Page 77 of A Stop in Time
She works the wrench along the fingers of her left hand like it’s some sort of party trick. I wonder if she knows how fucking hot she is with a bit of grease smeared along the hinge of her jaw and across her other cheek. She’s been slaving over the Chevrolet Malibu, removing parts piece by piece.
I don’t pretend to know how to do more than a basic oil change, so this woman makes it all look too easy to dismantle shit beneath the hood.
I am, however, surprised it took her this long to finally say something. The last five hours she’s been working nonstop, and I’ve watched her intermittently while I sat or ventured around outside the garage, searching shit on my phone and responding to texts.
Earlier, I made a stop at the grocery store to grab a few bananas and apples and stuff to make sandwiches and brought it back here. The way she eyed the cold cuts and bread, one would’ve thought she’d never seen anything like them before.
She’d devoured two sandwiches before I coerced her to eat an apple. I swear to Christ, she acted like a picky toddler, but she ate it. I don’t even want to admit the relief I felt at that or the fact that she hasn’t appeared shaky or on the verge of passing out again.
“Am I plannin’ to creep on you for the rest of the day?” My tone is noncommittal. “Maybe.”
It’s not true, though, but it’s too much fun getting a rise out of her and letting her think I’m planning to stick around. I’ve already roamed most of the salvage yard out back, and that was both impressive and overwhelming as hell.
I type out a quick text to Bronson since he said he’s sending out someone to fix all the windows in my vehicle. Appreciate that.
I falter at his next text. And Red and I talked about sending in Steve so you’re not there alone. Thoughts?
Me: I’m good for now, but I’ll let you know if that changes. I’m working on a different angle here.
Those three dots pop up an instant before his next message comes through. Different angle, huh? This wouldn’t have anything to do with Mac, now, would it?
I lift my gaze to the woman in question who’s now taking out her frustration on her tool chest drawers. I know what he’s really asking, but I’m not ready to answer just yet.
Straightening, I slide my phone in my pocket. “I’m gonna head out.”
She whirls around, surprise and suspicion warring on her features. “You are?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you planning to stay at The Pelican again?”
I shrug. “It’s the closest option.”
The Scorpions’ territory hasn’t expanded to this area yet, but Bronson said he’d been “in touch” with the authorities and “handled the motel shit.”
He impresses me still to this day with how he can smooth things over and get shit done even in an unfamiliar area.
But I’m not bullshitting Mac—The Pelican Inn is the closest place to stay since it’s a few blocks away from her.
A crease of disbelief forms between her brows. “After what happened, you’re going back there?”
I cock my head to the side. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
“I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
“Uh, no, you won’t.”
Her quick reply has me narrowing my eyes in suspicion. “Why not?”
With a smug expression, she grabs a rag and wipes her hands. “I’m not open on Sundays.”
“Perfect. Then we’ll have uninterrupted time to plan.”
She blinks before scowling at me. “No, Danny, we won’t, because I’m not available tomorrow.”
“Why’s that?”