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The weight of her, the flick of her pulse, the familiar voice gone light and breathless…

Blue…I…

I blink the memory away.

But all Pan can see is the black and white, and only relative to himself. She told him the truth or she didn’t. She was loyal to him or wasn’t. It’s a stupidly simple way of looking at the world, a child’s way. He’s like that, he’s always been like that, ever since that night he first charged into my shithole tent by the casino and quartered himself. And I’ll admit, I liked that about him. Still do, sometimes. I think and I plan and I consider; he shoots first and asks questions later. At that time, and many times since, he’s been what I needed to move, to actually do something. Hell, it was his idea to move my work off the streets and onto the internet. Pimping my handle out at bars and getting me trial subscribers as long as I kept his tab open.

But that’s just it. For Pan, the only question in life has ever been what’s in it for me?

And when the answer is nothing, he just doesn’t know what to do.

“So now what?” The slight edge is back to his voice, his chin tipped to the half-busted shopfront where the smoggy daylight is starting to stream through in earnest. From this angle, all bedheaded and sandy-eyed instead of peacocked out like usual, he really does look like that kid from the alleyway. The kid who’d become…not my best friend, exactly. I’m not the type. But the next closest thing.

“It’s your fucking mess,” I grunt. “You tell me.”

“C’mon, Blue. Don’t be like that.”

I have no sympathy for him right now. “You wanna be the fearless leader, so lead. Fix your shit.”

“I did.” As if on cue, a hunk of duct tape pops off the corner of the plywood, flapping free. “Kinda.”

“Dare I ask how we’re looking?” I turn to see Kit dropping down the last few stairs. Seeing the patch job, he makes a face. “Ah. Well.”

“Yikes.” The other one’s not far behind, his eye socket still a gruesome purple. He lets out a low whistle. “Think that’ll hold?”

“No,” Kit and I say in unison, just as Pan says “sure.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Pan adds in a mutter. He drains his can, crumples it, and gets to his feet. “I did all this work and that’s all I get?” He sweeps an arm toward the window. “I’d expect that shit from Blue, but you two…”

Kit and Fox exchange a look.

If Pan was a manic schemer back in the day, these two were the opposite. Locked down, insular, intense. Big brother always stepping in front of little brother, glancing his way every two seconds, making sure he was okay. I didn’t even realize they were twins until they mentioned it outright, maybe two or three months in. Like me, they’d had nowhere permanent to be and couldn’t deny there was strength in numbers. Unlike me, they had actual trade skills: Fox got us bikes. Kit could draw. Made me realize I should pick up something secondary in case my good looks ever faded or my dick gave out.

“Can we do something?” Fox says as I, too, stand up.

“About what?” Pan glances back, apparently lost in thought. “Oh, the window? Yeah. Please.” He rubs his chin. “I’ve got some plans to make.”

I fold my arms.

“Plans?” Kit echoes.

“Sure. Step one, get some money. Step two…” Pan screws up his mouth in thought, then shrugs. “Figure out how to get Hook off my dick.”

“Step two sounds like it comprises most of the plan,” Kit mutters.

“Agreed,” I murmur.

Pan ignores us. “He wants to think he can scare us,” he says, gesturing. “To think he can intimidate us into packing up and turning tail.”

“Can’t he?” Fox says, eyeing the window.

“Fuck no,” Pan crows. “This mafioso shit? He wants to take down our operations, let him do it man to man.”

“He called us into the city.” Kit’s back over at the shop desk, looking over a crumpled piece of paper I realize is the notice that got bricked through the window. “They’re almost certainly going to send someone out to investigate the tax lien.”

“And that someone can be bribed,” Pan says, pressing his fingers together like he’s explaining basic addition. “Hook forgets that not everyone’s got a boner for, like, one-upmanship. Most people are petty.” He snorts. “Trust me, I would know. I just score a little more cash, fold it into one of those…whatever they are forms…” He spins a hand in the air.

“U and O,” I supply. “For the building.”