I pulled into the garage, engine growling beneath me, the scent of oil and steel thick in the air. Garry was hunched over an old Mustang, grease on his cheek, cigarette burning low between his lips.
He looked up as I kicked the stand down. "Smith's guy came by. Dropped off a package for you."
I raised a brow, stepping off the bike. "What kind of package?"
"Dunno. Wasn't labeled. Just said it's for you. Black case, zip-tied. Looks... official."
That didn't settle well in my gut. I followed his nod to the workbench—there it was, sitting like it belonged to someone with a government badge and a reason to keep their fingerprints off things.
"You open it?" I asked.
Garry scoffed. "Yeah, and have it blow my face off? No thanks. That's your problem."
I walked toward it, but before I could reach out, Garry leaned against the car and said, "Hey. Your bike got a quickshifter?"
I paused. "No. Why?"
He gestured with the butt of his cigarette. "You might want one. In this line of work, it's good to keep one hand free."
"For what?" I asked, though I already knew. Guns. Throwing things. Maybe hanging onto dear life.
"For not dying," he said with a crooked grin.
I grunted. "Let me guess. You just happen to know a guy?"
"Ben's on the lookout. If he finds a decent one, I'll rig it up. No charge."
"That generous, huh?"
"You're working with Smith now. That makes you bad news. And bad news keeps my shop busy."
I looked at the package again, still untouched. Whatever game I'd just signed up for—it was already moving.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—an unknown number. I glanced at Garry, who was wiping his hands on a rag like he didn't care but was definitely listening. I answered.
"Yeah?"
A familiar voice slid through the speaker, smooth and sharp. "Did you receive the package?"
Natasha.
I looked over at the black zip-tied case. "Yeah. Just now. What the hell is it?"
"A job," she said, like it was obvious. "Smith wanted to start you off easy. Rookie shit. So here it is—delivery duty."
I rolled my eyes, pacing a little. "What kind of delivery?"
"You're taking it to a house party. Name's Hannah Lynch. You know her?"
"No."
"She's an influencer," Natasha said, and I could hear the air quotes in her voice. "Makes thirst traps on Instagram. You'll figure it out. Look for the blonde in the tiny dress with the phone in her face."
I exhaled through my nose. "So, what am I delivering to this Hannah?"
A pause. "Don't open it. Don't ask. Just get it to her, make sure it lands in her hands, and don't fuck around. We clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good boy," she purred. Then the line went dead.
I slid the phone back into my pocket and looked at the case again. Rookie job, huh? Something told me nothing was that simple when Smith was involved.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, jaw tight.
Garry raised an eyebrow, still wiping grease from his fingers with that dirty shop rag. "So, what's in the case?"
"She didn't say," I muttered, nudging the package with the tip of my boot. "But come on—what else could it be?"
He gave a dry laugh. "Drugs. Always fuckin' drugs."
I looked at him. "You ever heard of Hannah Lynch?"
That got a whistle out of him. "Bitch's a bombshell. Blonde, fake tits, Instagram model, posts shit like she's allergic to clothes. Got half the neighborhood jerking it on a schedule. Why?"
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed again. Same number.
I picked up.
"Change of clothes won't kill you," Natasha's voice slid through, teasing like velvet over a razor. "You're delivering to Hannah's house, not her OnlyFans inbox. Don't embarrass me."
I smirked. "Where is it?"
"Coral Gables. Big white villa on Alhambra Circle. You'll see the Range Rovers and the lip fillers parked out front. Drop it in her hands. Not her assistant, not some thirsty friend. Her."
"Got it."
"Oh, and Lucien?" Her tone dipped, sharp now. "Smile pretty. She likes pretty."
The call ended again.
I glanced at Garry, who was still watching me.
"Coral Gables," I said. "Looks like I'm going to a party."
ChatGPT said:
I swung a leg over the bike, the seat still warm from the sun. Garry shoved the backpack against my chest.
