Lie for Me (8 page)

Nice. It makes it awfully easy to steal stuff when people just give it to you. It's not a bad phishing scam actually. On paper, the charity organization looks good—nice website, caller ID shows the charity's name—and Heather has a remarkably smooth voice for someone who looks like a train wreck. They've done their homework and we'll have to work fast, but by the time complaints roll in and the police get evidence, we'll be long gone.

“And,” Joe adds, “when we send them their email confirmations, when those rich bastards click to print off their donation receipt, you'll have them, Wick.”

Wick's gaze dips to the floor and sticks. I don't get it. If she's really working with them, shouldn't she look more . . . into it? What's with the hesitancy?

“Griff here's a whiz with firewalls,” Joe says.

Wick's head jerks up, waves of red hair sweeping against her cheekbones. “I can't do this, Joe. I'm already under surveillance.”

“That thin cop?”

“Yeah.”

“He's not a problem yet. No warrant, right? No security breaches?” Joe tips forward and I watch Wick's fingers curl into the couch cushions. To hold herself back? Or to keep herself from running? “'Cause you of all people should know. Well?” Joe's tone climbs. He's getting pissed off, and without even realizing it, I've pushed away from the wall. “Have the cops traced you?”

Wick's mouth twitches. A smile? A laugh? I can't tell. She swallows. “No, they haven't traced me.”

“Then we're good—at least for a little while longer.” Joe sits back against the chair, propping both hands on his belly. “Don't go soft on me, Wick, or I'll have to toughen you up. There are all sorts of ways to hurt you now, and I remember how your old man used to do it.”

Disgust ripples through me, but Wick nods like this is no big deal—except her fingers are still dug deep into the couch cushions, knuckles going gray. I don't recognize this girl. I've known her for three years and I've never seen her look so . . . ruined.

I didn't think she
could
be ruined.

“You might think because your dad's on the run that you're beyond his reach,” Joe continues. “But you never will be. He'll always have me and I'll always have access to his people. I will fix you so you have nothing, understand? Do you
understand
?”

I'm moving before I know what I'm doing, stepping toward him—toward
her
—but Wick has eyes only for Joe.

“Yeah,” she says, and I stop, check myself. Wick didn't even notice I moved, but Joe did.

 

We finish about
an hour later. My second exit from Joe's house is pretty much the same as the first: he points to the door, we go. Wick stops on the porch to arrange her messenger bag and I use the opportunity to pause next to her, sneaking a sideways glance and realizing, as usual, she isn't looking back at me.

Probably just as well. This girl should be nothing more than a target. She's part of a job, my ticket to something better, and yet . . .

It doesn't matter. Remember what you're supposed to be doing
.

“You okay?” I ask.

The pause is so long I start to think Wick didn't hear me. I look at her again, realize she's thinking about her answer. You can see it in the way she grinds her teeth.

“Yeah, sure,” she says finally.

“How do you feel about the job?”

Wick's upper lip wrinkles. “Oh, it feels peachy. Nothing like knowing Joe's boinking a junkie he's involved in his scam to make me feel all warm and tingly inside.”

Agreed. Heather is a potential complication—one I will definitely be bringing up to Carson. I tilt my head toward my bike. “You want a ride home?”

There's a brief amused flash in Wick's eyes. They've gone light blue again, vivid enough to distract me until she starts rubbing the back of her neck.

I smile, mentally willing her to agree to the ride home.

Wick drops her hand. “I don't think it's a very good idea.”

“Why's that?”

“You don't have to be nice, Griff.”

I thought girls wanted . . . what?
I'm stunned stupid—until Wick power walks away from me and I have to take off after her.

“Let me give you a ride,” I say, striding along next to her. “It's got to be almost an hour's walk, right?”

When Wick doesn't stop, I touch her upper arm and she sidesteps me. Fast.

“It's forty minutes.”

