4. Burritos

FOUR

BURRITOS

A t 10:57 the next morning, I swung my Mini into a parking spot at the back of The Surf Club.

I then grabbed the cherry Icee I’d picked up at QuikTrip, scrunched up the wrapper of the corndog I’d consumed as a late breakfast on the way to work, and got out of my car.

One could say I was in a foul mood.

I’d like to consider myself a pretty chill chick, for the most part.

Though, I was human.

I wasn’t immune to the occasional foul mood.

But this foul mood was unusual in the sense it had several levels.

The first level was that I knew what I was about to face with my friends at work. They were pissed at me (rightly… maybe ), and I felt that they deserved an explanation. At the same time, I thought what was private was private, and I shouldn’t have to offer an explanation.

The second level was that I’d heard nothing from Eric all morning, and I’d lamentably had time to give no small amount of consideration to the day we’d spent together yesterday.

Something I tried not to do, but as had become my usual when it came to Eric Turner, I did.

And although it would be a weird first date…

It still felt like a first date.

Smiles. Laughter. Movies. Food. Deep sharing, which frankly, upon contemplation, I decided from what was offered up, particularly from Eric, took us significantly into seventh or eighth date territory.

And I swear, before the girls had stormed in, he was this close to kissing me.

Sure, he chucked me under the chin before he left (huh).

But seriously, his mouth was coming toward mine, and since we were already hugging, there was no reason for it to do that except to claim it.

Even so.

No text, no phone call, no nothing.

Maybe he was playing games. Maybe this was that stupid stand-off thing boys and girls did to make sure the other one didn’t think they were too into them in order to save face or gain the upper hand.

If it was, he had to be a decade older than me, so definitely past this immature bullshit, surely.

If it wasn’t, then yesterday was all about something else. Eric developing a platonic-type thing between us, which would be torture since I wanted to jump the man’s bones and maybe someday give him babies.

And, again, he was old enough to know, or at least sense, where my head was at with him, so why would he torture me like that?

The third level of my bad mood had to do with the fact that I had to figure out a way to get the girls to back off about finding Jeff, and I had no clue how to do that.

Sure.

I got it.

That was what friends were for.

Especially good friends.

And they weren’t good friends.

They were great ones.

Still.

I pushed into the back entrance of SC and was immediately confronted with Harlow, who was tying a server’s apron around her waist.

She was wearing a cute lace dress with a high halter neck and a short swing skirt that was a sure tip inducer from the straight male and lesbian crowds.

It was also just her style.

Harlow was all girl, all the time, and proud of it.

Contradictory to her normal sunshiny outlook on life in general, she was also wearing a scowl that was pointed my way.

“Harlow—” I began.

She gave me The Hand and clipped, “Later. We’re meeting at the storage units tonight at eight. You can tell me then all about how you didn’t trust me to share your brother was missing, even after all that went down with Raye and her sister.”

Quick debrief: Tragically, Raye’s sister had been snatched at a playground nearly two decades ago. Also tragically, just two months ago, the men of Nightingale Investigations & Security had located her remains and obtained a confession from the man who abducted and murdered her, even though law enforcement was unable to solve the crime for nineteen years.

See what I mean about these guys (including Eric) being able to take care of themselves and the ones they cared about?

With what they did for Raye and her dad, it seemed like they could do anything.

And one might want to admit that this happening was the perfect segue to sharing about Jeff.

It also wasn’t (says me, though I was finding myself in the minority).

“Raye was going through a lot,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but I wasn’t,” Harlow clapped back.

She then flounced out.

Crap.

She was right.

But I thought she was also wrong.

I didn’t wear a server apron. It would mess with the line of pretty much any ensemble I put together (today, a fitted, black muscle shirt, black cropped cords and black fisherman sandals).

So I dumped my bag in my locker and headed out to the front of The Surf Club.

Clearly, there was no real surf to The Surf Club, considering Phoenix was landlocked.

Even so, SC was the hippest, chillest, awesomest hang in The Valley.

Case in point: the colorful mural at the back. The plants all around. The mismatched tables and lamps and seating areas and beanbags. Lucia’s excellent fusion food. My fabulous cocktails.