"Don't drop it, don't open it, don't die," he muttered, cinching the strap. "Basic rules of courier life."
I nodded and slipped it over my shoulders. The weight wasn't much, but it may as well have been ticking.
The engine came to life with a snarl. I revved once, glanced at Garry, then peeled off down the road, tires spitting dust from the garage floor.
Miami flashed by in fragments—palm trees bending under the wind, neon signs bleeding daylight, Spanish voices spilling from corner stores. But I didn't hear any of it. My eyes were glued to every rearview mirror and side alley.
Every Dodge Charger I passed made my fingers twitch on the clutch. Every blacked-out SUV had my heart beating harder than it should. I could still feel the phantom crunch of that bumper against mine, the glint of the gun at my window. Two guys. One heavy, one twitchy. Faces I wouldn't forget even if I wanted to.
The ride to Coral Gables wasn't long, but it felt like a slow crawl through a war zone. I stuck to the middle lane, watched every mirror like it owed me answers. One wrong turn and I wasn't delivering drugs to a party—I was getting dragged into the back of another van.
Eventually, the streets turned cleaner, quieter. The chaos gave way to white fences and manicured lawns. Alhambra Circle wrapped around like a smug little loop of wealth and Botox.
And there it was. A house too modern to be old money, too tasteful to be new. Parked out front—white Range Rover, matte black Mercedes, and a pink Jeep with "Barbie" stitched on the headrests.
I killed the engine. Sat for a moment. The sun was setting, painting the sky with just enough blood-orange to make a man nervous.
Then I unzipped the backpack just enough to check the contents—not the drugs, not really. Just the shape. Just the weight. A box. Black. Sealed tight. No label. Of course.
I zipped it back, took a breath, and headed toward the door.
I froze mid-step, one boot on the pavement, the other suspended in air like I'd stepped into a bear trap. The door was wide open, sure—but I hadn't expected to see a guy in nothing but swimming shorts being led out in cuffs by a cop with mirrored sunglasses and a bored expression.
Then the world snapped into high alert. My eyes flicked to the yard, the rooftop, the side gate. Cops. Not just one or two—they were scattered like chess pieces halfway through a checkmate. A plainclothes officer leaned casually against a palm tree, another stood on the balcony with a notepad, and at least two more were milling in the shadows near the pool, radios clipped, guns holstered, expressions blank.
But where the hell were the cruisers? No sirens. No flashing lights. It was like they'd spawned there—clean, quiet, and surgical.
My fingers twitched around the strap of the backpack, the one filled with whatever Smith had decided to "start me off easy" with. I didn't need to look inside anymore. I'd bet my left nut there was enough coke in there to turn me into a career criminal in thirty seconds flat.
This was a drug bust.
And I'd walked straight into the lion's den wearing steak cologne.
I barely shifted my weight, just enough to ghost a step back, but the bastard saw me. One of the plainclothes—tan slacks, buzz cut, cop face—peeled off from the others and walked straight toward me.
"Morning," he said, all business. "What are you doing around here?"
My heartbeat nudged up, but I didn't let it show. Kept my stance easy. Gave him the kind of shrug that says I hate being dragged out of bed for this shit, officer.
"I got a call. Said someone at this address needed a car looked at."
He squinted at me, probably sizing up whether I looked more mechanic or mule. "And who exactly hired you?"
I gave him a look like that was above my pay grade. "No clue. My boss just said get down here, something about them having the tools but needing someone who knows what the hell they're doing. So, I brought mine. Habit."
His eyes stayed on mine for a beat longer than comfortable. I didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just let the Miami sun bounce off my sunglasses while I stood there holding a backpack that was, in all likelihood, filled with enough contraband to put me in a cell next to the guy in swim trunks getting dragged out in cuffs.
He finally nodded once. "Wait here."
"Sure thing," I said, all calm and compliant.
