Lennox (6 page)

“Hang on now, boys—” Sleazy D throws a hand in
front of his face to shield himself. “No one likes a sore
loser—”

“Nash. Sit your ass down,” Drazic shouts over the
earpiece.

Below us, Nash rips his earpiece out and drops it on the ground.

“Fuck.” Drazic and Cyrus sprint toward the roof exit.
Heart pounding, I follow them. We have to stop Nash. He’s going
to kill him, I’m sure of it.

We burst out of the stairwell onto the alleyway. Nash swings wildly
at Lennox, sending the onlookers scrambling out of the way. I press
closer, trying to get a better look, but there are too many people in
the way. I start elbowing a path toward them. Lennox is on the
ground, one arm held up to protect himself. As Nash swings at him
again, Lennox deflects the punch. But Nash is determined. Crazed. I
have to stop him. Throw myself on him—

“Nash,” Drazic shouts, shoving people aside as he plows
toward them. But the crowd is chanting now. Money’s exchanging
hands. I want to be sick. People are
betting
on them.

“Stand up, motherfucker. Stand up and fight me, you fucking
coward.”

Lennox staggers to his feet but keeps his distance. “I’m
not going to fight you.”

“You killed him,” Nash roars. “You took him from
me!”

He charges at Lennox. Lennox covers his head with his arms, but Nash
plows into him, knocking them both to the ground. Nash swings at
Lennox’s face, but Lennox blocks it with his forearm. A spray
of gravel hits the crowd as Nash swings at him again and again,
furious and relentless. Nash screams with wordless rage.

“Nash!” I cry. Shoving my way forward, stepping on
people’s toes as I go, but I don’t care. I have to end
this. “Stop! Leave him alone!”

If Nash hears me, though, he gives no sign of it. He’s
laser-focused on Lennox. Streaks of red line one side of Lennox’s
face, bright against his tanned skin. “You took everything from
me, and what the fuck did you lose?” Nash closes his hands
around Lennox’s throat. “Nothing. A couple of years. When
Troy is
gone
.”

“Nash, stop!” I scream.

Lennox twists toward me with dark, dirt-smeared eyes. His expression
sags. He doesn’t even try to block Nash’s next punch; he
lets it force the wind out of him as it lands straight in his gut.

“You’re wrong,” Lennox wheezes. “I lost
everything.”

“Please, Nash.” I finally break toward the front of the
crowd. “Don’t do this.” This isn’t who Nash
really is. It can’t be.

“But I see you found it,” Lennox says.

My heart twists. Nash glances up at me with a bitter laugh. Then
raises his fist, readying for a punch straight to Lennox’s
face—

Police sirens echo through the alley. They’re only a few blocks
away, but gaining on us fast. That’s the trouble with
Ridgecrest cops—they may be lazy, they may be willing to turn a
blind eye to our street races, but when someone crashes on the
streets, even they can’t ignore it.

“Shit! It’s the cops!”

The crowd churns as one, boiling over as people scramble in every
direction. Everyone’s screaming at everyone else, blaming Nash
for drawing heat from the cops by starting a brawl, or the Calaveras
crew for crashing. The air buzzes as the drones land and their
operators snatch them up. Running, shouting all around. But I’m
rooted to the spot.

“Elena!” Drazic seizes me by the arm. “Get yourself
home. Let me worry about the crew.”

But what about Lennox?
I want to scream. It’s pointless,
though. He’s huddled on the ground, crumpled up and forgotten
like a piece of trash as everyone else runs off. My uncle seizes Nash
by the arm and pries him away; Jagger and Cyrus surround him,
blocking his path back to Lennox. Engines roar to life all around us
as the crowd piles into their vehicles to pull away.

Get myself home. Great. I rode here with Nash. But now my uncle and
the rest of my family, the crew, are hauling him off and leaving me
behind. I’m standing stock still as the race audience shoves
past me, as red and blue lights wash over the alleyway. This isn’t
my first time ducking the police during a raid. I know all the best
places to hide. But this is the first time I’ve been left to do
it myself.

All because Nash can’t control himself. Because he can’t
stop blaming Lennox for what happened in the past. What Lennox did
was absolutely awful, I know. But no amount of anger is going to
change it. Lennox used to be our family, and god knows he’s not
the only one of us who’s fucked up. Fucked up huge, even. And
now they’re going to leave him for the cops, so he can be sent
right back into the hell where he’s spent the last three years—

Fuck it. I charge into the crowd and dive for Lennox.

