“I do that when I’m nervous.” Shakily, Tane climbs off the bike, stumbling a bit. “This doesn’t look like a hamburger place.”

“Shut up about food. I need to make this stop first.” I pull the motorcycle cover out of the bike’s storage compartment. “Help me with this. Then we’ll go inside and I’ll call a cab so we can go where we’re going, and then I’ll buy you a hamburger.”

“I can buy my own hamburger,” Tane says sullenly, but he grabs one end of the bike cover and helps me put it over the Thruxton. Then he follows me to the back entrance to the Store-N-Go, and I punch in the code and open the door, gesturing for him to enter first.

Again, the corridors inside are empty. Motorcycle helmet under one arm, I usher Tane to my storage locker. I put the helmet on the floor, open the combination lock, and pull up the door with a ratcheting crash. “Step inside my parlor,” I say. Tane says nothing but slouches into the locker. I pick up my helmet and step in after him. It’s cramped inside with both of us and the storage bins, but it’ll have to do.

“Turn around and face the wall,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because I need to—”

Tane spins to face me and holds his hand out, pointing something at my face. “Don’t move!” he shouts. “Or I’ll spray you with it, I swear to God.”

I stare at him. The sonofabitch has my pepper spray in his hand.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I say.

“Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your back.”

“I’m not getting on my knees.”

“Do it. No, actually, keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Which is it, Tane? Hands behind my back or where you can see them?”

“Where—where I can see them.” His eyes are wide and he’s sweating, but he holds the pepper spray steady enough. “Do it.”

“You’re pointing it the wrong way, dumbass.”

When Tane glances at the canister in his hand, I swing the motorcycle helmet I’m still holding so it cracks across his arm. The canister flies out of his hand and bounces off the locker wall. Tane cries out in pain but tries to kick me. I sidestep the kick, drop my helmet, and grab his arm, pinning it behind his back. He yelps and stands on his tiptoes. I kick his feet out from under him and send him to the floor, landing on top of him so all the air whooshes out of his lungs.

“You asshole,” I hiss in his ear. I’m furious that he stole my pepper spray off my belt—he must have done it when we were getting off the bike. Maybe earlier. “What did you do that for?”