And then there was Tito, our boss and the owner, a man who knew the art of silence, because he didn’t talk much, but even so, he often had a lot to say.

He also looked like a diminutive Santa, but one who wore Panama hats, shorts, Hawaiian shirts and flip flops. The hat might change to a fedora, or a bandana. The flip flops might be slides worn with tube socks or red Keds. The shorts veered between madras to Bermudas, or, if he was feeling sassy, board shorts.

But always, a pair of shades covered his eyes.

Even at night.

There was no denying Tito was a weird guy, but I embraced weird. The minute I met him—when he recruited me from the speakeasy I worked at downtown—I hadn’t even seen The Surf Club, but I knew I wanted to work for him.

In the years since, my instinct proved right.

When I made it behind the bar, I got a chilly reception from Luna, who was there making someone a coffee. I also got a frosty glance from Raye, who was out, dropping some of Lucia’s Mexican hot chocolate French toast on a table.

This vibe permeating the air meant I also had Tito’s attention from where he sat, in what I considered his “office.” This was the back corner booth by the massive plate glass window that spanned the wall and afforded a view of the raised beds, which contained Lucia’s herb garden, and our paloverde-adorned parking lot.

Tucked with his plethora of books, journals, and holding his ever-present iPad, Tito didn’t move, even after I lifted my chin in greeting to him when I caught his eyes.

He just watched me.

Tito might be quiet, and for the most part unobtrusive, but he didn’t miss anything.

And he was the most generous man I’d ever met.

Even though tips were good, he paid over minimum wage, for one. He offered great insurance as well as contributed to a 401(k), for another. And if you were in a jam, he somehow always intuited it, even if you didn’t tell him, and extra would be in your pay envelope…in cash.

This had never happened for me, because I’d never needed it, but I knew it happened.

In other words, the crew at SC didn’t change much because Tito was loyal to us, so we were loyal to Tito.

I turned from Tito to Luna.

“If you give me The Hand, I’ll shoot you,” I warned.

“If you don’t understand why Harlow, specifically, but all of us collectively are hurt by you not sharing, you aren’t the person I thought you were, Jess.”

Ouch .

Luna was much like me, calling ’em as she saw ’em.

But that was below the belt.

She turned from me to put a latte in front of a woman sitting at the polished-ash bar.

When Raye came back and stabbed an order into the computer like she wanted to put her finger straight through the screen, I decided to let them stew.

I didn’t keep myself to myself to hurt them, and if they didn’t already know that, then, well…they weren’t the people I thought they were either.

I made coffees, took orders, dropped food, bussed tables and shook the occasional noontime cocktail through the lunch rush, and things were just calming down, when Lucia did the unimaginable.

She left the sanctuary of her creative palace (aka: the kitchen), and with a strange look on her face, she approached Tito in his office.

I was filling a customer’s water glass as she spoke to him.

I almost overfilled it, because when she was done, he got up and followed her to the kitchen.

Peculiar.

Raye was passing me, so I asked, “What’s that about?”

“Obviously, I have no idea,” she answered coolly.

No thaw there, then.

Whatever.

I was throwing some dirty plates in the bus bin when Tito’s voice came at me, making me jump.

“If you could follow me, Jessie,” he requested.

I looked to him.

I looked to the girls who were all in the vicinity, watching us.

I turned back to him and nodded.

We went through the kitchen to the staff room and then the back door.

Tito opened it and walked out. I followed and stopped in my tracks.

Homer was loitering at the door, and he was with a scruffy, youngish (about my age, maybe a bit older (I was thirty-three)) Black man who was shifting foot to foot.

“Homer,” I greeted, shocked. “How did you get here?”

“Walked,” Homer replied.

I quickly had to get over the fact they’d walked probably a good ten miles to get to the back door of The Surf Club, because Homer was sunken into himself. Not in his safe space, exposed, vulnerable. The King of the Encampment was a memory. Although I recognized him visually, everything else about him had changed.

My heart crunched, and I offered, “Let’s go sit in the garden.”

