“Wyatt, you okay?”
The glasses-wearing blond kid with the near-perfectly symmetrical freckles Roman had known since he was fourteen looked up at him, brown eyes blown wide with fear underneath the magnifying lenses of his Ray-Bans. He had the sudden urge to grab him in a tight bear hug and tell him it was all going to be okay, even though he really had no idea if that was the truth or not. He also wanted to wrap an apology into that bear hug.
“No, no I’m fucking not okay. What in the actual hell is going on?”
“I can explain it all later.” He put a hand out, helping Wyatt get back onto his feet. His entire body warmed at the touch but was instantly cooled off by the way Wyatt recoiled away, snatching his hand back as if reeling from a burning stove.
This next bit would be the hardest part of the job: convincing Wyatt to come with him.
“We don’t have time.” Roman could hear the whir of a helicopter through the shattered glass. “Wyatt, I need your help. It’s part of the reason why I came here. I wanted to ask under different circumstances, but I’ve got zero control right now. You’re an absolute fucking savant when it comes to computers, and I don’t think I can finish this job without you. So, please, help me, Wyatt.”
He blinked a couple of times, mouthed a couple of near-words before actually being able to put a coherent sentence together.
And that sentence was “Absolutely fucking not.”
The helicopter was directly overhead now. No time left. Roman considered—for a flash of a second—just grabbing Wyatt by the arms and throwing him over his shoulders, lugging him out of here like a caveman carrying away a slab of meat. He quickly realized that would be crossing over the line into kidnapping territory, which was not how he wanted this partnership to start off. He knew Wyatt already hated his guts, his parents’ guts, his grandparents’ guts, his Viking ancestors’ guts, and anyone else’s guts who was somehow tied to Roman Ashford. It radiated off the guy, as if Roman had thrown open the doors to a furnace, heat blasting his face. Wyatt’s fists bunched at his sides. He was a lean guy, always had been, but Roman was surprised to see some definition in the biceps that filled his sleeves.
Time had changed him, but it didn’t diminish the obvious anger that Wyatt hadn’t let go of.
And Roman didn’t blame him, either. What happened between them was immensely fucked-up and had likely changed the trajectory of both their lives. But he wasn’t about to grovel, beg Wyatt for forgiveness. There were very few reasons for Roman to get on his hands and knees, and apologizing was not one of them.
He’d have to figure something else out.
“Alright, fine.” He started toward the door that led out to the gardens. Wyatt had a hand on his head, a slight tremor apparent in his shoulders. Wyatt’s shoulders always shook when he was nervous or overwhelmed. Roman used to call them his little saltshaker. Wyatt didn’t like that too much at first, but it ended up growing on him.
“I’m sorry,” Roman said, wishing things had turned out differently for them. Before Wyatt could respond, Roman turned and ran, throwing open the door and bolting toward the fence, grabbing two iron rings and launching himself over the curved spikes, landing in a roll on the other side.
“Took you long enough,” Bang Bang said as he opened the passenger door to a sleek emerald-green BMW.
Roman gave his best friend a pat on the back of his neck and got into the car, Bang Bang sitting in the back seat. Monica “Mustang” Mercedes sat behind the wheel, her expression as casual as a soccer mom waiting in the school’s pickup lane.
“Got what we came here for?” she asked, kicking the car into drive.
Roman answered with a single shake of his head. It was enough. Mustang nodded solemnly, dropping a pair of Oakleys on her face and zooming out of the narrow alleyway. She swerved out onto a wide street lined with palm trees and blended right into the traffic heading toward Miami Beach, police officers racing in the opposite direction.
Roman looked into the rearview mirror, the science museum getting lost behind a cruise ship, and wondered how the fuck he was ever going to finish this job now.
Chapter 3
Wyatt Hernandez
Wyatt remained in a state of shock for hours after the police were gone, the dim haze of adrenaline and fear slowly lifting by the time he got out of the hour-long shower, his bathroom filled with steam. He could smell the pizza his sister had warmed up for him, but his stomach made an uneasy flip and directed him away from the kitchen toward his bedroom instead. He threw himself facedown on the squeaky bed, a couple of rebel springs poking at his ribs.