Page 56 of A Stop in Time
Why the hell would someone tell him I had information about his sister’s murder?
I tip my head to the small table at the far corner where my beat-up coffee maker and a few mugs with more than their fair share of chips in the ceramic sit. “Grab some coffee while I search for your tires.”
His gaze canvasses my features, and I wonder what he’s searching for. Finally, he nods. “Thanks.”
I spin around and head toward the rear bay door. “Don’t thank me. This just helps me get you out of town faster. And remember, you’re paying me, after all this.”
“Understood.” His single-word response holds a trace of amusement.
As I cross the threshold leading to the salvage yard, his muttered voice trails after me. “And it sure as fuck wasn’t mediocre.”
* * *
A few minutes later, he has a cup of coffee in hand and I have the Chevelle pulled into the second bay.
I’m looking it over once more while he leans against my tool chest and drinks his coffee. I already have two replacement tires in the right size and need to hunt for two more.
I survey the side of his vehicle. Now that I’ve inspected it more closely, I realize one rim is badly damaged. I’ll need to see if I have a replacement for that, too.
Absently, I murmur to the vehicle while I smooth my hand over the dented side panel. “Poor baby. You took a beating and still held up like a champ.”
A sudden pressure constricts my chest when I consider what might have happened if Daniel had been in his motel room at the time of the shooting. These bullets would have shredded him apart.
“What has you lookin’ so fierce?”
My eyes snap up to meet his. “What?”
He lifts his chin in my direction. “You got that crease between your eyebrows like you were pissed as hell and about to unleash some hellfire.”
I shrug it off. “I get that way about cars.” Hurriedly, I redirect the conversation. “This rim is in bad shape, so I’ll have to see if I have a spare. Just so you know, the tires won’t be matching brands.”
“I don’t give a fuck, as long as they roll.”
I lean against the front bumper of the Chevelle and let my eyes sweep over him. His emotions are still firmly locked away from anyone’s detection. If I had escaped becoming a human piece of Swiss cheese, I’d be a shaky, weeping mess. This man, however, hasn’t shown any emotion aside from anger.
I suppose violence like that goes hand in hand with gangs.
“So.”
“So.” He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim of his mug.
“You never did say how you escaped unscathed this morning.”
Silence stretches taut between us before he finally answers. “Guess I didn’t, huh?”
When I cast him a sharp glance, he scrubs a hand along his stubbled jaw, the same one that left small abrasions on the skin between my thighs. I jerk my eyes away abruptly and study his car like I’m cramming for a college entrance exam.
“I…had some help, but I don’t know who the hell he was.”
I snap my head back around to stare at him. “Some stranger randomly visited you and was around when all that went down?” There’s no disguising the skepticism in my tone. “And yet you came here, thinking I was the suspicious one?”
Appearing contemplative for a moment, he peers into his coffee mug. “He saved my life.” His words are coated with what sounds like surprise. “He didn’t have to, but he did.”
I huff out a breath. “That sounds sketchy as hell.” My tone holds a biting edge, because I’m still pissed. “And then he sent you to me, implying that I have information on your sister.”
His jaw tenses, the lines framing his mouth deepening into grooves. “Yeah.”
“And where did this ‘Good Samaritan’ go after he saved you?”