He shook his head curtly and said, “General Grant has something to tell you.”

“General Grant?” I asked.

“Ulysses S. Grant,” the Black guy said, jerking a thumb at himself.

My heart crunched more at a Black man referring to himself by a dead white president’s name, because I seriously doubted at his age that was his real name.

“Hey, Mr. Grant,” I said.

“ General Grant,” he corrected.

Totally not his real name.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

Tito said nothing, but remained close and got closer when Homer did.

“Iraq,” Homer muttered. “Afghanistan,” he went on. “Decorated sniper. Now…this,” he finished.

My ticker couldn’t take much more as I turned to a veteran of this great country wearing filthy clothes, sporting nappy hair and dancing foot to foot.

Homer looked to Tito. “You need to leave, or he won’t talk. She’s ours. You’re not ours. But she’s safe with us. None of us would harm Jessie.”

Tito tipped his head to look up at me through his shades, and I saw his bushy white eyebrows rise over the frames.

“I’m good,” I assured.

Tito hesitated.

“Promise,” I said.

Tito nodded once, but I could tell he didn’t like it even if I couldn’t see his eyes, before he went in the back door.

Once it closed, I returned my attention to Homer and the General.

“You can tell her,” Homer urged the General.

“Gotta get back to Mary,” the General stated.

“We’ll go back, once you tell her,” Homer replied.

“Mary’s all alone,” the General returned.

“Mary?” I whispered to Homer.

“She’s new,” Homer whispered back. “General Grant looks after the new ones.”

Of course he did.

“Boomer’s looking after Mary,” Homer reminded the General. “But you’re right. We gotta head back so you can look in on her, which means now, you gotta talk to Jessie.”

The General moved foot to foot then his body jolted, and he looked behind him.

I looked behind him.

At nothing.

God, this guy was killing me.

“General,” Homer called him back to us.

The General turned to me. “Street Warrior.”

That was all he said.

Therefore, I asked, “Sorry?”

“Street Warrior,” the General repeated. “He’s one of ’em. Keeps the darkness back. Keeps it back.”

I wasn’t liking this—at all—even if I didn’t get it.

At all.

I looked to Homer to see if he could offer any illumination.

Homer’s whiskered lips were pressed tight.

“What’s a street warrior?” I asked him.

He didn’t answer because the General was moving quickly toward the side of the building.

Homer followed.

I followed.

The General checked the side of the building, then he looked at Homer and said, “Mary.”

I peered around the corner and saw no woman, just a direct shot to the traffic on Indian School.

“We’ll head back,” Homer promised him.

“I’ll take you back,” I offered.

Homer’s faded blue eyes shot to me in surprise just as the General jumped alarmingly when the back door opened.

Harlow and Raye came out, each carrying a thick, foil-wrapped burrito in one hand and our largest lidded paper cup in the other.

“They’re my friends,” I said hurriedly as the women made their approach. “Harlow and Raye. Good friends. You can trust them.”

The girls glanced quickly between the two men before Raye said to Homer, “Tito thought you might want something to eat and drink.”

To my shock, the General went right up to Harlow, took the burrito and said, “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

Harlow offered the drink as the General peeled back the foil and paper. “Water,” she told him. “But I can get you a soda or something if you’d like.”

He munched into the burrito and took the drink, shaking his head. Not even swallowing, he munched more.

While this happened, Homer extricated a plastic bag from his pocket and wrapped it around the burrito Raye was holding out to him.

“Obliged,” he murmured. Using the plastic bag to shield his fingers from the foil and paper, he peeled it back. He unearthed another plastic bag, shoved his free hand in it like it was a glove, and only then took the drink from her. After he got his beverage, he munched too.

Divested of their offerings, neither of my chicks left the scene.

No surprise.

I had a low buzz humming through me that there was an imminent breakthrough about Jeff, so I gave the guys a few minutes to put some food in their stomachs and tried to ignore Harlow and Raye lingering before I pushed, “Homer, what’s a street warrior?”

“They’re us,” Homer told me.

