Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(32)

“Where the hell are you going?” I chased after him. He moved fast, not stopping as I followed him outside. “Dad. What the fuck? We aren’t done talking.”

“Got nothing else to say right now, Dash. You wanted to talk. We talked. Now I need to go. Get some space.”

“What for?”

“What for?” He whirled on me, anger coloring his eyes. “A woman I knew for over forty years is dead. A woman I cared about. And she’s dead because of me. So is it too much to ask that you give me some fucking space and let me get my head wrapped around that?”

Fuck. I took a step away, holding up my hands. This wasn’t about Amina.

This was about Mom.

This was about her murder and the guilt Dad had been carrying for decades.

The love of his life was dead because of his choices. He’d cost Nick and me our mother. And now another woman was dead because no matter how normal his life was these days, Dad would always be a target.

“Someone wants you to spend the rest of your life rotting in a prison cell, Dad. I’m just trying to see that it doesn’t happen.”

“I get it.” He blew out a long breath. “Amina, she was . . . there’s history. I can’t think straight right now. Been trying to think it through for over a week. Before I can talk about it, I need to work it out in my head.”

“’Kay.” He might need time, but I was going to keep pushing hard to find out who’d really killed that woman. I wasn’t letting the cops steal my only living parent for a crime he hadn’t committed.

Dad walked to his bike, stopping three feet away to speak over his shoulder. “Stay clean on this, Kingston.”

My spine straightened. Dad hadn’t called me Kingston in years. It was like Mom rattling off our first, middle and last names when we were in trouble.

“I mean it,” he said. “Don’t do something stupid to land yourself in a cage too. Worst case, I spend the few years I have left wearing orange. I’d handle that a lot better if I knew you were free.”

I nodded.

“That’s what it was always about. Being free.” He walked over to his bike, touching the handlebars. Though the Tin Gypsies were no longer, he still had the old motto etched on the gas tank.

Live to Ride

Wander Free

Dad and Emmett’s father had started the Tin Gypsy club back in the eighties. They’d recruited some friends until it had grown and grown. In the beginning, it had been a bunch of young guys who’d wanted to ride bikes and say fuck you to any authority or convention. They wanted the chance to make some extra money for their families.

This was back when they restored bikes with scrap parts, the metal more like cheap tin than the steel machines we spent fortunes on now.

When Dad spoke of that time, it seemed simpler. It might have stayed that way if Mom hadn’t died.

Dad blinked a few times too fast and my heart twisted. Was he crying? I hadn’t seen Dad cry since Mom’s funeral. Even then, it hadn’t lasted for more than a few heartbreaking tears. He’d been too angry to cry. Too focused on vengeance to let his grief show for long.

Without another word, he swung his leg over the bike. He plucked his sunglasses from his hair, hiding any emotion, and raced out of the parking lot like his nickname was Dash, not mine.

I hung my head, rubbing the tension away from my neck.

“We all know who set up Draven.” Emmett’s voice behind me was low. I turned to find both him and Leo standing a few paces away.

“Yeah.” We all knew. “Dad’s got to be the one to make that call.”

“You could,” Leo argued.

“I could, but I’m not going to.” It was the reason I hadn’t made that call when Dad was in jail. “Dad approaches the Warriors. No one else.”

Emmett and Leo nodded without another word.

“Let’s get to work.”

Maybe another afternoon working on cars would help me figure out what the hell was happening. Because at the moment, I sure as fuck didn’t have a clue.





“So much for your truce.” Bryce spun away, marching out of the garage. “I knew this was a mistake.”

“Wait.” I chased, grabbing her elbow. “Just wait.”

“Why?” She yanked her arm free. “This is quid pro quo. I give you something. You give me something. If Draven isn’t here to tell me his side of the story, then me being here is pointless. I’m leav—”

“My dad did not kill Amina Daylee.”

She faced me again, planting her hands on her hips. “How do you—”

“I just know.” I locked my eyes on hers. “He didn’t kill her. But someone did and if you believe in truth and justice the way I suspect you do, you want to find the real killer.”

“The cops—”

“—have a man pegged dead to rights. They aren’t going to dig any deeper than the surface.”

She huffed. “How can I trust—”

“You can—”

“Stop interrupting me.”

I clamped my mouth shut.

Her face was red and her chest heaving. “How can I trust you?”

Trust? “You can’t.”

Bryce let out a dry laugh. “Then what are we doing?”