There were no sirens. No one yelling. No neighbors lurking at fences that he could see.
A couple houses down, they paused, getting shoes and a hat out for Ghost, who put them on while Sullivan and Tobias removed their balaclavas, windbreakers, and gloves and shoved them into the pack. Sullivan slid his ball cap back into place and by that time Ghost was ready.
Gravel crunched under their feet until they reached the end of the alley and turned right. It was hot out. Birds were calling. Afternoon traffic was beginning to pick up. A man in a suit barking into a cell phone passed them going the opposite direction, pausing before crossing the street. The walk to the car might’ve been downright pleasant if not for the clammy sweat dampening Tobias’s temples and back, if not for the way his heart thundered and he had to subdue the urge to run or look back. A perfectly normal day, all things considered. A normal day where Tobias had broken in to a cop’s house and Sullivan had hit that cop over the head with a rolling pin like a furious housewife.
Ghost’s skin was sickly pale, his eyes fever bright. Tobias almost couldn’t bear to look at him. It hurt to be angry at something so fragile.
They made it to the car. There was still no sound of sirens.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sullivan wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Tobias’s friend, but it wasn’t this nervy, sharp-dull kid with the hollow, canny green eyes. The guy had some sort of split-personality at work in his body language—one second his limbs appeared too heavy to move, the next he was whip-ready to strike, the next he shifted into a sly, slinky sort of invitation. And then the cycle started over, with minute variations, an endless byplay of characters and moods and manipulations. Like a chameleon trying on colors.
Sullivan instantly, profoundly disliked him.
Ghost hadn’t said a word since Sullivan had keeled Spratt over. His fingers clenched in sense memory at the recollection, feeling again the weight of the wood in his hand, the meaty thud of the strike, the way his stomach had revolted. He’d thought, at the time, that he might be sick. But Tobias had come out of the shadows, big-eyed and so fucking relieved, like Sullivan had done something heroic instead of violent, like all he wanted to see in the whole world was Sullivan, and he’d wanted to say something cruel to that relief. Something along the lines of you chose him, don’t you dare look at me like that.
Now they were seated at the table in Sullivan’s dining room. Well, Ghost and Sullivan were; Tobias was bringing Ghost a sandwich and a glass of water, asking in a low voice if Ghost needed a doctor.
It was kind of pissing Sullivan off.
“I’m fine,” Ghost told Tobias. He’d settled on subdued, apparently. His head dipped toward his plate, his shoulders rounded, and Tobias’s expression went tight and pained, for fuck’s sake.
“What did you go back to get?” Sullivan asked Ghost, and Tobias fumbled the roll of paper towels he was carrying.
“Do we have to talk about this now?” Ghost asked in a low voice aimed at Tobias.
“Maybe we—” Tobias started.
At the same time, Sullivan said, “Yes. We can’t be sure they won’t come after him,” trying to keep his voice even as he watched Tobias flinch. “We can’t be sure that we didn’t miss anything. We need to do this now.” He went back to staring at Ghost. “What did you go back for that was worth putting Tobias at risk?”
“I don’t—it wasn’t anything important, I promise,” Ghost muttered. “I’ve got a headache. Can I lie down?”
“Ghost, you heard Sullivan, we—”
“Just for twenty minutes? I’m so tired.”
Tobias sighed and gave Sullivan a helpless, what am I supposed to do sort of look. “All right.”
“Will you come with me?” Ghost grabbed on to Tobias’s T-shirt, his fingers low on Tobias’s hip.
“Of course I will.”
“Make sure you choose a room without any windows,” Sullivan said, annoyed beyond the telling, and Tobias looked startled, like it hadn’t occurred to him that Ghost might try to run. You can’t be falling for this, Sullivan thought, although Tobias’s blind spot for Ghost had so far proved to be the size of the sun—and every bit as capable of burning him.
But Tobias glanced down at his own hip, where Ghost’s fingers were resting inches from his jeans pocket, and something about that made it all click for Tobias, a click so tangibly permanent and real that it was written on his face bright as neon. He eased back a step, swallowing hard, the curve of his lips going tense and unfriendly, and stupid, selfish hope rose in Sullivan’s chest.
“Well, that was nice while it lasted,” Ghost said, and in a heartbeat he’d shifted from traumatized crime victim to languid hustler. He slumped back in his chair and gave Sullivan a sideways grin.
“What’d you take?” Sullivan asked him.
“Nothing,” Ghost said. “What was your name again, handsome?”
Tobias gave Ghost a dirty look—far dirtier than Sullivan would’ve guessed he had in him. “His name is Sullivan Tate,” he told Ghost, before glancing at Sullivan and adding, “We went back for a USB.”
“It’s like that, is it?” Ghost asked lazily, stretching his arms over his head.
“Yes, it is.”
“Is he a good kisser? His mouth is a little mean, but sometimes that makes for the best kissing.”
“He’s not mean,” Tobias snapped. “He helped me rescue you. Leave him alone.”
“What’s on the USB?” Sullivan asked.
“Nudie pictures,” Ghost replied. “If you like sky-blue seventies silk, brother, they’re right up your alley.”
Everything about him was lackadaisical and smug; all that was missing were a couple finger guns. The effect was outrageously unpleasant, and Sullivan caught himself wondering how anyone ever got anything done where Ghost was concerned, if it was always this shifting facade that made it impossible to keep your feet. And that—that made sense actually. It was to Ghost’s benefit