I clenched my teeth, reaching for patience, because that gave me nothing. Or, at least, not anything I understood.

When I got a lid on it, I urged, “Can you share more?”

“What he said. They keep the darkness out.”

“Homer, I really need you to explain this to me,” I begged.

“Shadow soldiers,” Homer said.

And that was all he said.

God!

That didn’t give me any more!

I was about to press him further, but he took a step back, the General took five, and this was because a shiny, black Denali rolled up beside the herb garden and stopped.

The cavalry had arrived.

Damn.

I was back to clenching my teeth as I watched Cap swing out of the passenger seat.

And more clenching as Eric angled out from behind the wheel.

I didn’t know who called them. There were four viable culprits (including Tito), but I’d deal with that later.

Now, if these two badasses scared away my informants when I was on the verge of learning something about my brother, I was going to lose my shit.

What happened next was unexpected.

Cap and Eric strolled up, the General’s empty wrapper fluttered to the ground, his partially sipped water thumped to it, he took two strides forward, stood at attention, saluted, left his hand at his forehead and grunted to Cap, “Colonel.” Then to Eric, “General.”

Without missing a beat, Eric replied, “At ease, soldier.”

The General widened his stance and caught his hands behind his back.

Oh fuck.

I was going to cry.

Harlow made a noise that told me she was feeling the same thing.

Raye’s fingers closed around mine.

“We hear you need transport,” Cap said to the General.

“Yessir. Back to barracks, sir,” the General replied.

Shit!

“We’re not done,” I said quickly to Eric.

“Does this lady have everything she needs?” Cap asked the General.

Smartly, he turned to me and shared, “Street Warrior. Your brother is a Street Warrior. You won’t find him. But we’ll put the word down, and he’ll find you.”

My stomach squeezed so tightly with hope, it came out wheezy when I requested, “Will you do that? Put the word down?”

A smart nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The back door opened and Luna came out carrying a milk crate filled to the brim with foil wrapped burritos. Hunter, one of our coffee cubby guys, was beside her holding a bread tray filled with lidded cups with straws stuck in them.

More tears threatened.

Told you Tito was generous.

“Provisions,” the General said, excitement in his voice.

“Let’s load ’em up,” Cap told him.

They moved to the back of the Denali.

“Homer, you wanna climb in?” Eric invited.

“I don’t have enough plastic bags for the seats,” Homer told him.

“We don’t mind,” Eric replied.

I squeezed Raye’s hand before I let it go, sidled close to Eric and murmured, “It’s not about that. He needs plastic bags for the seats or he won’t sit in your car. It’s rare he touches anything without a plastic bag between him and it, unless that something comes from a plastic bag.”

“On it,” Raye said and dashed in the back door.

“We’ll get you covered,” Eric said to Homer.

Homer nodded, glanced at me, dipped his chin, then moved to the passenger door on the driver’s side.

“I’ll help look for bags,” Harlow mumbled and went inside.

This left me with Eric.

“Who called you?” I asked.

“Tonight,” was his bizarre, uninformative reply.

“What?”

“I gotta get these guys back, and Cap and I were in the middle of something. We’ll talk tonight.”

We would?

“Later, Jess,” he said and started to move away.

Just like that.

No further info.

No “Hey, great day yesterday. Let’s do it again sometime.”

He was just walking away.

Whatever.

Though, we weren’t done.

I caught his forearm, and he stopped. “Do you know what a Street Warrior is?”

He shook his head, then said, “Never heard of it. And don’t give me any shit. I know you wanted to go this alone, but that cat is way the fuck out of the bag, so it’s gonna happen. With that I mean, I’m gonna find out.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you pissed?”

“They walked right to your place of business, Jess.”

Oh shit.

They had. I hadn’t thought of that.

I also hadn’t ever mentioned where I worked.

But…they had .

They’d walked miles, just to give me a little information about Jeff.

Damn.

I was about to cry again.

Eric saved me from that emotion.

“Please tell me you didn’t share that intel,” Eric demanded.

“Of course not,” I replied, openly affronted.

“Someone did,” he stated.

Shit!

