She shook her head. “I don’t blame Jason,” she said of her brother. “He isn’t someone who started using recreationally for the fun of it. He was in serious pain and the doctors wouldn’t give him the meds anymore because, well” – she shrugged – “he was addicted to those, too. So he turned to H, and…” She trailed off, playing with the buttons of her blazer.
She glanced over at Tango through the bars and offered him the sort of shy smile people felt compelled to give when they were trapped in awkward situations with strangers. “You probably think I sound like an idiot.”
He smiled back, because her face was sweet, and because he appreciated the way she was covering her terror with Southern composure. “No,” he assured. “I think you sound like a good sister.”
“But a stupid one.” She took a deep breath and the fear stood out in her eyes; it was too big to hide completely. “They said they let Jason go. That he’s supposed to get the rest of the money together and come back for me.” She caught her lip between her teeth and bit down hard.
“I’m sure he will.” Tango didn’t know what else to say.
“You’re very nice, but you’re a bad liar.”
“Well, yeah, pretty much.”
They shared a miserable grin.
Whitney took another big breath and said, “So, what do you do for a living? I’m guessing you’re some kind of super cool rockstar what with” – she gestured to her own hair and ears – “all of the style.”
“Prepare to be disappointed. I’m a motorcycle mechanic.”
“Who said that wasn’t super cool?” Her smile became truer. “Do you have your own bike?”
“A Harley Dyna Superglide.”
She sat up straighter against the wall, eyes sparkling. “Ooh, you’re a Lean Dog, aren’t you?”
Was there any harm in admitting that to her? Probably not, he decided. “Um…yeah. I am.”
“No way!” She laughed in delight. “When I was a little girl, my dad used to put me up on his shoulders so I could see you guys go down the street.”
When you were a little girl?Tango thought.Aren’t you still?He said, “Well, I wasn’t around then, I’m sure. I was” – stripping and turning tricks – “in school.”
“So I’ve probably seen you on the road recently,” she said, undeterred. She didn’t really look starry-eyed and adoring, but delighted. This was a nice diversion for her, he realized, so he would indulge.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Did you see us on Halloween? We had a whole big ride through the city, old ladies and everything.”
Her nose scrunched up and it was cute. “Do you guys really call your wives ‘old ladies’? I thought that was only on TV.”
“Nope. We really do it.”
She laughed, and then it died suddenly. “Oh no. Yours must be worried sick about you. God, here I am feeling sorry for myself, and you’ve got a wife waiting on you–”
He held up his left hand to cut her off, showing her the bare, tattooed backs of his fingers, the lack of a ring. “I’m not married,” he said. “Nobody’s waiting on me.” It was the truth, and he was currently being held in a private prison God knew where, but for some reason, the words pained him.
Whitney drew her legs up, looped her arms around them and rested her chin on one knee. “I bet that’s not true,” she said quietly. “Even if you don’t have an old lady, I bet someone’s waiting on you. The rest of the Dogs?” she guessed.
It was a small kindness, and the only one she could offer in their bare, adjoining cells, but it made the corners of his mouth twitch. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
The door opened above them, and he heard the sharp way she stopped breathing, felt his own lungs seize. In his mind he imagined a cold concrete stairwell; he’d been unconscious when they’d brought him in, but he could construct the stairs, the door, the heavy boots of the men in his imagination.
Three men appeared in front of their cells. Two faceless, muscled thugs. And a medium-sized man with a face of generalities: regular nose, unremarkable brown eyes, thin mouth set evenly above a normal-looking chin. He was a sketch artist’s nightmare, this man, with nothing notable at all to his appearance, not even his soft brown hair. As he stared through the bars, Tango felt a hard shudder move down his back. The longer he looked at the man, the more his bland countenance became unnerving. He was so nondescript as to be perfect; he was nothing and no one by careful design. An unmarked PI car of a human being. Like he wore a camouflage mask over what must be a normal face beneath.
“You,” the man said, and the thugs slid Tango’s door back. “It’s time to make a phone call.”
“Oh God,” Whitney said, voice a tight whisper.
As he got to his feet, Tango threw her a broad fake smile. “Don’t worry, kiddo. There’s nothing I haven’t already lived through.”
~*~
