Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

LANDON

" L ily!"

I say her name like it means something. When she turns to face me, she looks at me as though this moment has significance, too. We stand on a grimy street, the sunlight hidden behind gray clouds, yet excitement runs through me. Months, not years …

Usually, I'm sure I could beat down this feeling. I'd be able to fight this ache deep in my gut and ignore how my gaze moves to her wide hips, thick legs, and the ferocious, capable glint in her eyes. I should be able to ignore it even better now, knowing this can lead nowhere.

"Yeah?" she murmurs, licking her lips.

"Give me your number," I say, proving it's been a long time since I've done anything like this. I'm so blunt. "Since we're working in the same area, maybe we can help each other. I know you're technically not allowed, but since you're not supposed to be here alone anyway …"

"Yeah, that's a good idea. Do you want to take mine and then text me?"

When I take out my cell, I'm sure I notice her waiting eagerly, her mouth slightly open, her eyes fixated on me. I wonder if she knows, or suspects, that I wasn't going to make this about work when I called her name. I was going to ask her on a date flat-out. If my diagnosis has unhinged me slightly, it hasn't made me completely insane. Yet.

"Okay, great," she says once I've texted her my number. "Let me know if … you want to talk or anything."

She turns away again, leaving me to struggle with not staring at her skirt, hugging the thickness of her ass. I try to be a gentleman, not to objectify, but goddamn, it's like she's trying to drive me toward obsession. The movement of her ass from side to side takes my fantasies to savage places.

At her car, she looks over her shoulder. I quickly raise my hand in what I hope is a civilized way. She's a young woman I knew briefly when she was a kid. I inspired her; I helped her. That's all. I can't let this cancer crap make me act like a fool.

After she's driven away, I take out my cell and call the parent I'm here to meet. When he tells me he's at the store and he'll be five minutes, I decide to wander over to The Bear. Booze and maybe blood stain the surrounding sidewalk. The door has a piece of duct tape on it that could be covering a bullet hole.

I almost jump when the door opens a crack.

"Can I help you?" a low, urgent voice snaps.

"Just looking at your fine establishment."

"It's not mine," the voice grunts, the person hidden in shadow. "Owner's not here, and you don't want to be snooping around if he decides to visit, believe me."

"Is that so?" I say. "I suppose I should be scared …"

I'm not usually this confrontational. Months, not years . "Be scared. Be brave. Just don't be here at the wrong time, buddy. This is a fair warning."

"And this is a fair warning; nobody will threaten me. I don't give a fuck who your bosses are. They can be the biggest motherfuckers in the city, but I won't let them scare me or, worse, scare innocent kids. You hear that?"

"Who the fuck are you, guy?" the man snaps.

"Landon Cross," I say with too much confidence, as though I think the doctor's diagnosis has already come true, as though I think I don't have to worry about my own life. "If your employers have a problem with me looking around, tell them to search me up. I'm easy to find."

"Maybe I'll do that, Landon Cross."

He slams the door, leaving me to wonder if I've just made a mistake. I probably shouldn't have to wonder , considering that when I did pro bono work in dangerous neighborhoods, I'd always be careful not to trigger people if I didn't need to. I probably didn't need to take a stand there.

Ever since the doctor's appointment, everything is closer to the surface, my emotions burning in a way they haven't in years. But is that the diagnosis or Lily?

Mr. Thompson is a soft-featured man, around sixty if I had to guess, with lines around his eyes and a comb-over showing his head's baldness under the electric light. We sit in the kitchen on two small, rickety stools, his son playing an old retro game on the old TV in the adjoined living room.

"When my wife left, I knew I had to do the right thing," he says, looking down into his cup of thick black coffee. "I knew I had to be here for my boy and always will be. I had a child late in life, and I'm not up to doing what I should and would have, once."

"What's that, sir?" I ask.

"Burning The Bear to the ground," he hisses, a flash of protectiveness coming into his otherwise soft features. "They play music all night long. When we call the cops, sometimes they don't even show up. When they do, they turn the music down and then turn it back up when the cops leave. That's even without the clubs ."

"Clubs?" I say.

"The kids around here all hang out a lot. They're more old-fashioned in that way. I suppose it's because they don't all have cell phones or iPads. The owners of The Bear will send some of the older kids around The Row, spreading the word about how fun it is in The Bear. They've been luring kids there for weeks."

"To do what?" I growl.

"Nothing … yet. They give them candy and let them play video games. There's no way they're doing it innocently. Is there?" He shudders. "Worse, when the cops turn up and we know for a fact there are kids in there, they must hide them because the cops never find them. If they had, they would've shut the place down, right?"

"Right," I say, my blood turning cold. "This is beyond fucked."

"We're thinking a noise complaint is our only way," he says. "Get them shut down, sue them, but we can't afford?—"

"Don't mention money, sir," I cut in. "This has nothing to do with that. No matter what happens, I'm going to fight this. I'm going to fix this. You're a good man. You won't let your boy get involved in this mess. Unfortunately, not everybody feels the same as you, but I'm going to remove the option. I'm going to get The Bear shut down. I swear."

Mr. Thompson flinches, then blinks at me in shock. It's clear he didn't expect such an emotional and heartfelt declaration, and honestly, I didn't plan to give one. With my timeline suddenly short, I can't let this happen. If I'm going to leave early, I want to have a legacy: something good, something decent.

"Bless you, Mr. Cross," he says, wiping his cheek as a tear falls. "God bless you."

I should tell him I can't make any promises. I should try to salvage this situation, but fuck that. If I'm going without a choice before I planned, I'm committing to this. I will make this little corner of the city better before I move on.

Once I finish with Mr. Thompson, I call my assistant with a list of tasks: research the owners of The Bear, delve into police records for any history of criminality, and check if there have been any previous noise complaints or any reports of violence.

If all else fails and these freaks keep trying to lure kids into their bar, and if the doc tells me my months have turned into weeks and then days and this issue still isn't settled, maybe I'll burn the place to the ground myself.

Sitting in my car after calling my assistant, I look down at my cell phone. I've opened a text to Lily. Usually, I think about things. If there's one thing that defines me and has defined my entire life, it's that. If it weren't for the doctor whispering months, not years, on repeat in my head, I'd pause and debate.

My heart is drumming too hard. This impulse is coming too strongly from desire : not logic, not evidence-backed decisions, just desire.

Lily, it's Landon. Let's grab a bite to eat sometime.

I send the message, then childishly shove my phone into the glove compartment and start the car. She's probably going to reject my ass, and I can't blame her. It'll most likely be weird for her to go on a date with somebody she thinks of as a childhood hero, and I can't blame her.

When I hear the vibrating sound from the glove compartment, I have to pull over and check my phone. If I don't, I'll probably crash the car, being distracted.

Sure, Landon. That's a good idea. If we combine our perspectives and knowledge bases, we'll be able to figure out what to do far easier. Two heads are better than one, and all that.

I laugh humorlessly, even bitterly. Of course, she thinks I'm talking about meeting for work. A young woman with her mind on her job, meeting her hero from when she was a kid, won't assume automatically that I want to sink my hands into her sweet hips. No, definitely not that.