“Tonight,” he grunted, and with that, he pulled his arm gently out of my hold and walked to the Denali.

Raye and Harlow showed with some plastic bags, and I helped Homer spread them, including holding one against the seat so he could settle back and hit the bag.

Once he was good, the General was already beside him, Cap was in, Eric was in and had turned the ignition, so I had no choice but to smile at Homer and the General, thank them, close Homer’s door, step back and watch Eric reverse and drive away.

He didn’t even flick his fingers to me, like Cap did to Raye (and he added a sweet smile with his goodbye).

Ugh.

Me and my girls stood outside the back door, a soft breeze fanning the scent of cilantro, basil, mint and thyme in our direction, and even though we were supposed to be waiting tables, nobody moved.

Street Warrior .

My brother was a Street Warrior.

I whirled on them and stated, “My brother’s name is Jeff. When he was seventeen, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Mom and Dad were divorced long before then, mostly because Dad couldn’t quit fucking around, but also because Mom was a nag, the worst housekeeper alive, and a shit mother who considered her children and husband severe impediments to attaining her ultimate goal in life. That being acting like a teenager looking for a drunken good time until the day she dies.”

My chicks said nothing, though their eyes didn’t leave me.

So I kept talking.

“Dad was a shit housekeeper too, and jokingly called all of us his ‘balls and chains,’ even though he said it so often, it was clear it wasn’t a joke.”

“Jessie,” Harlow whispered sadly.

I couldn’t deal with her sad.

I had to get this out, or I’d never share it with them.

So I kept going.

“Needless to say, having a son with significant mental health needs was not something they’d signed up for. Though they did the deed and got the result of two kids, they acted like they didn’t sign up for parenthood either. To wit, I’ve taken care of Jeff for as long as I can remember, and when he got old enough, he returned the favor. It was the two of us surviving in a barren world of neglect and indifference. We weren’t beaten, but it was clear we were unwanted responsibilities, and the minute we could look after ourselves, they left us to it.”

I took in a deep breath, and none of them spoke, so I continued sharing.

“Jeff’s meds work relatively well. He’s usually good about taking them. The thing is, he also needs therapy. Behavioral. Cognitive. And there will always be triggers. Stress. If he starts drinking. Shit like that. He needs constants in his life. We’re tight, so even if I offered, he refuses to saddle me with him. And ‘saddle’ is his word. Not mine. Usually, he lives with Mom or Dad or one of his buds. One of his buds is good. They care so they look after him. Mom or Dad is bad, because they don’t give a shit and get on his ass to do things like pay rent and fix stuff around their houses. He can do that, no sweat, the thing is, the constant yammering from them is a stress trigger, and then things go south.”

I drew in a big breath and went on.

“Jeff being Jeff, he feels like a weight on his friends, so he doesn’t stay with them very often either. That’s why he’s with Mom or Dad most of the time. This isn’t the first time he’s been triggered, went off his meds and disappeared. But he has places he goes. It’s easy to find him. This time, I can’t find him. And Mom and Dad aren’t helping, because first, they don’t care. And second, they make it clear it’s a relief when he’s gone, because they don’t want him around in the first place.”

“Jesus, babe,” Luna whispered miserably.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Raye asked carefully.

I shrugged. “I honestly don’t really know.”

“Jessie,” Luna warned.

Fuck.

“Maybe it’s because I’m embarrassed,” I explained. “Not about Jeff. He can’t help it. And Jeff is awesome. The best baby bro in history. About my parents, who can.”

“You aren’t your parents,” Harlow pointed out.

“I know that. But I don’t like to think of them. I try not to see them. I don’t ever instigate talking to them. And the kicker to that is, they’re all the way down with that.”

“You still could have told us about them,” Harlow pushed.

“Really?” I asked sharply. “Why? What’s the purpose of you knowing my parents are useless wastes of space, not only when it comes to parenthood, but all around?”

“Because we know and love you,” Harlow shot back.

“And what will that help?” I retorted.

Harlow’s head ticked with insult, so I dialed it back.

