“Somebody’s grouchy today. Need a Band-Aid? Or do you want me to kiss it—”

“Enough, girl. Let’s get this over with.” We stepped out of the church to stare up at the full moon through a haze of light rain misting down on us. We were already soaked, so I didn’t really care at this point. “You’re driving this time. I’ll have one of the sisters clean my vehicle.” Because he had bled all over it, and now he wanted to bleed all over mine. But I very wisely didn’t say that part. Still, I did let my mouth run a little. I had a little more leeway than others when it came to speaking my mind to Roland. And I wanted to avenge his unfair treatment of Father David. And because it was fun pestering the old hawk.

“Of course,” I said. His steely gaze locked onto mine, and I put on my best mask of innocence and obedience, something all daughters learn from manipulating their fathers. “It’s just that old men can’t see well at night. You said you wanted to get there quickly, and you don’t have your glasses with you,” I added in a syrupy tone, patting him on the shoulder before I quickly slipped away, sure to stay on his bad side so he couldn’t pummel me with a Bible or something.

“One of these days, girl…” he muttered, but he was smiling to himself, shaking his head. He couldn’t argue with me, because I had slipped in a little rationality. Arguing that would only make him look ignorant. He knew my moves, though. I would pay for it later. But that was our relationship.

I winked at him, climbing into my Chevy S10 pickup truck.

He collapsed into the passenger side, much less gracefully than usual, and I saw that his bandage featured a large crimson stain. “We should probably get you checked out before—”

“Drive, girl.” Before I could ask, he spouted off the address — which was in a questionable section of town — and then stared out the window with a stubborn grimace on his face. Likely of pain. Rather than argue, I drove. Because the faster we got this over with, the faster we got him taken care of. And I was still shaken up about the night. The fighting. The death. The fear. They were coming back to me now that we were heading back out into danger.

I turned up the music, dipping my head to the bass as we drove. I could listen to anything with a good beat. Except Country music. For whatever reason, it made my skin crawl. I could acknowledge the skill of the singer, but would still forever hate the music itself. Even though I lived in Missouri, where everyone seemed to love it, I couldn’t stand it. At all.

Roland slammed a hand down on the volume knob, shutting it off as he shot an incredulous stare at me. I frowned, but turned my attention back to the road. “What?”

“Do you even listen to the words?” he managed, grinding his teeth.

I frowned, replaying the song in my head. A slow smile crept onto my face. “It’s called rap, Roland. It’s not 1940 anymore. Rittz is one of my favorites. I like the beat. Keeps me focused.”

“Not when I’m in the vehicle. We’ll listen to good, wholesome, quality music.” He began fiddling with the dial. I rolled my eyes as I navigated a left turn, mentally tracing the address in my head. I was pretty good with driving in the city. Only rarely did I need to use my phone or GPS. Because I had been Roland’s driver for quite some time, now. And sometimes that entailed fast escapes from surviving monsters.

Everything was going well until he stopped fidgeting with the radio, and leaned back with a contented sigh. I jerked the wheel to the right, carelessly bumping up over the curb on the side of the street as I shoved the truck into park. I ignored his gasp of pain. “No,” I said flatly.

His gaze darted around the truck, searching for threats. Seeing none, he turned back to me. I met his eyes and slowly reached down to the volume knob. I pressed it all the way in, shutting down the stereo like he had. I let out a slow sigh, overly dramatic, and then turned back to him. “That will never happen again,” I whispered.

“Country music?” he asked, voice incredulous.

“Never again, Roland. Or I’ll buy you a walker right now. With tennis balls on the legs for safety. And you can shuffle your handicapped ass down to the storage units by yourself.”

“Language…” he warned.

I pressed the unlock button on the doors, folding my arms over my breasts. He shook his head at me in disbelief for a few seconds, and then began to bark out a deep laugh. He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. But no gangster music either. We’re not drug-dealing hoodlums.”

“And we aren’t inbred, drunk rednecks.”

“Just because someone listens to Country music does not make them inbred, drunk, or a redneck,” he shook his head, eyes full of judgment.

I smiled at him, batting my eyelashes as I flashed my teeth victoriously. “By that logic, listening to Rap does not suddenly make one become a drug-dealing hoodlum…”

His scowl hardened, seeing his argument turned back on him. He grunted, neither in agreement nor disagreement. “Fine. No music.”

“Damn right,” I said, pulling the truck back out into the street.

“Language,” he repeated, “and I’m telling your father about this. Terry will not be pleased to hear his daughter is a drug-dealing hoodlum.” He was smiling.

“The Vatican wouldn’t like to hear that you’re a drunk, inbred redneck, either.” His light laughter changed to a hiss as the truck bounced off the curb, pressing his injured leg into the door. “Sorry,” I murmured, actually feeling guilty as I glanced down at the growing crimson stain. It was my fault he had been injured in the first place, and my fault I hurt him further with my careless driving. The familiar teasing was helping me avoid my own fears. And other worries bothered me as well.

Why had he made his threat to Father David sound like the injury was only the fault of the church? Sure, their information had been faulty, but he had been hurt because of my distractions, yet he hadn’t said a word about that. Was that because he was protecting me from them for some reason? But then he had told Father David that I worked for him, in a way. Which was contradictory if he was trying to keep me away from them.

Or did he genuinely believe that the entire blame lay on the church for handing him incorrect information? I wasn’t even sure what the hell was so important about this key, but I had long ago learned that the only way to get all the information was to tell him I wanted to fully join his cause, which I didn’t. So, I sat in silence, thinking, analyzing as I drove.

Ten minutes later, we pulled up to a pair of worn-down storage unit buildings. One of those that didn’t even have a fence around the property, despite sitting dead center in the middle of a shady warren of crime-infested streets.

Which meant one of three things: no one used these buildings for anything important, the important units were marked — tagged with spray-paint — to let any would-be thieves know which ones were owned by which gangs, or this sorry collection of buildings had one hell of a security system.

My eyes tracked to several lampposts overlooking the buildings, only to find broken messes of wires and plastic where the once-functional security cameras had stood. Well, option three was out.

“At least no one will see we were here,” I said.

Roland wasn’t listening to me, instead, scanning the streets, the dark shadows, and the area behind us — as if we had just landed in the middle of a war zone, or as if we had been walking through the woods when suddenly every single biological creature went dead silent after a veritable symphony of sound.

What had he not told me?