“So let's ride.” Hair falls across my forehead and I push it away, noticing her eyes following my fingers. That warm feeling hits my chest again. She acts like she isn't interested, but . . .

“Forty minutes turns into ten,” I add, praying I don't sound desperate. I'm
not
, except for maybe when she bites her lower lip like that. Possibly.

“No.”

“Then I'll walk with you.”

Wick backs up. I follow. “No,” she says.

Are you always this difficult?
Not the right question. I stifle a sigh. “Why not?”

“Because your bike's here.”

“So?” I take a step closer. This time, she doesn't retreat, and suddenly I see how I'm going to convince her. I try really hard not to smile. “I'll get it later.”

“If it's even still here.” Wick's looking at me like I'm the world's most gigantic tool, and I have to struggle not to laugh. “You should know how easy it is to steal those things,” she continues. “I mean, all someone would need is a van and two guys to just pick it up and . . .”

Wait for it. Waaaiiittt.

Wick snaps to attention and glares at me.

Got you
. I grin. “Exactly. So you should just say yes and save me from getting my bike stolen. Come on.”

I take a risk and turn my back on her, heading for the bike. For a second, there's nothing and I think she isn't coming and this isn't working . . . and then I hear her—sneakers dragging on the pavement. She's following me.

I can't believe I actually won a round with this girl
.

“You like it?” I swing one leg over the Honda and pass her the extra helmet I carry. Wick eyeballs it like the thing's going to bite her.

“Yeah, it's a cool bike.” She tugs on the helmet and buckles the strap, eyes traveling over the gas tank and handlebars as my eyes travel over her, catch on her hands. They're still shaking.

“It's a different-looking bike though,” Wick continues and, if I hadn't noticed her hands, I'd think she sounds fine. “You don't see many Hondas like this around.”

I grin. Technically, noticing the bike's a Honda is a pretty small thing, but it always amazes me how many girls describe vehicles as “the blue one” or “the gray one.” Wick doesn't and I like her more for it.

“No, it's vintage. Everyone around here goes for Harleys, but this is a 1978 Honda CB400. My dad and I stripped it down to be a café racer.”

Wick smiles, hands drifting to my shoulders before she slides in behind me. The contact's brief and sends me instantly straight.

Wick stiffens, wiggling away from me and putting space between us. Without looking back, I hook my arm around her, tug her close, and, for a beat, we both freeze. She fits so perfectly against me I almost can't breathe.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Um, yeah.” Her hand scrabbles around. If she's looking for handholds, she's out of luck. The bike doesn't have any.

Which means she'll have to hold on to me.

Only she isn't.

“So how did you know where I live anyway?” Wick asks, voice a little high and reedy. I've heard the tone before, and there's something about it that makes me think she's only barely holding it together. “How did you know which window was mine the other night?”

Careful here
. “I know a lot about you.” I make sure to sound light as I step down on the gas and the engine cranks.

I shift us into first gear, coasting the bike forward and waiting for Wick to loop her arms around me. I glance back, grin.

Her face goes bright pink. “You ‘know a lot' about me? Stalk much, Griffin?”

I grin wider. This back-and-forth thing we do . . . “I like it when you're mean. Don't be a chicken, Wick. Hold on to me.”

“Right. Like you scare me.” One small hand eases along my hip, brushes across my stomach, and suddenly I can't breathe again.

I hold still, letting Wick's arms settle against me. Then she shifts closer and I gun us forward, shooting the bike into the street. She tenses at the first corner, but by the time we're to the main road, her arms and hands have loosened.

Her chin fits into my shoulder and I feel every gasp as we weave through the cars, but she never asks me to slow down. Then again, I guess she wouldn't. Everything with this girl is a fight.

It makes it so much better now that I'm winning.

11

By the time we get to the first intersection light, Wick's feeling bold enough to sit up and look around. There are guys in a minivan checking her out on one side of us and a cop on the other. She tucks closer to me, cheek pressing between my shoulder blades. She's facing the minivan losers again, and judging by their expressions, she's glaring them down.

