Dare You by Jennifer Brown
I threw another hook. He blocked. “True. But if she messes with you, she runs the risk of being caught. And the last thing she wants is the authorities getting hold of her now. She could say good-bye to any sort of probation.”
“Well, you’ll forgive me for being cynical. Or paranoid. Or whatever it is. But I’ve seen the way Luna operates, and she is pretty good at not getting caught.” I flashed back on the way she’d mimicked Peyton’s voice, Peyton’s mannerisms, Peyton’s life. She got away with it for so long. “So what is this about, then, if it’s not about her?” I decided to go for a big move. I faked low and when he slipped back to avoid it, I popped high, hitting him right in the chin. I held back, so I wouldn’t break his teeth, and he knew it. I saw irritation cross his face. This time he was the one off balance. Mentally. Just as easy to defeat as an opponent who is physically off balance. Maybe easier.
I faked low again and then tried to sweep his ankle, but this time he saw it coming and dodged, moving toward me rather than away. Instinctively, I threw a punch, but he was too close. He smacked it down with an inside block, closed the gap between us, grabbed the back collar of my dobok, and pulled me low so that my back was arched, using his right hand to block my free hand, my other hand trapped by the arm that was wrapped around me. Our faces were inches apart.
“Surveillance,” he whispered. “I’ve got a friend who can get me surveillance tapes from the parking garage across the street from that escort service.”
“Hollywood Dreams?” I asked, the shimmery lilac words scratching my throat on the way out. The flyers flashed in my mind again.
He nodded. “Hollis’s place. I can get recordings. A bunch of them. It’ll take a while to watch, but it’s worth a shot. Maybe we can get a license plate or something to help us track down Rigo. You should come over to help me go through them.”
“What would Blake have to say about me coming over?” I went for the obvious—knee to the groin—but he was too quick. He tucked, blocking my knee with his, and then yanked the back of my dobok. We both went down, him on top of me, balled up like a bug. An impossible-to-penetrate bug.
“She knows.”
“She knows.”
“Yes, she knows, and she’s okay with it. As long as she’s not there when we’re watching them. She has to kind of turn a blind eye. You really should trust her, Nikki.”
My mind raced for ways out of his lock. All I could think of was to use my legs. I wrapped them around his waist, feeling him press into me. Probably more of a distraction than a benefit, a string of violet running between us as he pressed in closer. “You’ll forgive me if I’m the tiniest bit skeptical about trusting my future to the assistant DA.”
“So trust yourself. And me.”
Before I could answer, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, just over his shoulder. Jumpy as I was, instant gold fireworks popped me into motion. I jammed my forearm into his throat and pushed upward, just in time to see Jones pull away from the half wall, a look of disgust on his face.
“Jones?” But before I could even get off the mat, he was already storming out the front door. “Shit.”
I had no idea why, but I chased after him. I, Nikki Kill, destroyer of all things romantic, decrier of love, champion of the forever-single, was chasing after a boy just like some empty-headed girl in a schmaltzy chick flick. I hated myself for it, even while I was doing it, but the thing was, he had misunderstood what he saw. There was nothing going on between the detective and me.
He was a cop, for God’s sake. An annoying pain in my ass. He was so yellow I practically had to wear sunglasses to be around him. People that yellow didn’t belong around screwed-up people like me. He was a necessity in my life; Jones was my luxury. My safe luxury.
My safe luxury who was already in his car and backing out of the parking lot by the time I got through the front door.
“Come on! Jones! Don’t be like that! It wasn’t what you think!” I yelled, but he only briefly glanced at me, his brow furrowed angrily above his sunglasses, and sped out, his back tires kicking up rocks in their wake. “Damn it!” I took a step forward and immediately stepped on a rock. “Son of a bitch!” I yelled, hopping on one bare foot. I plopped down on the curb between Detective Martinez’s car and mine to massage my injured foot.
