Page 42 of Make Them Bleed
“Last question,” she says. “How much will you tell them about this next step?”
“Enough to keep you alive,” I say, and that’s the only answer I trust.
She studies me, like she’s comparing my voice to something she’s heard somewhere else. For a beat I think she’ll push.Instead she rises on her toes and presses a quick, fierce kiss to the blank white mouth of Ghostface.
“Let’s go, Ghost,” she murmurs. “We’ve got men in suits to haunt.”
We tailbreakfast from a block away, making ourselves invisible with posture and silence. Render gets her seated in the Marina Club’s annex behind a silk screen. Render floats outside with a telephoto, making sure he never gets seen by Juno. Ozzy and I hide in the HVAC air ducts. It’s hot and stuffy, but we make do so nobody sees us in our ridiculous masks. Knight, in the Hayes mask, positions himself in a service corridor between pantry and private rooms. We can’t see Valentino and Gray, but our mics in the HVAC carry their words like confessed sins.
“…bundle the transfers… Q2 runway… creators who won’t comply…”
Juno’s breath hitches at the wordcreators. I tense, and tell her to breathe. She does.
When Gray mentions “the cemetery mess” and Valentino replies, “Not ours, not my problem,” I feel Juno exhale and I press down. She exhales, long and controlled. She is changing in front of me—still fire, but banked and aimed. I don’t know if I’m watching her harden or finally learn how to carry the heat.
After, in the alley behind the club, we debrief in low voices while the team filters updates across comms. Gage snagged a copy of the receipt—Gray’s membership ID, Valentino’s last name and an email domain we haven’t seen. Render got faces. Knightpicked up chatter about a “compliance packet” going to a third party on Monday.
“Third party,” Juno repeats. “Who?”
“Gracewood legal or a fixer,” I say. “Either way, a weak seam. We pull there.”
She steps close—public street, private electricity—and for a second I think she’s going to kiss the mask again in broad daylight. Instead she reaches up, thumb grazing the edge of the hood, and smiles a smile that is both invitation and dare.
“Tonight,” she says. “Same time.”
I nod. “Tonight.”
She turns to go, then glances back over her shoulder. “Tell Polk and Hayes they did good.”
“Will do.”
“And, Ghost?” Her eyes spark. “Don’t be late.”
She leaves in a drift of leather and resolve. I stand there a beat longer, the mask suddenly too warm, the air too thin. Something is up with Juno. I can feel it like the weather rolling in. Either she’s closer than ever to letting me in…or closer than ever to pulling my mask clean off.
I head for the car and tell myself I’ll be ready for either.
Because there’s one thing I know to my bones: whether she’s cutting me open or letting me in, I’ll take it. I’ll take the truth like a blade and make sure the men who sayfuneralchoke on it.
And if she asks me to touch her again, to kiss her, to be the wall the world can’t break, I’ll be there—mask on, mask off, whatever keeps her breathing.
17
Juno
Mandala coloring books are my new therapy. I never thought repetitive patterns and cheap colored pencils could ease my anxiety better than prescription meds, but here I am, sprawled on my sofa, purple pencil in hand, lost in the hypnotic spirals of page thirty-two.
Outside my window, Saint Pierce is gray and damp, the streets slick from an earlier drizzle. My apartment hums with silence, the ticking of the old wall clock my only company. I shade carefully inside the lines, filling one petal after another, each stroke a little prayer of patience, waiting for my phone to buzz with a text notification.
It’s been two days since I’ve heard from Arrow. I’ve heard from Hoover, but not Arrow as Arrow.
The absence gnaws at me, worse than I imagined. The empty spot where our morning ritual used to be feels raw. I set my pencil down, hesitating only a second before grabbing my phone. I bite my lip, thumbs tapping out a message before I can overthink it:
Hey stranger, wanna chill tomorrow? Coffee’s on me.
I watch the screen, irrationally hoping for the tiny bubbles of his reply. Nothing. Not even a “read” confirmation.
Frustration knots my chest. I’m torn between wanting to march straight to his apartment to shake answers from him and wanting to curl up in a stubborn ball and ignore his existence until he breaks first.
