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Jake Carrington sat with his wrists cuffed to a cold metal ring bolted into the steel table. His arms were sore, but he didn’t flinch. He just stared down at the scratched surface of the table, focusing on a deep gouge shaped like a lightning bolt near the edge. It reminded him of something from a comic book. Something fictional. Something safe. The police station was quiet except for the occasional distant voice or a muffled ring from a desk phone outside the interrogation room. The walls were dull beige, and the air held that sterile, chemical scent that clung to his nostrils. The overhead light flickered every few seconds, buzzing faintly like an insect trapped in glass. He was seventeen. Seventeen and sitting in a California police station like a damn criminal. His copper toned skin was flecked with dried seawater. His hoodie; once white, now smeared with sand and sweat clung to his back like regret. He could still taste the ocean on his lips, still feel the burn in his lungs from when the canoe flipped and he plunged into the Pacific. His hazel-brown eyes, usually full of curiosity, were now dulled by exhaustion and disbelief. “Jake Carrington,” came a voice. He didn’t look up. The door closed with a heavy click behind the figure who entered. A woman’s voice, steady and calm, spoke again. “I’m Detective Marisol Salgado. Homicide and Major Crimes. You're not being charged yet. But you’re going to have to talk to me.” Jake blinked slowly. His jaw tensed. He still didn’t raise his eyes. Salgado took a seat across from him. Mid-forties, Latina, dark hair pulled back in a tight braid, face unreadable except for the faint crinkle at the edge of her eyes that said she’d seen enough in her life to spot a lie before it was spoken. “You know,” she said, folding her hands on the table, “when I saw you running on the beach tonight, soaking wet and clutching a satchel full of marked bills, I thought: this one looks like he should be in a classroom, not in custody.” Jake’s lips twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. “You’ve been in California what two weeks?” she continued. “Your uncle says you just got here from Michigan. That right?” Jake’s fingers clenched, chains rattling. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Feels like a lifetime.” Salgado raised a brow. “You want to tell me what happened in that lifetime?” Jake finally looked up. His eyes weren’t just tired they were haunted. Not the kind of fear that came from getting caught, but the kind that came from realizing how far you'd fallen without noticing. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Took a breath. Two weeks ago, he was in Port Huron, watching his mother throw a glass at the wall because his father forgot his birthday again. Two weeks ago, he was boarding a plane, excited to taste freedom, warmth, the dream of California. And now he was here. Drenched. Cuffed. Alone. “You ever wish you could rewind?” he asked, more to himself than to her. Salgado didn’t answer right away. Just gave him a look curious, but cautious. “Start at the beginning, Jake,” she said. “Don’t make me guess.” He leaned back in the chair, letting the cold metal bite into his skin, letting the moment hang. Jake Carrington thought back to when the sand was warm beneath his feet, when Daisy had smiled and called him different from the rest. Back before Isiah handed him the gun. Back before everything broke. “All right,” Jake whispered, eyes falling shut for a moment. “It started the day I landed. Uncle Bernie picked me up from LAX in a black Escalade. Had the Lakers logo stitched into the headrests.” Salgado clicked her pen. “Good,” she said. “Let’s go back there.” And so, he did. Two Weeks Earlier The Escalade rolled up to the gated community like it belonged there. Jake leaned his head against the window, taking in rows of cream-colored houses with high fences and immaculate lawns. Every driveway had a different luxury car; Tesla’s, Porsches, a Bentley like a parked spaceship. Back home, people chained their bikes to railings. Here, even the mailboxes gleamed. “This it?” Jake asked, his voice half impressed, half suspicious. Uncle Bernie grinned as he punched in the gate code. “Welcome to Mission Ridge. Your cousins are gonna freak when they see you.” The gate slid open like it was unveiling a secret. Jake’s stomach tightened. