Standing, I growled, “In two days we wipe Dagger Rose from existence and put this fucking treason behind us.”
Thirty minutes later, I straddled my Triumph and slotted the key into the ignition. Twisting my wrist, the silent machine evolved into a rumbling beast.
Sunshine sliced slivers off my eyeballs and made my brain bleed. I wanted to get home. I wanted shade. I wanted Cleo.
But as I turned the handlebars for home, I paused.
I had one last thing to do and I didn’t want to do it where Cleo could listen in.
Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I dialed the number I knew by heart and waited for it to connect.
“Florida State. Please dial the extension you require or hold for assistance. Our visiting hours are between eleven a.m. and two p.m. Monday through Friday and require a prior arranged booking.”
Pulling the phone from my ear, I pressed the five-digit extension to be put through to the petitionary wing I’d been housed in and suffered the familiar fisting around my gut as I waited for it to stop ringing.
“Florida State,” a female voice answered. “How can I direct your call?”
“Prisoner number FS890976. Wallstreet, please.” My tone was curt.
“One moment.”
The line switched to god-awful music and I stroked the matte black of my gas tank while I waited.
It was never a quick turnaround calling Wallstreet.
The line crackled, cutting off the music. “You have ten minutes.”
I waited for the additional click as the operator connected me to a line in Wallstreet’s cellblock.
“Kill, my boy. You got my message, then?”
I still hadn’t figured out how he managed to send text messages in his predicament, but he did. On a regular basis. “Yep. Received and noted. It’s going down in two days.”
Top rule when speaking on prison lines. No details. Ever.
“Good, good. I thought as much. At least I’ll have something to celebrate when I get out of here.”
My hand tightened. “You heard back?”
“Sure did.”
When he didn’t elaborate, I pressed, “And?”
He laughed, sounding twenty years younger and fucking spritely. “I’m done, Kill. Served my time, paid my price. I’m gonna be a free man again.”
“Fucking hell.” I stared ahead, reliving those days when I first came out. The fear of open spaces, the constant questions of “Can I go there? Who do I need to check with to make sure I’m allowed? What’s my curfew?” Even breaking the habit of going to bed and getting up—set by the warden’s hateful alarm clocks—took time. “Shit, Wallstreet, that’s fantastic.”
“They’re letting me go early due to good behavior and proof of conforming to the necessary requirements of a rehabilitated criminal.”
I knew for a fact that was the truth. He hadn’t had to bribe anyone. He was an exemplary prisoner. I had no doubt the warden would’ve kept him forever if possible—just for the respect and peace he wielded. J Block would never be as calm the day he left; I was fucking sure of it.
“Do you have a date?”
“Not yet. The sentencing was just confirmed yesterday. Paperwork and all that jazz is always a holdup, but I’ll let you know when to pick me up.”
My heart raced to think of him coming home. This man had done so much for me. Made me who I was. Built me up when I was down and all that fucking sob-story bullshit.
I made a mental note to throw him the best damn party he’d ever seen.
“I’ll be there, Cyrus. You can count on it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cleo
I’d gone to a high school dance last night.
I’d attended with a boy I didn’t like.
Arthur had refused to take me. My mom said he wouldn’t have been allowed anyway. He was too old for me. But what did they know? He wasn’t too old. How many times did I need to tell them that he was the boy I’d end up marrying?
I knew what I was and I was happy with that. And I’d be ecstatic when Arthur finally understood that our future wasn’t with others but together. His family, my family—they didn’t count. He was my family. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen
Two worlds.
Two identities.
When Arthur disappeared to deal with Club business, I’d fretted. When he said he’d be back before dinner but never showed, I’d panicked. And when a mysterious package arrived with instructions, I’d freaked.
I never expected this.
I never expected Arthur to be such a master juggler with so many moving parts flying unseen above my head or to be left so far behind. Sure, he’d always been a planner, crossing t’s and dotting i’s, but to this extent … I would never have guessed.
My heart fell thinking how much had changed since we’d matured into adults and formed our own existences.
I just have to trust that he’ll tell me when he’s ready.
My eyes focused as I shoved aside my thoughts and concentrated on the now.
The gloom welcomed me and I turned to face the man who held my heart.
“Arthur … where on earth have you brought me?”