“You should have shoes on,” Detective Martinez said, sitting beside me. Calmly, as if nothing had happened at all. As if Jones hadn’t just stormed out of my life. I hadn’t even heard him come outside.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, giving him a sarcastic glare.
“He seemed pretty pissed.”
“You think? You know, I don’t know what you’re doing, helping me. I don’t even know if you’re helping, or if you’re messing up my already messed-up life.” The photo I’d found in Dad’s office nagged at me. “But Jones was the one thing in my life that wasn’t complicated. One thing. And now even that’s messed up.”
“He’ll be back.”
“He’s leaving for college in two months.”
“He’ll still be back.”
“How do you know? You know literally nothing about Jones. Sometimes I’m not even sure how much I know about him. I’m not great at paying attention to other people’s lives.”
“I know he’ll come back,” he said, scratching his bicep, which was still shiny with sweat, his tattoo peeking out, “because guys like Jones always come back to uncomplicated relationships with someone like you. If you can even do uncomplicated. Which I highly doubt.”
We locked eyes for a moment, and I swore I felt grape wine course through my veins. I cleared my throat to break the tension. “That sounds like the voice of experience,” I said.
He scratched an eyebrow, seemed to think it over. Finally, he looked up at me. “You remember that story I told you? About my brother?”
“The one in the gang,” I said. “Yeah. José or something.”
“Javi,” he corrected. “And remember me telling you about his rival? Leon?”
I nodded. “The guy who shot up the car and killed your sister.”
“Leon had a sister, too.” He stopped. I gave him a go-on look. He mirrored the look back to me.
“And?”
He shrugged. “And . . . it was complicated.”
“Oh,” I said, finally getting it. “Ouch. With the dude’s sister? When you do complicated, you really do it up right.”
“I told you I wasn’t always the person I am today.”
“I guess not.” I was unsure what to say to all of this. Detective Martinez messing around with some gang rival’s sister was something I almost couldn’t imagine. “Well,” I said, to break the awkward silence. “If it makes you feel any better, there really is no such thing as uncomplicated with a person like me.”
He chuckled. “Boy, ain’t that the truth!” He grabbed onto his knees and rocked backward, laughing.
I couldn’t help it, the laugh was contagious. I felt the corners of my mouth curl up just the slightest. “Shut up,” I said, playfully punching his shoulder. “Nobody asked you.”
His laughter died down. “So you in?” I stared at him blankly. “For the surveillance videos?”
“Sure, but not today.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“We have a business meeting this afternoon,” I said. “With our photographer. You probably should shower.”
He shook his head slowly. “You’re impossible, Nikki.” He stood, turned, and reached a hand out to help me up. I grabbed it and let him pull.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
As I leaned forward toward the front panel of his car, I noticed three holes poked through the metal. “What is this?” I asked, letting go of his hand and touching one of the holes. “Are these bullet holes? They look like bullet holes.”
“They’re nothing.”
“Bullet holes are not nothing.”
He frowned, stepping up onto the curb and heading back toward the dojang. “I’m a co
I refused to budge, still running my fingers over the holes. “Yeah, but cops don’t generally shoot those bullets into their own cars.”
He turned, hand still on the door, a flash of annoyance on his face. And something else too. That familiar gray that had every now and then tinged my consciousness when I was around him. That gray feathering around the edges of his yellow. That feeling that told me he was hiding something from me. “I wasn’t in the car when it happened, if that makes you feel better. I got vandalized. Let it go,” he said. “It’s not your business.”
So I did.
But even as I went inside and headed for the locker room, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe I wasn’t the only complicated one. And I wasn’t the only one hiding things.
17
YOU WOULD THINK that being the daughter of a photographer, and having been around cameras my whole life, I would be really comfortable in front of a lens. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. In pictures, I always ended up looking half-terrified and half like I wanted to rip your gall bladder right out through your belly button, which probably wasn’t altogether inaccurate. I had hidden from Dad’s photo-snapping finger so many times he eventually gave up on me.