“I don’t mean it like that, Lolo,” I said quietly. “I mean, you guys are the good parts. You guys are the rewards after growing up like that, and then getting out of it. You guys are normal and caring and good. You guys are where I can be, and where I don’t have to be back with them, mentally or physically. So if I stay with you physically, that means I don’t have to go back to them mentally.”

Harlow’s face got soft with understanding.

Well…

Shoo!

Raye took us out of that, thankfully, by asking, “What did you just learn from those guys that came here?”

I turned to Raye. “What you heard. That’s it. They told me Jeff is a Street Warrior. And before you ask, I don’t know what that is. But obviously, I have to find out.”

They nodded and Luna turned to Raye, “I’ll call Jinx. Maybe she or one of the girls has heard of them.”

“Awesome,” Raye replied. “And tonight, maybe a run by Mr. Shithead’s place of business. We can bribe him with fresh porno mags and maybe he’s got some intel.”

“Good plan,” Luna said.

I knew they wouldn’t let me fight it, so I didn’t.

And if I was honest with myself, now that we were here, it felt all kinds of nice that they were so in to take my back.

But more, Jeff’s.

“Right. Now…Eric,” Harlow prompted.

Crap.

To buy time, I looked at Raye and asked, “Did you know NI and S investigated all of us and track our cars?”

Her eyes got big, and she answered, “Cap told me they did that to me, but…all of you?”

I nodded.

“No shit?” Luna asked.

“Oh, how sweet. They’re looking out for us,” Harlow cooed.

Blech.

“It’s incredibly invasive,” I noted.

“I can have a chat with him,” Raye said in a voice that told me what was coming next. And then it came. “But I don’t think it’ll make a difference. The last time they went through this, people were shot. Yes, plural. Shot at, and that’s plural too. Stella Gunn’s apartment was exploded by grenades?—”

“No shit?” Luna asked.

“None at all,” Raye answered, then she recommenced her litany of what befell the Rock Chicks. “There were a slew of kidnappings, at least one car bomb, several car chases, arson, stalkers?—”

“Stop,” I begged.

“I’m okay with a tracker on my car now,” Luna mumbled.

“Totally,” Harlow agreed.

I was too.

Totally.

It was then Luna’s gaze sharpened on me. “You didn’t answer the question about Eric.”

“Well, I would, if I had any freaking clue what was going on,” I told her.

“You were making out when we showed yesterday,” Raye pointed out.

“We weren’t. It seemed like he was about to kiss me, but when he left at the end of the night, he chucked me under the chin.”

Raye and Luna winced. Harlow actually flinched.

Yeah, that was what I was sayin’.

“I have a massive crush on him,” I announced. “And I think he regards me as a little sister.”

That time, all of them flinched.

“You have a crush on him?” Harlow asked.

I nodded.

“He’s crush-worthy, that’s for sure,” Luna stated.

I nodded again, but more heartily that time.

Then I shared, “He told me about his family, none of it good. I’m not going to tell you because it isn’t mine to tell. He also told me why he left the FBI, which wasn’t good either.”

“He was in the FBI?” Harlow breathed.

Both Raye and I nodded at that, which meant Cap had shared at least that part with her.

“That’s a whole lotta sharin’ goin’ on when you’re informally adopting a lil’ sis,” Luna noted.

She had that right.

As such, the mindfuck Eric left me with.

“Are you sure it’s a little sister thing?” Harlow queried.

“He chucked me under the chin, Lolo,” I reminded her.

She scrunched her nose.

Mm-hmm.

“He’s all lazy bedroom eyes and good movie choices, but it seems that’s just him,” I groused. “I don’t think he knows he’s a big tease, but he definitely is.”

“Lazy bedroom eyes?” Luna asked.

“Yeah,” I confirmed.

“He has great eyes, but I wouldn’t call them lazy or bedroom,” Luna stated.

Then she hadn’t looked at him close enough.

“Me either. He’s nice, like all the other guys, but he’s more standoffish,” Harlow put in.

I noticed then that Raye seemed intent on inventorying the pocket of her server apron.

“What?” I asked her.

Her head came up with a fake Who? Me? expression on her face.

