Lightning Rider by Jen Greyson Page B

staring but can’t look away.
    “What am I going to tell your mother?”
    “I don’t think she’ll complain.” I shiver and cross my arms. “I can’t believe I flirted with you. That is so disturbing.”
    He drops his shirt and leans toward the mirror again. “I can’t go to work like this.”
    “Will it wear off?”
    “Hope so.”
    “Why didn’t that happen to me?” I lean toward the mirror and examine my own features. They look the same. Still a fat lower lip, long nose, pudgy cheeks.
    “Only a woman would complain.” He shakes his head, startled by the stranger’s mimicked motions in the mirror.
    “Did your father look”—I wave my hand around his torso—“like this?”
    His long fingers stroke his goatee. “I was eight, so he always seemed larger than life, but . . . maybe.”
    “Do you think he was a time traveler? Do you think this is lightning riding?” I ask, hopping off the counter.
    “I don’t like it.”
    I take a step back. “What’s not to like?”
    “I don’t know what we stumbled on, but we’re destroying those booklets and whatever that book is.”
    Papi marches from the room, his hand against his new ripped abs.
    I blink and scramble after him. “Wait, Papi. Hold on.”
    I stretch forward to grab his shoulder, but he sidesteps me, so I leap in front and walk backward through the family room. “Let’s talk about this. Didn’t you have a good time?” I point at his stomach. “The payoff had to be worth any bad stuff. Not to mention all that cash. Besides, we can’t destroy that book. It’s an heirloom. And you said the little ones looked like lessons. Come on, nothing ever goes perfectly the first time.”
    “No.” His voice is sharp. “We know nothing. I’m not convinced that is an heirloom. Nothing matches up. And money isn’t worth putting ourselves in danger.”
    “Where’d you get it, anyway?”
    “The mob.”
    That yanks me to a stop. “What? Are you kidding me?” I fold my arms and tap my finger against my lip. Not what I expected. “Your father had some serious secrets.”
    Papi pauses and drags his fingers through his new spiky hair. “I’m not sure I want to know them. What if this is what killed him?”
    “You said it was lightn—” I throw my hands up and stare at my fingers, then shove them behind my back as tiny tendrils fire from the tips.
    “What was that?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Bullshit. Give me your hand.”
    I bristle and shake my head, positive the sight of my parlor trick won’t sway him the direction I want. “It’s nothing.”
    “It doesn’t matter. We’re through.” He brushes past me.
    Of all the reactions I thought he’d have, this isn’t it. No one would walk away from something like this, certainly not a fighter. I take one step forward to follow him, then retreat, hands opening and clenching.
    Only once in my life have I ever purposely disobeyed this man. I was twelve. My friends tease me mercilessly for the way I crave his approval, look to him for guidance, and respect his opinion.
    But not this time. This time-traveling-lightning thing feels important. Seldom have I felt guided by my own compass. The first time was when I dropped out of college and started my own custom line of bikes, which earned me industry accolades and a fat bank account.
    The second time is now.
    I bite my lip and cringe. Then swan dive off the cliff.
    “Seriously?” I shout so he can hear me in the kitchen. My gut twists into knots, but I forge ahead. “You pick now to tell me no? We’re standing on the brink of something amazing and different and new, and you’re chickening out?”
    “Yep!” he yells back.
    My heart pounds. We’ve never yelled at each other. Drawers slam, and he stomps back and forth.
    I ball my fists.
    “What if your father wanted you to, but he died before he could tell you?”
    The kitchen falls silent.
    “Low blow, Evy. Low.”
    Damn him for what I’m about to do. But we can’t quit.
    “Well, I’ve