Lennox (4 page)

Well, I can never make her understand. Never make anyone understand.
I got what I wanted, in the end, no matter what it cost me. Shouldn’t
that be enough for me?

No. No, it wasn’t enough. Fuck this. I’ve more than paid
my dues. It’s time to put an end to it.

I wind up the mountainside drive toward the Cartwrights’
estate, a gaudy fake French mansion on the side of the ridge. I hop
out of the Camry to let myself through the wrought iron gate. It’s
unlocked, because who the fuck are the Cartwrights afraid of? No one
in Ridgecrest, that’s for damn sure. The smooth, well-kept
pavement hums under my shitty tires as I pull into an open spot in
the circular drive.

Amber’s sunbathing on one of the decks, face-down, watching a
video on her iPad while she soaks up the late afternoon rays that
filter through golden clouds overhead. Of course. She has the best
view in the whole state, and she’s watching some reality show.
Her glaze flicks toward me over the rims of her sunglasses, but she
makes no move to welcome me.

I kick the stand out from under her iPad.

“Hey! What the hell, Len!”

Amber shoves herself up. Her back is tinged with red, like she’s
been out here too long, but otherwise she looks flawless as ever:
firm yoga bod, skimpy bikini, hair you could swear was naturally
blonde. Something’s off about her nose, and it takes me a
moment to realize she’s had work done. Shaved off that cute
little snub that I used to love so much. Well, she always did
complain about it.

“Yeah, good to see you, too,” I tell her.

“Oh. Right.” She looks me over. “Daddy said you
were getting out.”

“So nice of you to remember.” I reach for her glass of
soda and start to take a sip, but spit it back out. Rum. Alcohol’s
the last thing I need. “I’m getting real sick of this
shit, Amber. No one will give me a fucking job. I need to catch a
break, and quick.”

She tucks her knees under her chin, slow and languid like a cat.
“Well, don’t cry to me. You got what you deserved.”

I slam the soda back down on her stand. “That’s bullshit,
and you know it.”

Amber rolls her eyes.

“I lost my best friend that night, okay? No one ever asks me
how that feels.” My voice quavers. “Not once has anyone
ever mentioned that.”

Amber drops her feet down onto the deck with a sigh. “Look,
Len. I’m sorry for you. But I don’t know what you want
from me.” She glances up toward the mansion, that looming,
hateful hunk of marble and granite. “I think we’ve done
quite enough for you.”

“Not if I can’t find work. Can’t pay the utility
bills. Can’t afford to take Grams to the doctor, for
chrissake.” My whole body is shaking now. “It was hard
enough for her while I was locked up. I know she didn’t want to
tell me the details, but she got worse. Way worse. And now that the
in-home nurse is gone, I’m going to have to pick up the slack,
on top of trying to make ends meet when no one in this whole fucking
county will give me the time of day . . .”

“Again,” Amber says, her tone flat, “not my
problem.”

“I know, I know. Because you got to just walk away. Like you
did from the wreck. Like you did from me.”

“Who can blame me?” she asks, looking at her nails. “You
drove drunk and killed a guy. You got locked up for it. Listen, I
know we said we’d try to make it work, but I didn’t know
how long you’d be in there. It was originally going to be
fifteen years. Did you really think I would just put my life on hold
for that?”

“Life? What fucking life was I keeping you from?” I sweep
my hand at the panoramic view—the high desert town far beneath
us, the distant mountains at the other end of the valley, ready to
swallow up the setting sun. “You don’t work. You just
hang out here and look good for your daddy.”

“I work,” she says stiffly.

“Yeah. You file some papers for Cartwright Industries.
Congratulations.”

Amber curls her upper lip at me and looks away.

“And we both know there’s more to it than all of that. I
think I’ve paid more than my fair share.”

“Lennox.” There’s a warning in her tone, but I’m
in no mood to heed it.

“Yeah, I’m fucking going there. Who the fuck says you get
to walk away? Who says you don’t get to deal with this, too?”

“I do.”

My blood runs cold at the sound of that voice: smarmy and cold and
powerful all wrapped into one golf-tanned package. Amber and I both
turn toward the deck stairs, where Alexander Cartwright is watching
us, a sly grin perched on his Botox-smooth face.

I take a step back. Alexander steps down onto the deck, moving slowly
and methodically, like everything is an artfully shot movie, starring
him. In a way, it really is. He smiles at me, revealing a flawless
row of white teeth, and squints because the goddamned flawless sunset
is getting in his eyes.