“Oh my God,” Luna snapped at Raye. “You know something.”

Raye shook her head. “I don’t know anything.”

“Cap told you something,” Luna pushed. “Spill it, bitch.”

“Honestly,” Raye said heatedly. “I don’t know anything.” Her gaze wandered to me. “Except…”

She trailed off.

“ What? ” Harlow’s word was nearly a shriek.

“Eric does have bedroom eyes,” Raye stated.

“Puh,” Luna blew out. “I don’t know what your issue is. It’s not like Cap doesn’t know you’re all about him and there are other hotties out in the wild. He’s not gonna be ticked you think a man has bedroom eyes. To end, you don’t have to be weird about admitting you think Eric has bedroom eyes.”

“Um, it isn’t that he has bedroom eyes all the time. Just, uh…when he’s looking at Jess,” Raye said.

My head jerked and my lungs seized.

Slowly, Luna and Harlow turned to look at me.

“And just to say,” Raye continued. “Lucia told us what was going down, and I called Cap, just in case we needed backup. He was with Eric, and within seconds of Cap reporting to Eric what was happening, they were in the middle of something, but Eric said they were aborting and heading to SC.”

Oh my God , I thought.

“ Oh my God ,” Harlow breathed.

“I think he’s, um…into you,” Raye finished.

“Oh my God!” Harlow cried happily.

“He chucked me under the chin,” I reiterated.

“I can’t explain that,” Raye muttered.

“Okay, we gotta get back to work or Tito’s gonna be forced to do something Tito avoids like the plague, be a boss and tell us to get our asses back to work,” Luna began. “But, you know, Eric isn’t Hottie Squad. Eric is Hot Bunch. He’s OG. He’s got experience with bitches like us. So maybe he’s into Jess but isn’t all the way down with being into Jess, considering she’s an Avenging Angel, and he isn’t all fired up to deal with stalkers and car bombs. So he’s gonna take shit slow and see how it plays out.”

Harlow latched onto that instantly. “That makes sense.”

“I hope we don’t have any car bomb action happening,” Raye decreed.

“I’m not too thrilled about the stalker stuff,” Luna put in.

“It’s the grenades that scare me. Especially if it happens at the Oasis,” Harlow said. “I can’t wait to move in. I’ve been trolling Target and Home Goods for weeks. I’m going for a whole new aesthetic. And it’s gonna be pimp . I don’t want to get it all set up and then it explodes.”

These freaking women.

Loved them to their bones.

But…

“Bitches!” I snapped.

They all looked at me.

“Whatever this is with Eric is what it is. I can’t obsess about it. I have to find my brother,” I stated.

They all nodded in agreement.

“So, plan. Luna calls Jinx. And tonight, after Harlow and I are off work, we head by the motel to talk to Mr. Shithead,” I concluded.

“It’s a Merc night,” Luna declared.

“I say we roll in the Sportage,” Harlow contradicted. “And it’s my turn to drive.”

“I’m driving,” Raye said.

“You never let me drive,” Harlow retorted.

“That’s because you drive like a granny,” Luna said.

Harlow gasped. “I do not. I drive safe. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t,” Luna returned.

“Road rage is an epidemic,” Harlow shot back. “And I’m not getting caught in someone’s rage. They want to cut me off or pull out in front of me or drive thirty miles over the speed limit in the city, they can go for it. I’m going to get where I’m going all in one piece, thank you very much.”

“Granny,” Luna mumbled.

Harlow’s face got red.

I sighed.

The back door to The Surf Club opened, and Tito stood in it silently.

Well then.

Time to get back to work.

We all trooped in with Harlow muttering under her breath, “Sportage. I drive.”

And Luna replying, “Merc. I’m at the wheel.”

I looked to Raye who was looking at me.

When she caught my eye, she winked encouragingly.

The last half an hour had been bizarre to say the least.

But whether it be in the Mercedes Arthur gave us, or the Sportage that Arthur also gave us, it didn’t matter.

I was rolling with my girls that night.

And I finally had a lead.

So, even though the feeling wasn’t overwhelming.

I was encouraged.