He turned his back. I didn't move. Couldn't. The house was crawling with uniforms now—ones I definitely hadn't seen when I pulled up. Like they'd been poured out of the damn drywall. No sirens. No flashing lights. Just a quiet, clean takedown.
And I was standing in the middle of it, holding Smith's little care package like an idiot.
I didn't know who Hannah Lynch pissed off, but this wasn't your usual scare-the-influencer raid. This was surgical.
Which meant I was officially fucked.
I figured if I just stood there looking suspicious, I'd start being suspicious. So I cleared my throat and tried to break the ice.
"So uh… what happened here?" I asked, tilting my head toward the mansion like I hadn't just watched three people get cuffed and carted out of it.
The officer gave me a side glance. "Tip-off. Said there'd be coke at this party. Lot of it."
I let my brows rise, gave a soft whistle, just enough to sell the part. "No shit. That serious, huh?"
"Apparently." He didn't say more.
I hesitated for half a beat, then went for it. "So, did you guys find anything?" I knew they didn't… because I had that.
That got me a quick look. His eyes narrowed just a hair, like he was scanning my tone for guilt, fear, too much curiosity. I kept my face straight. Innocently invested. Guy-who-fixes-engines energy.
"Nah," he said eventually, exhaling through his nose. "Nothing so far. Just party trash, empty booze bottles, couple of dumbasses in the pool who couldn't find their pants."
I nodded slowly, then leaned in just a touch. "So… who lives here?"
The question must've helped. Maybe it made me look out of the loop, too distant to be the dealer they were sniffing for. Because his posture relaxed—barely, but enough.
"Ms. Hannah Lynch," he said. "Influencer. Social media type. You know the kind."
I made a face like maybe I did, but not really. Then let out a quiet laugh. "Never thought I'd be fixing cars for people who have a million followers for posting bikini pics."
He didn't laugh back. Figures. Still, the tension eased just a fraction, and I felt the rope around my neck loosen—barely. Enough to breathe. But not enough to move. Not yet.
ChatGPT said:
I decided to roll the dice.
If this was a setup—and I had a damn good feeling it was—Wesley's greasy fingerprints were all over it. And if I could steer the heat in his direction, maybe I'd get out of here with both the package and my record intact.
So I looked at the officer and said, real casual, "Actually… I saw something weird on the way here. Not sure if it means anything, but figured I should mention it."
He glanced at me. "Go on."
"Couple miles back, at a gas station off Coral Ridge. Saw this matte grey Dodge Durango—one of those newer models, black rims, real inconspicuous if you're not paying attention."
The officer's face stayed neutral, but his body shifted just slightly toward me. He was listening.
"There were two guys in it. One skinny, real twitchy. Other was a big fucker, built like a freezer. Looked like they were arguing about something."
I scratched my jaw for effect. "They kept saying the name 'Hannah Lynch.' Heard it at least twice. Then something about 'snow.' Just the word. 'She better have the snow' or something like that."
The officer frowned. "You sure?"
"Sure I heard it? Yeah. What it means? I don't know. Could be nothing. Just… struck me as weird. Especially 'cause they tailed me for a while. Thought they were following me here, but they took a U-turn about half a mile before the place."
I kept my tone light, like a guy just trying to help. Like I hadn't just handed him a tailor-made distraction wrapped in bullshit and tied with paranoia.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then finally muttered, "Huh," under his breath and turned his gaze toward the street.
I didn't exhale, not yet. But I could feel the leash slipping. Maybe, just maybe, I'd bought myself some room to move. Or at least time. Which, right now, felt like the currency of the gods.
The officer raised his radio to his mouth, thumb pressing the side button with a faint click.
"Leah, you copy?"
A crackle, then a woman's voice came through—cool, clipped, no-nonsense. "Go ahead."
"I've got a guy here, says he saw a matte grey Dodge Durango near Coral Ridge. Two suspects inside, one skinny, one heavyset. Claims they were talking about 'Hannah Lynch' and… quote, 'snow.' Might be connected."