“Hello, Mister Cartwright.” I stand my ground, but
there’s way too much eagerness to please in my voice. I hate
it. I thought prison had scoured away every last bit of submission in
me, but here I am, rolling over and showing my belly to this asshole.

“Lennox.” He nods. “What seems to be the problem?”

I clench my jaw.

“Because where I’m standing . . . things
look pretty good for you right now.” He laughs to himself. “You
have your freedom, after all. That’s a big one. And you have a
place to stay with your grandmother. It’s good to be close to
family.”

I glance toward Amber. She’s curled up in a ball on her deck
chair, trying and failing to look calm.

“I’m glad your grandmother was able to keep her home
after all,” Mister Cartwright continues. “That you didn’t
force her to deal with excessive legal costs with some kind of . . .
spurious innocent plea.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “A lot of good it’ll do us if I
can’t find work. No one will touch me now, not with my rap
sheet.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue, the urge to once again come
crawling to Mister Cartwright, begging for a handout. Please, Mister
C, just give me a job. Make the gossip stop. Give me my life back.

But I won’t. I can’t. People may think I’m a lot of
horrible things, but a beggar isn’t one of them.

“I’m sure you’ll find something,” Mister
Cartwright says. He gestures toward my bared forearms. “Maybe
you should talk to the friends of the nice men who gave you those
tattoos.”

I cross my arms. My ink is none of his business. He has no claim to
the story it tells.

Mister Cartwright shrugs and turns back toward the house. “Anyway,
it’s not my concern.”

“No,” I say sharply. “It isn’t.”

He glances back, one eyebrow arched.

“You don’t owe me,” I tell him. “Not
anymore.”

He laughs again. “Yes, well. My daughter is rather whimsical in
her tastes, isn’t she?” Amber ducks her head, eyes
squeezed shut. “But there’s nothing I can do to change
what’s been done. And neither can you.” He starts back up
the stairs. “Have a good day.”

And just like that, I’ve been dismissed. Amber won’t meet
my eyes, so I turn without a word and head back to my piece of shit
car. Seething. But I’ve got nothing and no one I can take it
out on.

Cartwright’s right. He’s right, and it fucking burns me
up to know how right he is. I made my bed, and I have to lie in it.
If I’d only had the guts to stand up for myself . . .
But it’s too late now. Far, far too late. There’s nothing
I can do that won’t make things worse for everyone.

The engine fights me the first couple of times I turn the key, but
finally, it whines back to life, and I start my way back down from
the Cartwrights’ mountain. It’s almost five. I could go
back to AJ’s, get that new timing belt from him that he
offered.

But I’m done with taking handouts.

As soon as I’m at the base of the mountain, I pull over to the
shoulder, whip out my crappy pay-as-you-go phone, and dial the number
Sean gave me. It’s about to roll over to voicemail, but at the
last minute, someone answers. “Who’s this?”

“I’m looking for Rory. I’m a friend of his brother.
Sean.”

There’s a long pause. Then, “I’m listening.”

“Name’s Lennox. Sean can tell you all about me.”
Well, whatever he can say on the monitored prison lines, anyway. “He
said that you could use a good driver.”

Rory chuckles. “How good are we talking?”

“Why don’t you meet me at the causeway in an hour or so?”
I ask. “Bring something sporty. I’ll be happy to show you
just what I can do.”

Elena

The Ridgecrest warehouse district has been completely transformed for
tonight’s race. Hundreds of bodies crammed together under the
starry mountain sky, cheering and drinking and psyching themselves
up. Projected images line the worn brick walls of the warehouses,
broadcasting footage from the GoPro-equipped drones the race
organizers are maneuvering over downtown to livestream the race. A DJ
on the roof of the old S&P building waves to the crowd as he
weaves in a new throbbing beat. Even in the soundless cabin of Nash’s
GTO, I can feel the hum and rattle of the crowd.

I reach for Nash’s hand with a smile, but he’s clenching
the steering wheel, trying to work his way toward the lineup. We’ve
been practicing with the GTO for almost a week now, and his form is
looking solid as ever, but he’s still a tight, angry ball of
nerves. Nothing I say or do seems to snap him out of it. And I sure
as shit haven’t mentioned my encounter with Lennox on the road
last week. As far as I’m concerned, that was just me being a
Good Samaritan, helping out a fellow traveler in need, and I’ll
leave it at that.

