When we all lived in the old apartment, and Da still depended on Erika’s father, Ewan McFarland, for the dirtiest, lowest paying assignments, we were dirt poor. We only had our names and the Devil streak in our blood to get a job done. Da’s form of bonding, turning us laddies into lads, included dismemberment. We had a brilliant time watching and learning which bones were the easiest to break.
Brody opens the door to the office. I stifle a sneeze. Layers of dust are on desks and leather-bound books.
“Why not tell meye were busy, Brody?” I ask as he moves the tin desk aside to reveal a staircase leading down into a basement.
“Texted ya.”
“When, Brody?” I remove my phone as I hustle down the cement steps. There’s one lightbulb dangling above the eight-by-eight room.
“Eh, a minute ago.” Brody stands before a table slab, strewn with body parts. I count at least three femurs. He picks up a hacksaw from a cart of goodies. “Listen, Da’s a bit sour about me sending Knox to Boston. Ye know thearsebarely passed the test for his CDL. Da’s in his feelings about Cam. Which leaves ye, Da’s knight and shining armor, weebawsand all—”
“Wee myarse.”
He slams the saw between a kneecap, slicing through all the cartilage, and grits his teeth. “Wee. Now’s not the time, Leith.”
“Then dinna mention my bigbaws.” I fold my arms. He’s half right. Now isn’t the time.
Brody glowers up at me, eyes exaggerated by the goggles. “What I’m saying is all thisshiteis yer fault. Me not going on the run like normal. Cam staying with his friends, and thefeckerplaying ye for a fiddle.Allyerfault,bawbag.”
“I’ll silence my own enemies.”
“Let’s pause this chat and come back to it after we pick up the American.”
“Where’s Cam? Why are ye set on including him? He’s a teen, afeckin’laddie, Brody!”
My bigbrathairrolls his eyes. “Hesentmean address. So,ye tell Camdyn—a MacKenzie—once and for all that ‘ye dinna need him,’ aye?”
Chapter 33
Leith
An hour later,Brody and I pull into paid parking at the beach. Toward the back few rows, there seems to be some sort of Harley Davidson convention. Women in skimpy bikinis swish from side to side as boys posing as men chat and show off their rides. Abawbagconvention is what it is.
“Look at the American.” Brody shakes his head.
I shift gears and stall in the center of the lane, seeing how the girls are vying for attention. They keep sauntering into the way. Across from us, Camdyn looks like the king of theneds, seated on a matte black motorcycle with a crowd around him.
“Wit’s with all those tattoos?” I gesture to his arms.
“Aye, we took thenuggetto get his first tat. It sparked an addiction.”
“I stopped count at the third one. Where thefeckdid the rest come from? He’ll never get a job.”
“Ye got afeckin’job.”
“I dinna haveall thosetattoos, either.”
“Let’s just say the boy is thefeckin’president of his crew.”
“MC?” I cock a brow.
“Nae. Leith, the American’s an all-around businessman.” While my eyes battle Brody to continue, he sniffs. “Ye got yer secrets. Ask Camdyn. He’ll share. It’s rather genius.”
I start to ask Brody to spill already, but he’ll repeat himself. I make a mental note to do just that and ask Cam myself when our weebrathairnotices us.
With a backpack over one shoulder, he shakes hands with one of the other teens. As he’s heading over, every few steps, a girl stops him for attention.
“Look at those tits, thatarse—the American’s living my life,” Brody groans, watching them.