Silence for a beat. Then her voice came back, sharp now. "When?"
"Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago. He said they tailed him for a bit, then turned around just short of the residence."
More static. Then: "Description matches nothing from inside. If that's legit, we've still got heat circling. Get a plate if he remembers."
The officer turned to me. "Did you catch a plate?"
I shook my head slowly. "Nah, sorry. Was too busy filling gas and minding my own business. I only noticed them because they kept staring at me."
He nodded and spoke back into the radio. "No plate. Copy that."
Leah's voice lowered a register. "Alright. Keep him close. If anything shifts, I want him right there."
He clipped the radio back on and looked at me.
"You're staying put for now."
I gave him the most innocent, helpful look I could muster. "No problem, officer. I'm just the mechanic, remember?"
He didn't smile. But he didn't cuff me either.
Progress.
I narrowed my eyes, dragging the memory back like a scratched vinyl record. The moment they'd slammed into me. The glint of the plate as they cut in.
Z84… 6HU. Yeah. That was it.
"Wait," I said, snapping my fingers. "Z84 6HU. That's the plate on the Durango."
The officer's eyes sharpened. He raised the radio again.
"Leah, we've got a plate—Zebra Eight Four, Six Hotel Uniform."
A brief pause.
Then Leah's voice crackled back in, clipped and intense: "Run it. Now."
The cop gave me a long look—less suspicion, more calculation now. Like I'd just moved from liability to possible asset.
"You're sure?" he asked.
I nodded. "Burned into my skull. Hard to forget the number of the fuckers who jumped me."
He muttered something under his breath and turned slightly away to give dispatch the plate.
Me? I stayed exactly where I was. Calm, cooperative.
Just a helpful mechanic with a great memory… and a backpack full of cocaine.
The radio crackled again, and I could hear Leah's voice, flatter this time. "Pull out. House is clean. Lawyer's on site. We're done."
The officer clicked his tongue, clearly not thrilled, but orders were orders.
He turned back to me, posture loosening as the tension drained from the scene. "Alright," he said, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. "What's your name?"
"Lucien."
He raised an eyebrow. "Last name?"
"Do you need that?"
He didn't push, just muttered and scribbled something down. "Phone number?"
I gave him the burner. The one I never used unless someone shady was on the other end.
He tore the page out, handed it to another officer without a word, then looked me over like he was trying to memorize me. "You show up when you're called, yeah?"
I gave him a nod. "I'm not hard to find."
"Mm." He turned, started walking. "Let's go," he called out to the rest of his crew.
One by one, the uniforms filed out—silent, unreadable, ghosts in blue.
I walked back into the house like I hadn't just dodged a felony charge by a hair. The crowd had thinned, but the leftovers were still scattered—half-naked, tan-lined, and drunk enough not to care that the cops had just raided their poolside debauchery. Bikini straps, glitter, beer pong, and a faint scent of chlorine and vape. A few of them looked at me. Curious eyes. No one asked questions. Good.
I kept walking, the backpack still slung over one shoulder, my shirt clinging to me in places I didn't appreciate. The kitchen was cleaner than I expected, given the chaos, but all I could see was her.
Hannah Lynch.
She stood in front of the marble island, one hand wrapped around a cosmopolitan, the other jabbing a finger into her phone screen like it owed her money. Her bikini was pink and criminally tight—straining across a rack that looked both natural and expensive. Her hips flared perfectly, the bottoms cutting high on the thigh, showing off that Instagram-certified waist-to-ass ratio. She had one of those faces that looked designed—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and a tan that probably cost more than my motorcycle.
"I don't give a shit who he is," she barked into the phone. "He makes a blunder and expects me to clean up his mess? No. Tell Smith if he wants it delivered, he better send someone with at least two brain cells and a working dick."
Her voice could cut glass. Her tone said queen bitch, but the panic under it? That was real.
She hadn't seen me yet. That was about to change.