My nervousness as I got ready for our meeting with Matt Macy was only made worse by the knowledge that I would not only be in front of a camera, but I would be in front of a camera as a sporty model with Detective Martinez watching me. I hated the idea, but “boxing gym” was the first thing that had popped into my mind when I was making the appointment, so “boxing gym” owners we would be.
I still had a pair of shorts and a crop tank from a running phase I went through my sophomore year. It was a short phase, and the clothes were like new. They were also super bright—the shorts vibrant red and the tank covered with a giant sugar skull—and I practically had to squint as I put them on. They were also super short and super tight. I couldn’t remember bright and sexy ever being my style. I was pretty sure I had lost my mind for a while there in tenth grade.
But for a sporty photo shoot, they were perfect.
I felt self-conscious as hell, but I looked pretty good. Turning in front of the mirror, I idly wondered what Detective Martinez was going to think when he saw this getup. Or what Jones would think.
Shit. Jones. How was I going to handle Jones?
I’d tried to call him. Over and over again. He wasn’t answering. He wasn’t texting. He was pissed, there were no two ways about it. The question was . . . did I care? I would miss the way he held me, but otherwise, probably not. It was probably for the best for me to let him go.
Even if I didn’t really want to.
Matt Macy’s studio was spacious, with red leather couches and globe lights and brick walls. It felt cozy—in some places dominated by photos that dazzled, and in other places muted with red wallpaper that would have looked more at home in Tesori Antico. I let my eyes adjust and scanned the room, feeling very unsteady in my outfit, even though I’d thrown a T-shirt and a roomy pair of sweats over it.
“Would you calm down already?” Detective Martinez said from the couch on the other side of the room.
“What?”
“You’re acting so nervous. Cut it out. Be cool. You’re just here to market your boxing business, remember? You should be excited. Or at least professional.” I started to explain to him why it was completely impossible for me to be excited about getting in front of a camera in basically no clothes, but was interrupted by a smallish man with receding brown curly hair, who came around the corner from a back area. He carried a camera in his hand—one that made my dad’s cameras look like toys. He looked a little surprised to see me at first, but then seemed to remember our appointment.
“You’re . . . ?” he said, coming at me with his hand outstretched.
“Ava Glass.” I took his hand. “We talked on the phone?”
“Ava,” he said, staring into my eyes so deeply I felt uncomfortable. He pumped my arm up and down for a beat too long. I tried to will away the goose bumps that threatened to crawl up my bare arms. “Yes, of course.” Finally, he looked over my shoulder. “And is this your partner?” he asked.
He’d pointed with his chin to Detective Martinez, who slouched, his hands dangling in his crotch, loosely clutching the handle of his duffel bag. As usual, the complete opposite of me—appearing totally comfortable. Relaxed, even. In loose gray boxing shorts, a too-small black tee, and a whole lot of exposed muscle, he looked ridiculous. And hot as hell. He kept his sunglasses on, even though we were inside, and methodically chewed a wad of gum. When we both looked over at him, he gave a lazy salute, a cocky lip-pooch screwing up his face.
It took all I had not to laugh.
Maybe this would be easier than I thought.
“This is Thorn Orion,” I said, a smile flicking at the corner of my mouth at the memory of how hard I’d laughed in the car when he’d told me the name he’d chosen. What, was Axel Armstrong taken? I’d asked between giggles. “He’s my partner, and hopefully co-model.” I shot him an I won, now you have to model too smile.
Matt Macy gave one more glance at Detective Martinez, and then looked each of us up and down. “So you want to do a shoot?” he asked. “Did you have something in mind?”
I nodded, gesturing for Detective Martinez to open the duffel. “We brought our gloves. I guess I was thinking we could take some photos of us with the gloves on? That’s really all I’ve got. I’m not super creative.” True, but it was also true that putting myself and Martinez in the photo meant I gained access to Matt Macy’s studio, rather than just the reception area.
