given, regardless.

“She wouldn’t be on good terms with the man if she was supposed to deliver blueprints and decided to shack up with you instead.” Heavy’s using his “reasonable” voice on me. He picked it up in college. He sure as shit didn’t talk that way when he was a scrub tryin’ to sweet talk me into fixin’ his ride.

I snort. “Fay-Lee ain’t got nothin’ to her name but the clothes on her back. Lord knows she went through my house with a fine-tooth comb, lookin’ for loose change. She moved all my shit around. She ain’t sittin’ on a payday.”

“Maybe she’s getting paid on delivery. Maybe they turned her out, and she’s doin’ it for a man.”

My nails dig into my palms. No. She’s mine. No one’s takin’ her from me. If there’s a man, it don’t matter. He’s dead.

“You’re too close. Let us take her to the clubhouse. Talk to her. When we find out what we need to know, you’re the first call. If she needs to be put down, we can do it quick. Painless.”

I shake my head, my lips peeling back in a bitter grimace. “No.”

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