“Tyler! Zeke! You’re late! Where the hell is the other one?”

“Colorado Springs. Again,” Zeke said. He pulled two cigarettes from his pack and handed one to Tyler. I recoiled. Menthols were disgusting. That must have been Zeke’s preference. Tyler smoked from a black pack.

“Hi, Ellie,” Zeke said.

“You know her?” Wick said, pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah,” Zeke said with a smirk. “We met at a party.”

“She’s my new assistant,” Wick said.

“Assistant?” Tyler asked. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “We’ll figure it out as we go, I guess.”

Wick nodded, seeming proud, and then a deep line formed between his brows. “Make sure you don’t get her into any trouble, Maddox.”

Tyler spoke with his cigarette between his lips, squinting his eyes from the smoke. “You’ve got it backward, Wick.”

Wick pointed at him. “If you get kicked out of my bar again, I’m not letting you back in this time. I mean it.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m not going to let you be friends with my new assistant, either,” Wick said.

Tyler frowned. “Now you’re fighting dirty.”

“I’m right here,” I said. “And I can hang out with whoever the hell I want.” I stabbed my cigarette in the sand of the butt canister and patted Wick on the shoulder. “Thanks for the job. I’ll see you in the morning. Nine?” I asked, hopeful.

“Sure. Don’t be late. I’m a fucking bastard in the morning.”

“He is,” Zeke said with a single wave goodbye.

I walked around the smaller building to the front, relieved to see that José was early. I slid into the back and let my head fall back against the cushion.

“Did you get the job, Miss Ellison?”

“I got the job.”

“Congratulations,” José said, smiling at me from the rearview mirror.

“Don’t congratulate me yet.”

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

“This,” Jojo said, placing her hand on top of a five-foot-tall metal cabinet, “is our backup database. The hard copies—when we have them—go here. On the back desk by the wall is the scanner and printer—I’ll show you how to work those later—and in the corner is the most important part of your job … the Keurig.”

Littered with torn and empty sweetener packages and used coffee pods, the table was water-stained and wobbly when touched. The trashcan beside it, however, was empty. I shook my head.

“No,” Jojo said. “He doesn’t know how to throw anything away. Dawn cleans in the evenings, but Dad drinks about six cups a day, so try to make her job easier. She’s good, but she’s not a magician. And, since this is the first room anyone coming to see Wick will walk through, it would be a nice change for it not to look like a landfill.”