“Come on. We’ve got to get you out of here.” I grab
him by the wrist and tug him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

Lennox glances up at me. Some blood has dripped into his eyes from a
cut on his forehead. Nash’s rings, probably. And one eye is
already threatening to swell shut. But his jaw tightens as he studies
my face, and he turns away.

“I’m fine, El. Take care of yourself.”

“You are
not
fine. Look at you.” I pull an
oil-stained rag from my back pocket and wipe away the stream of blood
from his forehead. “What about your ribs? That was a nasty
hit.”

“I’ve had worse.” But as Lennox pulls himself to
his feet, he groans, and nearly doubles over. If Lennox is actually
showing this much pain, stoic, quiet Lennox, then I can’t even
imagine how much it hurts.

“Come on.” I loop my arm in his. He sags against me,
heavy, as I guide us through the crowd toward his Mustang. “Where
are your keys?”

He starts to reach across his body to fish them out, then winces and
thinks better of it. “Left pocket.”

I nod and dig into his left pocket. My fingers rub against his
thighs, and a flush spreads across my face. Just an old instinct, I
tell myself, left over from my dumb teenager days of fawning over
Lennox. But damn if he isn’t carved like a Greek god. I pull
out his keys, unlock the Mustang, and ease him into the passenger’s
seat. He stifles a cry as he bends forward and swings his legs into
the cab.

I slam the passenger’s door shut and let myself into the
driver’s side. The scent of fresh upholstery washes over me,
and for a moment, I just savor it. The McManuses may be the scum of
the earth, but they did a damn fine job with this old pony, I’ll
give them that. As I turn the engine keys, the motor barks at me like
a ferocious hound ready to be let off its chain. I laugh to myself.
Damn
fine job.

Then the sirens wail, much closer now. We’re out of time.

I kick the Mustang into second gear and rev it up to thread us past
the crowd and the approaching cops. They may have blocked the main
alley entrance, but I guarantee their crappy, boat-sized Crown Vics
can’t follow us down the side street. I surge down the side
alley, and people jump out of our path, flattening themselves against
the brick walls, to let us through. As soon as we reach the turn-off
for the main street, I upshift and spin us effortlessly around the
corner, then take another corner, peeling us away from the main
streets. We’re going to stick to the roads the cops can’t
follow.

As I finish our quick weave out of the warehouse district, I ease us
onto the ridgeline drive and sit back with a contented sigh. Lennox
laughs to himself beside me. I glance toward him and return his grin.

“I see you’ve picked up a few tricks,” he says.

The heat returns to my face. “Learned from the best.”

He settles back in his seat with a groan. “As I remember it,
you threw a fit the first time I suggested you learn to drive stick.”

“That’s me. Stubborn as shit.”

I laugh, too, remembering how petulant I was. The rest of the crew
had me convinced I did my best work in the garage, not on the
circuit, and I didn’t want to look like I was defying their
wishes. Cyrus wouldn’t have cared, I knew—he liked being
behind the scenes, himself—but Jagger and his fragile ego
couldn’t have stood it if I’d showed him up in the races.
And Nash—well, Nash always liked being the best. If Lennox, who
consistently ran the circuits a few seconds under him, taught
me
of all people how to race . . .

I thought those days would last forever. Me and the boys. But Lennox
shattered that peace. I guess I can’t blame Nash for hating him
for that. For taking Troy from us. But I guess I’m just not cut
out for lifelong grudges. I may be stubborn, but I’m soft at
heart.

And Lennox always had a way of making me melt. The way I pined after
him . . . I shake my head. I used to think
nothing could ever break me out of the spell he had me under, even if
he didn’t know it. Then the crash happened. Yet here I am,
dangerously close to falling back under that same spell.

“Where are you staying?” I ask Lennox. I’ll take
him home and get him cleaned up. It’s the least I can do for
him. Then I really do have to leave the past buried. For the sake of
the crew, and maybe for my own sanity.

Because the more I’m around Lennox, the easier it is to forget
what he did. To forget he’d ever left.

“My grandma’s,” he says. “Take the exit for—”

“For Colson Pass. I remember.” I swallow. I remember all
too well.

