“Do you get hard when you do it?” I ask.
He goes still.
“Knowing where everyone is at any moment?” I go on. “Who’s skipping classes? Which spouses are cheating? Who stopped off at a liquor store, three sheets to the wind, before climbing behind the wheel of a car? Having the power to ruin a life whenever you want?”
He’s clearly smart if he knows how to gain access to that surveillance, but it’s still not clear what he’s doing with it. Or with that place. I searched the rooms. There’s only one bedroom with clothes, personal items, and a bed that looks like it’s been slept in. He’s not sharing it. He stays there alone.
“I wouldn’t blame you,” I admit. “It would feel good to have some power like that. But don’t worry. I know it doesn’t turn you on.” I lay my head back again and close my eyes. “That’s not why you do it.”
It takes him a few moments, but eventually he speaks. “Why do I do it?” His voice is soft, like it was last night when he patched me up.
I smile, not sure I’m ready to play that card yet. Or that he’s ready to hear it.
When I don’t answer, he exhales hard and then I hear him open his door. “She hasn’t texted,” he says. “She’s supposed to text every five minutes.”
I open my eyes, immediately spotting something ahead.
“I’m going in there.” He starts to climb out of the car.
I grab his arm. “Wait.”
He looks back at me, but I’m looking out the front windshield. “There she is,” I tell him, sitting up.
She taps away on her phone, looking at ease like I told her to, and then she passes Hawke and climbs into the back seat.
“What’s the matter?” I ask her.
“Are you okay?” Hawke slams the door and turns in his seat, looking back at her.
She just nods, pulling on her seatbelt. “Yeah. It’s done.”
He and I exchange a look.
“Already?” I blurt out. “I told you to take your time. To relax. To blend in.”
“Are you sure no one saw you?” he questions.
She just laughs under her breath. “Most people don’t.”
We both stare at her, but I glance behind me to make sure no one’s following her. Hawke turns and loads the camera onto his laptop.
“Don’t worry,” she tells me, relaxed. “We’re good.”
But I’m still on the fence, looking behind me once again for any sign that she was followed. Just walking in and out like that is suspicious.
But then Hawke just laughs. “Well, shit.”
I follow his gaze, seeing the workroom appear on his screen, the camera positioned just like we told her. Two guys play pool, but the flood of activity that usually happens at night has quieted. It’s a pretty clear picture. I look up at Hawke. Where else does he have his own hidden cameras posted? I would post them everywhere. This is kind of fun.
Tommy clears her throat. “You’re welcome,” she sing-songs.
I smile, and Hawke flashes her a warm look in the rearview mirror. “Thanks, Dietrich.”
If that was this easy, we might use her again. One camera might not be enough.
“So, what do I get?” she chirps, doing an excited little bounce in her seat.
Hawke meets her eyes again, like he hadn’t expected her to demand anything other than the pleasure of hanging out with him today.
She looks at me. “I mean, I should get paid, right?”
“Yep.” I cast a look at Hawke.
Like the Joker said, if you’re good at something, never do it for free.
She grins, gazing at Hawke again. “I want to go to the Loop.”
Hawke
The Loop—now dubbed Fallstown, because it’s a lot bigger than the single track it started out as—is where everyone will be today. Everyone who knows me.
The fact that Tommy is one of the few people—including some in my family—who still refer to it as the Loop is a reminder of her connection to us. She gets that name from her father, as Dylan, Kade, and I get it from ours.
It’s old school.
And I should absolutely not go. I could’ve said ‘sure, I’ll take you next week’ or ‘yeah, sometime this fall’.
But I didn’t. I told her I’d take her. Why? Because I want to go too.
I want to know who’s out there, what’s going on, and maybe I’m also not excited about being bored with Aro Marquez back at the hideout for the next several days.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, holding my tongue as her filthy boot, complete with tattered duct tape, rests on my dash.
Well, Madoc’s dash. This is still technically his car, although he hasn’t driven it in years.
Her lip will heal, she’d said.
Like she was telling me something I didn’t know. Of course, Schuyler’s lip will heal. It was everything after that statement that she didn’t say but I still heard.