“Yes, Trevor?” I say, suddenly tired. My shoulders droop like invisible weights are bearing down on them.
“Miss RC….” He bows his head. “You are needed at the front.”
What now? I mentally groan. “Can I change first?”
He shakes his head without looking up at me. Trevor is already the type uncomfortable around others. For him to be reduced to an uneasy mess in front of me means something is up.
Severely hating Brody for putting me in these overalls, I step away from the stairs and follow Trevor to the front. My mental groan turns real when I spot a pouting Zamara sitting on a huge steamer trunk. In a dress and ballet flats, with her elbows on her knees and her hands cupping her chin, she doesn’t look her age.
“Shit,” I breathe out, massaging the dull ache beginning at my temple.
Before I can speak again Zamara says, “Imagine my surprise when I’m all packed and waiting for you only to have Brody tell me you left HQ already.”
Forget tired. I’m exhausted. “Zamara, I’m sorry.” It takes all my effort to keep speaking. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m not having the best day.”
“Whiplash, right?” she asks like she’s referring to the weather. Not waiting for me to respond, she hops off the trunk, which I assume contains her clothes, and dusts off her bum. Why she’s doing so when the trunk looks clean is beyond me. “Well, I’m here now. That’s all that matters.”
I point at her luggage. “I said a week.”
“This is a week.” She gestures at the trunk and the two bags I didn’t notice until her hand sweeps over them. My groan morphs into a growl. “I take it you have a room for me?”
Through gritted teeth, I huff out a “follow me,” then turn on my heels. I don’t check if Zamara actually does trail behind me. When we reach Mac and Screw, I give Screw instructions to bring Zamara’s things to the spare bedroom upstairs. He moves without a word.
Mac finally lifts his head from his tablet and says calmly, “Mistress Anne called while you were out. Something about Slipstream relapsing.”
Chapter Nine
LEAVING RUBBER on the pavement in a squeal of the rear tire, I release the brake. The bike rears, then leaps forward, reaching a hundred kilometers per hour in less than ten seconds. A sense of urgency nags at me. What could Slip be thinking? What’s gotten into him? Why is he spiraling again? A million and one questions that don’t have answers until I see him. Maybe knock some sense into him.
The fastest way to Open Arms is through the back roads. The orphanage’s location hugs the periphery of the city. Mistress Anne prefers the seclusion so the children can live outside the cruelty that brought them under her care in the first place. But not all children sent to her are orphans. Many are there to learn how to race. Like me. Well, technically I was orphaned, but I have Brody. Same difference. Not like Slipstream. His parents were considered traitors to the Bitterblade family. I’m not exactly sure about the specifics since Brody refuses to speak about it and Slip was too young to understand the situation. My gloved hand grips the handle so hard I actually hear the leather crunch through the roar of my engine and the wind speeding by.
I beat myself up for not realizing the relapse sooner. At Mount Giga I did notice his weight loss but nothing too alarming. The bulky sweater should have been my red flag. And his penchant for skinny jeans always gave him away. But my mind was on other things last night. Dammit. I should have noticed. I mentally catalog what I did see. His green hair did seem lackluster. The bad lighting at Gatherings hid the signs well. His refusal to get naked with Star could have been a sign. Star holds a reputation of being really talented in bed, so refusing her took a lot of guts. Or self-doubt. In my case, she just annoys the hell out of me. I doubt Slipstream has any kind of self-control when it comes to sex. He’s a hot-blooded guy. Enough said. Yet he managed to say no to Star’s offer like a meal he didn’t want to eat. That should have tipped me off. I shift gears in frustration and the front tire kicks up. I don’t allow myself to ease up on the speed, even at the corners. Not when my anger—mostly at myself—is boiling over.
His irritability at the Gathering makes a whole lot of sense. Damn him. He should have come to me. But what could I have done? I mentally shake my head. Of course I could have done something. Help him ask for help. Something.
I navigate bends on the country road using the tightest racing line I can find. I hug the apex of each corner so closely that if I slip my calves will lose an inch of skin. I didn’t have time to pull on leather pants for protection, settling for the first thing in my closet: jeans and a T-shirt. I didn’t even think to shrug on a jacket.
Several miles out of the city, I raise my guard, keeping a watchful eye for every suspicious shadow. Security isn’t as tight in the lush woodland. I increase my speed. My urgency doesn’t only come from my need to see Slipstream. The sooner I reach the sanctuary Open Arms provides, the better I’ll feel. The last thing I need is to have to protect myself from vagrants in search of a quick credit.
When the ivy-covered gates and tall walls of the orphanage come into view, my relieved sigh fogs the visor of my helmet. I ease the bike to