After about ten minutes, I pull into the drive of his grandmother’s
white and yellow split-level house and kill the engine. Her cracked
concrete driveway’s seen better days, and the white paint on
her porch columns is starting to flake away in thick chunks, but the
window boxes and flower beds are well-tended and someone’s set
out a can of paint and brush, obviously ready to do some touch-ups.
And by someone, I’m sure I mean Lennox.

I slide under his arm to support him up the stairs to the front door.
He’s got nearly half a foot on me, and for all his leanness,
his lithe muscles are
heavy
, but we manage to make it to the
door. “Red key,” he tells me, as I fumble with his key
chain. The door handle sticks a little; I have to throw my weight
against it to pop it open. Lennox smiles sadly. “Another
project I need to do.”

“Lenny?” an elderly woman’s voice echoes. “Lenny,
is that you?”

“Yeah, Grams, it’s me.” His voice is tight and
strained, like he doesn’t want to give her even the slightest
indication of his wounds. “Do you need anything?”

“I dropped my nighttime pill. Can you help me?”

I exchange a glance with Lennox. “You’re in no shape to
be bending down. Let me do it. Go have a seat in the bathroom—”

“No.” Lennox forces his weight off of me to stand up
straight. “I can help her.”

“Seriously?” I hiss. “You’re beat to shit,
you may have cracked ribs—”

“Please.” Lennox’s dark eyes pierce through me. But
it’s the twist on his lips that kills me. That sly smirk he
used to wear constantly, the one that spoke of countless untold
secrets, has turned into something else entirely. A sad shadow of its
former self. “Let me do this one thing.”

I force myself to nod. “I’ll be in the bathroom. You’ve
got hydrogen peroxide?”

“And bandages aplenty.”

He manages a slow shuffle toward his grandmother’s bedroom
while I let myself into the bathroom. It hasn’t been updated
since the house was built in the fifties; black and white ceramic
tile line a cracked and stained tub and battered toilet. I dig around
in the cabinets for something to clean and dress Lennox’s
wounds. I’ve done this enough times for Jagger, after one of
his countless bar fights, or Nash and Uncle D, after whatever it is
they get up to when I’m not around. But if Lennox’s ribs
are cracked, there isn’t much I can do to help.

I dab some hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball and listen to the
sounds of Lennox and his grandmother talking. I can’t hear the
words, only their tones—soothing, gentle, relaxed. I can’t
even imagine how much it’s straining him to sound casual.
Lennox has always loved his grams—long after his dad skipped
out, long after his mom shacked up with her meth-head boyfriend, his
grams was always there for him. I can only guess how hard it was for
her while he was in prison.

After a few minutes, he limps into the bathroom and takes a seat on
the edge of the tub. “All right, nurse.” He offers me
another sad smile. “Do your worst.”

I dab at the cut on his forehead first, cleaning away the blood
that’s already started to dry. It’s shallow, but long.
“Ugh. You really ought to get a stitch in this.”

“You say that like I have insurance.” Lennox grins.

“I’m serious, though. You don’t want it getting
infected, or leaving a permanent scar . . .”

“Please. You think I don’t have worse scars than that?”
He points to a nick on his chin, where a patch of stubble is missing.
“Prison fight. Someone tried to smash my jaw with a metal
pipe.” He pulls down his shirt collar. “And when that
didn’t work, they tried to garrote me in my sleep.”

I wince. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, there’s more.” Lennox leans back from me and
peels his thermal shirt up and over his head. I suck in my breath.
He’s a fucking granite-chiseled Apollo underneath his
shirt—firm pecs, a six-pack like it was factory-stamped, and
then a flawless V of muscle disappearing beneath his waistband with a
thin trail of dark hair. I flinch, my heart aching for Lennox and
everything he’s been through.

“See this?” Lennox points along the right side of his
torso. “Look closer.”

I lean in, my stomach doing a little flip. Part of me is thrilled to
get a closer look at his fucking amazing physique, but another part
of me feels sick for doing so. I’m not doing anything wrong by
being here, I tell myself—not cosmically speaking. I’m
patching up someone in need. Caring for an old friend. But I also
know Nash wouldn’t see it that way. I feel guilty, even though
I’m doing something nice, and the fact that I feel guilty only
makes it worse.