At least, I’m trying to leave it at that. I’m trying not
to think about that sadness in Lennox’s eyes, that hardness to
his features. I’m
certainly
trying not to think about
the weird flashback it gave me standing near him, smelling him,
sensing him so close. We made that promise, what, four years ago,
almost? I’m sure it’s all forgotten now. I can’t go
right back to feeling the things I felt for him before he went away.
Everything’s changed since that night. He might as well be a
stranger now.

I just wish he didn’t seem so familiar to me still.

“Upstate crew’s here,” I say, gesturing to the row
of Asian import cars with their comically huge metal spoilers and
mufflers that’ll buzz like angry bees. “Some of the
Calaveras boys, too. I bet Jagger’ll want to take a whack at
them.”

“Jagger wants to fight everyone,” Nash says, but it feels
like an old routine between us. He’s just going through the
motions tonight. I want desperately to bring us back to where we were
before Lennox got out of prison, but I can’t do it without
Nash’s help.

“McManus family, too. I didn’t know they were getting
back into the circuits.”

Nash’s jaw tightens. “They’ve got their filthy
fingers in everything.”

He parks us in the staging area, and I follow him into the throng
surrounding Sleazy D, the usual Ridgecrest circuit organizer. I loop
my fingers through the back of Nash’s belt, but he barely seems
to notice me.
Cyrus was wrong
, I think.
Time isn’t
making this any better on him. It’s making it worse.

“Hey, man!” Sleazy D waves to Nash from his cardboard
crate and peers at us over his ridiculous star-shaped sunglasses.
“Looks like you got a sweet new ride.”

“Yeah, man, sign me up,” Nash says.

I push a lock of dark hair back from my face. “I built it,”
I say, sounding like a little kid. I feel like an idiot as soon as I
say it, but I can’t believe Nash didn’t say it himself.
He never misses an opportunity to brag about me and my skills in the
garage. Or anywhere else. More proof that this tension Nash feels
isn’t going away anytime soon.

“Cool.” Sleazy D couldn’t care less. He takes the
clipboard back from Nash and pockets Nash’s wad of entrance
money.

“Who else we got tonight?” Nash asks. He’s tugging
the sleeves of his driving jacket down over his hands as he scans the
crowd. His whole body is twitching with a restless energy. Maybe this
race will burn off some of that itch. God, I hope so. I don’t
know how else to help him.

Sleazy D looks over his roster. “Aside from Jagger in your
crew . . . Let’s see, the usuals . . .
Miguel and Antoine from the Calaveras, the Kim brothers from upstate,
Rory McManus—oh, no, wait, the McManuses are putting up a new
guy. Someone who just got out of the state pen.”

My heart leaps into my throat. Nash immediately stills, his face
turning sharp. “Oh, fuck, no.”

“Yeah, Lennox somebody? He looks kinda familiar.” Sleazy
D glances over the crowd, toward where the McManuses are clustered.
“Oh! Right. Didn’t he use to run with Drazic’s
crew?”

“This is bullshit.” Nash’s hands form tight fists
at his side. “I’m gonna kill him. I’ll fucking kill
him.
Lennox!
”

Nash is pushing his way through the crowd toward the McManuses. I
can’t let him get near Lennox. This isn’t the Nash I fell
in love with, the easygoing guy who never let anything bother him for
long. How the hell can I snap him out of this?

I tug on his belt loop to try to pull him back, but he whips around
to face me, snarling. “Fuck off, El. This doesn’t concern
you.”

I glare at him. “Like hell it doesn’t.” He shakes
me, but I keep stalking after him. “You need to get a fucking
grip.”

“Lennox!” Nash bellows. “You better show your
fucking face here! You’re dead. You’re fucking dead.”

The McManuses look up. I scan their crew, but can’t spot Lennox
among them. Mostly, the crew’s composed of the tight-knit
McManus family, but they’ve got a few close friends and
accomplices clinging to them, too. Mama McManus, the clan’s
matriarch, however, is a fearsome sight to behold. She’s six
feet tall, and built like a bulldog; in her BDUs and Docs, her
flaming red hair plaited into braids, she’s eyeing Nash like
she means to use him for a toothpick. I let go of Nash’s belt
loop as she stomps our way, her hazel eyes agleam.