“Friends of yours?” I tease, rolling us forward as the light turns green. The wind rips away her laugh, but I can feel how it makes her body shake.

Too bad everything tenses as soon as I park in her driveway. Wick hops off the bike before I'm fully stopped, already fiddling with the chinstrap buckle. “So how'd you get caught up with Joe?” she asks.

The best lies are built on truth, but this one feels like a low blow. “He stopped by the school.”

“Seriously?” Wick passes me the helmet, color draining from her face. “Was he trying to steal something?”

Odds are, Joe was looking for one of his dealers. There are two or three of them who work the high school circuit. He could easily have been looking for them. Judging from Wick's reaction though, she doesn't think he was. She's scared and I'm confused. Whatever Carson thinks Wick is, whatever
I
thought she was, we're both wrong.

So it makes me even more of a dick for using Wick's fear against her, but if she thinks I'm on her side, she might confide in me. “No, I think he was looking for you.”

Wick doesn't say a word. She wraps her arms around her middle like I kicked her in the stomach—and looking at her like that makes me feel like someone just kicked me.

I spin the helmet, watching her. “My dad's brother was picking me up. He knows Joe and they started talking. Paul—that's my uncle—told him I was good with computers. One thing kind of led to another.”

Her head rears back. “No, one thing does not lead to another. We're
scamming
people. How the hell does a nice kid like you get caught up in credit card fraud?”

I stop, stare.
Can we say
arrogant
?
Wait just one damn minute.

“First of all, I'm not a kid.” I swing my leg over the bike, shoving the helmet onto the seat, and—before I can talk myself out of it—I grab her hand. “Secondly, I'm not so nice.”

Wick doesn't move, doesn't blink. She does try to stare me down.

It's kind of impressive since I have almost ten inches on her.

I lean in. “I'm not nice. If I were, I wouldn't have been there and you'd still be avoiding me.” I pause. This would be about the time that any other girl would deny avoiding me, but this one just looks like she'd like to kick me. Fine. Another approach.

I straighten, shrug. “Look, I
really
need the cash.”

A little embarrassing, but worth it when her shoulders relax. She bumps her chin toward my bike. “Looks like you're doing okay.”

“This was my dad's. Only thing he left behind when he took off for California . . . aside from me, aside from my mom, who still thinks he's going to rescue us. She's not even getting out of bed anymore she's so fucking depressed. She lost her job because she stopped showing up, and the food stamps go only so far.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean—”

“I know. Sorry. I shouldn't snap at you. I'm just tired.” I turn my attention to her palm, unable to believe I just confessed that much. Swear to God, this girl makes me
stupid
. “Even after everything Joe said, I never expected to see you sitting there.”

She shrugs. “Life's just full of surprises.”

“No shit.”

Now we're both just staring at each other. I need to move this along, get info for Carson and earn my keep . . . so why am I hesitating?

“You should quit while you still can, Griff,” Wick says at last. “It's not good for you.
I'm
not good for you.”

I open my mouth, shut it. I have no idea what to say. I've never had anyone stand up for me. I mean, yeah, she's being condescending as hell about it, but Wick's the first person who agrees I should get out.

“I appreciate the ride home and all,” she adds. “But it doesn't change anything. You really should stay away from me.”

Wick starts to pull away, but I don't let go. I skim my fingers farther up, touching the thin skin of her wrist. Her heartbeat hammers against my fingertips.

It makes us both swallow.

White is showing all around Wick's eyes, but when I drag my fingers higher, her breath catches.

“You sure you're not good for me?” I ask, praying my voice doesn't crack.

“I'm very sure I'm not good for you.” Wick places both hands against my chest and shoves. I let go. It's what she wanted . . . and yet she's swaying now, like her knees are crumbling. I want to catch her. “And I don't think you're very good for me either.”