“And I’d get to deal with Ned’s amazing clientele, right” He snorts. “You heard the cops. This is probably tied to one of them. I really don’t want to end up like that.”

“They’re reaching for the easiest answer because they can’t find another one.” A good third of Ned’s customer base are bikers and, while most of them are just that—guys who ride motorcycles—Ned also found himself catering to Devil’s Iron, the one percent who do more than simply “ride bikes.” The cops are having a field day right now, going through potential motives and enemies. They have no other explanation for why two masked men would show up here, empty the register—which had maybe a grand sitting in it—and murder him and a customer.

Ian snorts. “Besides, I’m guessing there won’t be too many rednecks and bikers coming in here to get their work done by a California Roll.”

“They might, if the California Roll is Ned’s son.” I smile, despite the derogatory name. I heard it plenty growing up in San Fran, before my family decided they wanted me as far away from my uncle’s bad influence as possible. Ian and I are both children of interracial couples. Ned was as white as white can get—born and raised in New Mexico before moving to California and charming a Chinese-American girl named Jun—my dad’s sister—with his bad boy ways at a local grocery store.

The result of Jun