4 Bodies and a Funeral. Stephanie Bond

off his nose. He shook his head to focus, and finally the lock sprang open. He stood too quickly and got a head rush, but stabilized himself on the bike and pushed off, feeling smug for outmaneuvering Mouse. He’d have to face the man soon enough if he infiltrated The Carver’s organization, but he’d rather get the details of what was expected of him first.

      As he rode out of the parking lot, he heard a car pull up behind him—close.

      Too close.

      Hoping it was the standard asshole Atlanta driver who had no respect for sharing the road with cyclists, he looked over his shoulder, only to confirm his worst fear.

      Mouse was driving a dark Town Car with a big, impressive grill that was closing in fast on his back tire. Panicked, Wesley stood to apply extra pressure to the pedals, but his reaction time was slow. The impact of the car knocked his bike forward, his body up and back. He landed on the big hood of the Town Car with a thunk and slid to the windshield as Mouse brought the car to a halt.

      Mouse opened the door and stepped out, then dragged Wesley off the hood by his tie and pulled his face close. “Trying to avoid me, Wren?”

      “‘Course not,” Wesley said with a cough. “I need to get my jacket back.”

      Mouse shook Wesley until his glasses went askew. “What happened in there? You’re not planning to rat out The Carver, are you?”

      “No,” Wesley said, swallowing past the pressure on his windpipe. “I told the D.A. I don’t know anything. He was pissed and threatened to throw me in jail, but my lawyer’s good. So all I have to do is more pain-in-the-ass community service.”

      Mouse looked doubtful. “You fuckin’ with me?”

      Wesley couldn’t imagine anything on earth more unpleasant. “Nah, man. The Carver’s off the hook.”

      Mouse released his grip. “You’d better not be lying.”

      “Dude, The Carver’s attorney has probably already been contacted.”

      As the big man chewed on his lip, his phone rang. He kept one paw on Wesley while he answered the call. “Yeah …? Yeah … Yeah.” He ended the call and jammed the phone in his pocket.

      “Okay, you little shit, I just got verification. Now, give me a payment and we’re square for a while.”

      Wesley lifted his hands. “I don’t have any money.”

      “Wrong answer.”

      “Dude, I thought I was going to jail today. I didn’t bring any cash.”

      Mouse frowned, then released Wesley and stepped back.

      Wesley exhaled in relief, but winced as his back twinged in pain. When he looked up, Mouse was carrying his dented bike to the rear of the car.

      “Hey, what are you doing?”

      Mouse used a keyless remote to pop the trunk. “Making your life miserable.”

      Wesley could only stand and watch the man toss his bike into the cavernous trunk.

      “Next time you leave the house, sport, you’d better find somewhere to stash some cash—in your wallet or up your ass, I really don’t care. I’m gonna need a payment.”

      “Will I get my bike back?”

      “Don’t count on it.”

      Mouse slid into the car and slammed his door. Wesley jumped up on the curb to keep from being clipped by a mirror as the Town Car roared away. He swore through gritted teeth as the car disappeared—this day just kept getting better.

      He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and brought up his buddy Chance’s phone number. His hands were trembling badly and his skin felt itchy. Under the intense sun, he felt like an egg sizzling in a frying pan.

      Chance’s phone rang and rang, then rolled over to voice mail. Wesley cursed and disconnected the call. Chance not answering his cell phone meant one of two things—he was dick-deep in some big-butted girl, or he was dead. His guess was the former.

      Wesley set off walking unsteadily toward the Five Points MARTA station. He had enough money for train fare to get him to midtown. From there he’d have to walk the few blocks to Chance’s place. He wiped his sleeve across his clammy brow, then loosened the tie. His throat was parched and every step was an effort. The one thing that kept him going was the knowledge that a bag of sweet Oxy was waiting for him.

      He’d quit the stuff later, when his life calmed down.

      A honk sounded and he jumped back, afraid that Mouse had returned to run him over.

      A silver-colored dome-shaped car pulled up next to the curb. The passenger side window zoomed down and the driver leaned over to shout. “Wes? Hey, do you need a ride?”

      He squinted. “Meg?” Meg Vincent worked at the city computer department where he performed his community service.

      “Yeah, jump in.”

      The car behind her honked with impatience, spurring him forward. He opened the door and swung inside. The coed gave him a brief smile, then looked back to the road and stepped on the gas.

      “I thought that was you,” she said. “Your bony ass gave you away.”

      “Ha, ha,” he said, then pursed his mouth. She’d noticed his ass?

      “You weren’t at work this morning.”

      “That’s because I was here,” he said without explanation. “What about you? Do you live in this area?”

      “No, I live on campus. There’s a great health food store down the street, so I came over here for lunch. Where are you headed?”

      “Midtown. But if it’s out of the way—”

      “It isn’t.”

      Wesley glanced sideways at the girl who was probably his age—she was a freshman at Georgia Tech, the same as he would’ve been if he’d gone to college. She was whip-smart with a funky, independent style. Today she wore camouflage pants, a plain white T-shirt, and her dark blond hair was covered with a smiley-face bandana.

      “What kind of car is this?” he asked, glancing around at the interior.

      “It’s a Prius.”

      “Electric?”

      “That’s right.”

      It suited her, he decided. Meg’s father was a famous geneticist and apparently megawealthy, but she had a work study at the ASS office, and dressed like every other college kid who was scraping by. Plus she was living on campus in a dorm when she could easily afford her own condo in Buckhead.

      “Why aren’t you riding your bike?” she asked.

      “Flat tire,” he lied.

      “Aren’t you a little old to be riding a bike anyway?”

      “I used to have a motorcycle.”

      “Used to? Is that supposed to impress me?”

      He frowned. “No.”

      “So what happened to it?”

      “My driver’s license was suspended. I sold it.”

      “Oh, right,” she said drily. “I forget that you’re an ex-con.”

      “I’m on probation,” he said irritably. “Big difference.”

      “Uh-huh.” She glanced over at him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

      “Thanks a lot.”

      “Seriously, are you okay?”

      Meg had once accused him of being hooked on something, and he’d flatly denied it. “Just hot and tired.”

      She