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or anticipation. Probably both. The Tennison house stood at the end of the cul-de-sac; a modern two story with dark oak paneling, a basketball hoop above the garage, and palm trees flanking the entrance like soldiers. Jake stepped out into the California heat, instantly struck by how different it felt: dry, radiant, endless. He could hear someone’s music thumping from a backyard down the street, all rhythm and bass. The front door burst open. “Jake!” Elena Tennison came bouncing down the front steps barefoot, in jean shorts and a white crop top that read Golden State of Mind. Her braids swung over her shoulder as she launched into a hug. “You’re taller than me now? That’s illegal.” Jake chuckled as she squeezed him. She smelled like vanilla and sunscreen. “I was taller than you at twelve,” he said. “Whatever.” She pulled back and looked him over. “Michigan must be growing ‘em in fertilizer.” Then came Lance, swaggering out with a basketball under one arm and a wide, easy grin. “Damn,” he said, dapping Jake up. “Look at you, J. Last time I saw you, you were wearing Power Ranger pajamas.” Jake smirked. “I still got ‘em.” “You’re gonna fit right in,” Lance said, tossing the ball from hand to hand. He was eighteen, with sharp cheekbones, a high fade, and enough confidence for three people. His gold chain glinted in the sun. “Party tomorrow night. You down?” Jake shrugged. “Guess I am now.” Uncle Bernie leaned against the Escalade; arms crossed. “House rules are simple: no cops, no fire, and no surprises I’ll hear about on the news.” Lance grinned. “Define cops.” Bernard sighed and clapped Jake on the back. “You survive these two for the summer, and you’ll be invincible.” The house was spacious five bedrooms, open layout, every surface polished to a magazine sheen. Jake’s room had a balcony that overlooked the backyard pool. He stood out there that first evening, watching the orange pink sky bleed into dusk. Kids rode skateboards down the street, laughing. Someone grilled burgers two doors over. A sprinkler kicked on in a front yard and hissed like a snake. He breathed in deep. No yelling. No slammed doors. Just air and light. He almost didn’t know what to do with it. That night, Jake lay on the guest bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above him. His phone buzzed. A text from Lance: Yo canoe races and bonfire tomorrow at the beach. it’s tradition. u comin? Jake: Bet. One Week Later The beach looked like it had been carved out of a dream. Ocean waves rolled in smooth, curling against the sand like they were exhaling. People were everywhere tossing frisbees, blasting music, half-dancing under string lights strung between surfboards stuck upright in the sand. At the far edge, someone was roasting marshmallows over a bonfire while another group dragged canoes toward the water’s edge. Jake walked alongside Lance and Elena, his hands in the pockets of his black swim shorts. He wore a faded Detroit Lions tank top, one of the few things from home he’d brought. The California sunset lit the world in gold, turning Elena’s braids to fire and Lance’s chain to starlight. “Elena, you’re racing with Mel and Jasmine,” Lance said, scanning the crowd. “I’m teaming up with Isiah and...yo! There’s your crew, Jake.” Jake turned. That’s when he saw her. Daisy stood a few yards away, laughing with two friends near a cooler. She wore high-waisted denim shorts and a pale-yellow top tied in a knot at her waist. Her long, jet-black hair fell down her back in soft waves, and when she turned toward him, the light caught her face just right; almond eyes, smooth skin, lips curled in a half-smirk like she already knew something you didn’t. “Who’s the new guy?” she asked Elena, already watching Jake. “This is my cousin,” Elena said with a sly smile. “Straight outta Michigan. Jake Carrington.” Jake tried to play it cool, nodding once. “Hey.” Daisy tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You ever been in a canoe, Michigan?” “Not sober,” Jake replied, deadpan. She barked a laugh. “Okay, funny. You’re with me. We’ll see if you can paddle.” “Wait, we’re racing?” Jake asked. The canoe rocked as Jake stepped in behind Daisy, trying not to tip it. The water was