Page 71 of Isaac

"Smart," I admit, my response automatic but my mind racing. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place, another detail for the report I now dread giving Nicole.

At the same time, bags exchange hands. Bags filled with crisp and cold cash. Jeremy and Seven count the money fast. They’ve done this before. I can see that they have a system. The deal is sealed with a handshake and Toro’s happy maniacal laugh and we're back on the road to Nevada before the dust settles. The convoy is snaking its way through the desert labyrinth leading us home.

And then two hours into our drive, Jeremy says casually from behind the wheel, "Hey, Hawk. Phoenix is coming up. You wanna make a pit stop? See the fam?"

What the hell?

See the fam while we’re packed with this much bloody cash?

I shake my head, staring out at the darkness swallowing the highway. "Nah, let's just get back to Vegas."

"You sure?"

"I’m not close with my family," I scrape up a lie that would seem plausible. "Why do you think I left?" I look at his profile briefly, then turn back to the road stretching before us. "Why risk stopping anyway?"

"Uh-huh." Jeremy’s tone sharpens, cutting through the hum of the engine, as he hums something. All of a sudden, his breath is on my cheek. Quick and hot and filled with a deadly warning. He hisses out, "I saw you asking questions back on the rez. Mind your own business."

The sentence hangs between us. Before I can reply, he's already turned his focus back to the road, leaving the tension to simmer in the confined space of the truck.

Six more hours. I just need to make sure I don’t strangle him before we get to Vegas.

Purgatory lives up to its name tonight, a den of sinners celebrating their spoils. We are all downstairs and the club has closed down for the night. The entire place is ours again for a few hours.

Smoke curls through the main floor, the scent of weed mingling with the scene of sweat and cologne. Men laugh too loudly, their voices coated with bravado and booze, slinging phrases like "easy money" and "smooth sailing" as if they don't tempt fate with every breath.

Isaac stands amidst the chaos, doling out stacks of cash that fan out like tainted peacock feathers. He's a dark sun around which these planets orbit, pulled by gravity and greed alike.

"Look at you, Hawk!" Seven slurs, draping his heavy arm across my shoulders, almost toppling us both. "You're one of us now, brother!" He then tosses back another shot and laughs, clapping me on the chest.

His approval stings like a slap at first. It’s an affirmation from the damned. But his enthusiasm is infectious too and I want to drench myself into this debauchery and not think about the mission or the fact that I’m a fake.

When I turn to Isaac, our gazes collide, and something unspoken crackles in the air. It's there, in the flicker of his eyes, the invisible thread pulling taut. My mind flashes to the press of his lips, a memory that scorches even in the midst of this party.

I have to breathe through it, breathe through it like it’s a panic attack.

"Drink up!" Flynn yells, and glasses clink, shattering the moment like fragile ice.

When I glance back at where Isaac had been standing, all I catch is the ghost of his presence. He'd retreated into a corner, a shadow in the neon haze.

He never likes to be the center of attention. Something I respect about him. He’s not vain.

Marco steps in beside me and Seven, reaching out drunkenly for my face. "Looks like Hawk's officially flying with the Hellhounds." He squashes me with his massive hands, a whiff of tequila comes at me. The healing scar on my cheek aches from his grip. "Right, Hawk? Aren’t you glad to be with us now?"

The room vibrates with his laughter and twisted sense of camaraderie as he peers down at me, dark eyes swimming in liquor.

A chorus rises from the dimly-lit corners–an eerie imitation of wolves crying beneath an indigo sky. The sound sends hairs raising on my nape as I feel this acceptance within me. It’s like a tidal wave, rushing at me from each and every portion of this room we’re occupying.

Except for the fragment of space where Jeremy stands.

"Hawk?" he grinds out. "More like a damn pigeon. A rat with wings. Ain't no way he ain't a cop."

The room stills, eyes darting to me, then away—no one wants to catch this grenade. The heat is suddenly rising.

It’s now or never. I either solidify myself with these guys or become a target of everyone’s suspicions.

"Shut your trap, J," I spit back, stepping closer to him, feeling the weight of every eye in the club. "You're just salty 'cause I'm bringing more to the table than you've been probably all fucking year."

"Careful, buddy." He stubs his index finger into my chest, his words sloppy and slurred but laced with anger. "Don't wanna crash and burn on your first flight."

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