“You’re kind of short,” he said. He looked Martinez up and down. “And you’re going to have to look friendlier. Normally we would hire professional models for something like this. But I guess we can give it a try.”
I beamed. “We won’t let you down.” And I’m not too short to jack you right in the face with my knee if I have to, I added in my head.
He fidgeted with his camera as he studied me. “I’m hoping you weren’t planning to model in that outfit.”
I lifted up my shirt just enough to expose the bottom edge of my tank. I could hear the creak of couch leather as Detective Martinez leaned forward, too. I dropped my shirt, my face burning.
“Okay,” Matt Macy said. “That should work fine. Let’s get you out of some of those clothes and into the spotlight.”
Oranges and yellows rolled like fire in my head, exploding into starbursts and squiggles and fierce royal blue. I took a deep breath to steady myself. Was I ready for this?
I cast one last glance over my shoulder at Detective Martinez as I let Matt Macy lead me around the same corner he’d come around. The detective peeked up over his sunglasses and gave me the slightest nod. I heard couch leather groan again as he got up to follow us.
Code word. God, why hadn’t we thought about a code word? This guy was connected to the Basiles, after all. What if it wasn’t just a business connection? What if it was a connection connection? What if he knew Rigo and knew Luna and knew who I really was? What if he planned to finish off the job that Luna had started? Rainbow. Prism. Rigo. Dojang. The code-word possibilities were endless. We were stupid for not considering one.
The other side of the brick wall opened up into a sweeping studio area, one end draped with plain white paper and bathed in stand lights. Fans, props, tripods were everywhere. A hairdresser’s chair sat in front of a mirror, near a bin full of props and costumes—sequined things, silky things, a fluffy bathrobe with makeup stains around the collar. My dad would have loved to have a place like this. A place where he could take his models for more controlled shoots. No worries about weather or birds or tourists who thought photobombing was the most hilarious thing in the world. Just photographer, model, and camera.
Or models, as the case may be this time.
I shook the thought away. I couldn’t think about my dad right now. Thoughts about
“You ever done anything like this before?” Matt Macy asked, screwing his camera onto a tripod. I shook my head.
“Okay, well, go ahead and take off your . . .” He motioned toward my clothes and swallowed. “And then we’ll see what we’ve got to work with. You staying in that, I assume?” he said to Detective Martinez.
“Got some gloves here,” Martinez said, and I couldn’t help noticing even his voice had taken on a simple, tough tone. He was totally in character. I pulled my shirt up over my head to hide another laugh.
“No logo shirts or uniforms?” Matt Macy asked skeptically.
Shit. I hadn’t even thought of those things. “We’re really grassroots,” I said. “Trying to save money wherever we can.”
“Plus, we want to look like regular people,” Martinez added.
“Gotta start somewhere.” I shrugged.
“Okay,” Matt Macy said, but he looked unconvinced.
I busied myself with taking off my sweats. As soon as they were off, I felt very, very naked. I glanced over my shoulder. Martinez was looking at me. I gave him a what the fuck are you looking at glare and he averted his eyes, pointing them toward his shoes. But I could still see him smiling, almost laughing. I wanted to roundhouse the smirk right off his face. Throw him over my hip and see who was laughing then.
MATT MACY HAD gone over to the tripod and was waving for me to follow. “Why don’t we take a few test shots to see how the lighting is working for you? Stand over there.” He pointed to the white sheet. “We don’t need you just yet, Thorn, so you can relax for a minute.”
Relax to a detective was pretty much You’re free to start searching for stuff now. Which was exactly what Martinez did the second Matt Macy turned his back. I watched as Martinez sauntered over toward a room that I immediately recognized as an old-fashioned darkroom. He poked his head inside, casual, uninterested, though I knew what he was doing. Looking for clues. Anything that might lead us to Rigo.