warm, the air humming with the last heat of the day. All around them, other canoes were launching out, laughter and trash talk echoing across the beach. “Lean forward, rookie,” Daisy said, already digging her paddle into the water. Jake followed her lead. “So, this is what y’all do for fun? Ocean races and bonfires?” “Beats cornfields and potholes, doesn’t it?” They laughed, paddling in rhythm. Jake could feel the muscles in his shoulders working, the canoe slicing through the water like a blade. Other teams were falling behind. He and Daisy were neck and neck with another group Lance and a tall boy with tattoos down both arms. “Isiah!” Daisy yelled across the water. “Don’t let me beat you again. Your ego’s already underwater!” Isiah flipped her off without turning around. “You cheat like a politician!” Jake arched a brow. “That Isiah?” “Yep,” Daisy said. “Local legend. Local trouble. Depends who’s telling the story.” Jake filed the name away. They reached the buoy and looped around. The sun was dipping lower, painting the sky in orange and purple. Their canoe rocked slightly as the tide pulled back, and for a moment, there was nothing but water, wind, and the sound of their breath. “You’re better than I expected,” Daisy said, not looking back. Jake dipped his paddle, letting it trail for a moment. “You mean at canoeing?” She turned. “I mean at not being a weirdo. Your cousin said you were quiet.” “I am,” he said. “Just… trying to figure this place out.” Daisy nodded slowly. “That’s fair. California’s a vibe.” They paddled back in silence, comfortable now. By the time they pulled the canoe onto shore, the bonfire had grown big and wild, sending sparks into the sky. Music pounded from someone’s portable speaker; hip-hop, loud and rich, a beat that felt like it could carry you all night. Jake sat down in the sand near the fire. Daisy beside him. Lance tossed him a Coke, and someone passed around bags of chips and candy. Later, as the moon rose over the beach and the fire crackled behind him, Jake realized something: this was the first time in a long time he felt okay. More than okay. ~ ~ ~ ~ That night, back at the house, Jake stared at his phone. No texts from Daisy, but that made sense. She wasn’t clingy. She was the sun; bright and distant unless you were in the right orbit. Instead, a message from Isiah blinked on the screen. Isiah: Got something for you. Come by Lenny’s Garage tomorrow. Ask for me. No pressure. Just money. Jake stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen. No pressure. Just money. He thought of Daisy. Her voice. Her laugh. Her scars she didn’t show until you leaned in close. He thought of how easy it was to fall into something before you realized how deep the hole was. And then he set the phone down, heart pounding, already knowing he’d go. ~ ~ ~ ~ Lenny’s Garage wasn’t much of a garage. It sat just off a forgotten industrial stretch between an abandoned drive-in theater and a taco truck that hadn’t moved in weeks. The building was faded yellow stucco with cracked glass windows and a dented metal sign that read LENNY’S – Oil, Tires, Body Work. The “N” flickered with dying neon at night. During the day, it buzzed like a gnat. Jake showed up just after noon, wearing a gray hoodie and black jeans. His heartbeat was louder than the distant traffic. The sun was hot, but something about this part of town felt colder. He walked past two stripped cars toward the garage bay, where Isiah was leaning against a Mustang, shirtless, sweat gleaming across his tattooed shoulders. He was laughing with two other guys Jake didn’t recognize one tall and skinny with track marks on his arms, the other built like a wrestler with sunglasses that covered half his face. “There he is,” Isiah said, grinning. “Michigan, you made it.” Jake offered a small nod. “Wasn’t sure I had the right place.” “Oh, this is the right place,” said the skinny guy. “You new, blood?” Isiah waved him off. “Ease up, Brent. Jake’s cool.” Jake stood a little straighter. “What is this?” Isiah gestured toward the back room. “Let’s talk.” Inside, the garage reeked of oil and old coffee. Tools lined the walls like weapons. A dusty air conditioner rattled overhead. Isiah handed Jake a water bottle and sat on a cracked vinyl stool. “This ain't some stupid crew hazing,” he said. “This is real. You said you wanted space from back home? Want to start clean? I can help.” Jake narrowed his eyes. “Doing what?” “Simple job,” Isiah said. “We hit this bank, just outside the city. Small place. Soft. I know the guard’s schedule, security cams, all of it. In and out in five minutes.” Jake’s stomach turned. “Wait...you’re talking robbery?” Jake hesitated. “Why me?” “Because you’re fast. Smart. Nobody knows you here. You got no record. You’re perfect.” Jake looked away. Through a crack in the garage door, he saw the sky above the taco truck. The clouds were stacking gray, low, and heavy. “I thought you said this was about money,” Jake muttered. “It is,” Isiah said. “And survival.” The Day of the Robbery The bank looked like any other in San Bernardino two floors, polished windows, security guards with bored expressions. To Jake, it looked like a coffin. He sat across the street in Isiah’s dented black Honda Civic, hoodie drawn up, the weight of the plan crushing his chest. “We go in smooth,” Isiah muttered, tightening his gloves. “Ten minutes, tops. No crazy hero moves, no improvising. Grab the safe deposit boxes, avoid the vault. That’s Marconi’s order.” Jake nodded slowly, eyes scanning the sidewalk. A mother wheeled a stroller by. A man in a suit laughed into his Bluetooth. Nobody knew what was about to go down. Nobody except Jake. Twenty four hours earlier Jake walked into the police station with the daisy she’d given him still pressed in his notebook. Not to confess. Not yet. But to deal. Detective Rojas met him in a back room, leaning against the table, arms folded. “You’ve got one chance, Carrington,” she said. “One. You hold out, and the next time we meet, you’ll be in cuffs.” Jake swallowed. “I want immunity,” he said. “For me and Daisy. I give you Marconi and the others—you let us walk.” Rojas raised an eyebrow. “You really think you can give us Marconi?” Jake leaned in. “He’s planning one last job. I’m supposed to be on the crew. I’ll wear a wire.” Rojas studied him for a long moment. Then nodded. “Deal.” ~ ~ ~ ~ Now, seated in the Civic, the wire taped under his shirt itched like guilt. He glanced at Isiah. “Why are you still doing this, man? After everything.” Isiah smirked. “Because once you take money from the devil, he owns your name.” He handed Jake a pistol heavy, cold. “Don’t be stupid with it.” Jake stared at the weapon. He wasn’t even sure the safety was on. Inside the bank, time fractured. Mondo kept watch by the entrance, eyes flicking across the lobby like a hawk on Red Bull. Isiah led Jake toward the back, past tellers frozen in terror, guns raised in trembling hands. “This is just a withdrawal,” Isiah called out. “No heroes. No martyrs.” Jake moved mechanically, heart pounding. He heard every second ticking by like a drumbeat in his skull. They reached the safety deposit room. “Start cutting boxes,” Isiah said, tossing him a crowbar. Jake’s fingers shook as he pried open the first lock. Behind them, the security guard twitched. Mondo barked at him to stay still. Jake worked faster. Five boxes open. Six. Seven. Then... Sirens. Outside. Fast. Too fast. Isiah swore. “How the hell?!” Jake stepped back. “We’ve gotta go.” “No. We push through!” Isiah swung toward the hallway right as the front glass exploded inward. Flashbang. The whole world went white. Jake hit the floor hard, covering his head. Yelling. Stomping boots. Someone screamed. Gunfire. One shot. Two. Then silence. He opened his eyes to see Mondo tackled, blood trailing down one side of his face. Isiah on the floor, hand over his gut, moaning. Detective Rojas stood over him, gun drawn, eyes hard. “You’re lucky the mic didn’t cut out,” she told Jake. Hours later, Jake sat once more in the cold steel chair of an interrogation room. But this time, he wasn’t the one under fire. A cop opened the door. “You’re free to go, Carrington.” “Just like that?” he asked. Rojas appeared behind the man. “You gave us everything we needed. Marconi’s going down. You’ve done enough.” Jake stood up. “Have I?” She frowned. “You still think you’re guilty?” “I still think I got people hurt.” Rojas folded her arms. “Sometimes the only way to stop the fire is to walk through it.” Outside, the sun was rising. And for the first time in weeks, he let himself breathe. Word Count: 2987 |
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