Читать книгу Braving The Heat - Regan Black - Страница 13
ОглавлениеAlmost three hours later, Stephen woke with the sun and a colorful vow to find something to cover the bare window on the back wall. He supposed he could board it up, but that seemed extreme for a temporary situation. He squinted at the window and considered planting a tree. That would have a lasting benefit even if it didn’t help in the short term.
Short term, he reminded himself. Kenzie wouldn’t be in his trailer for long. She gave off independent vibes as bright as the sunshine glaring in his eyes. He sat up, scooping his hair back from his face as his bare feet hit the cool vinyl flooring. At least it wasn’t winter, when the freezing temperatures tried to climb right through the heavy-soled boots he wore in the shop.
With no hope of more sleep, he decided to get to work. He grabbed clean clothes from the pile he’d brought over last night and headed into the bathroom wedged between the office and the storage room. The cramped space didn’t have an ounce of aesthetics, since clean, efficient and functional were all the design elements he’d cared about when he made the improvements.
Back in the office, he punched the button on the machine to brew coffee, and checked phone messages. Disappointment crept in when none of the callers asked about the restored Mustang he’d listed for sale last week. It had been in rough shape when they found it at an auction. He’d warned his brother that particular car would drain time and money. At least he had a better distraction today.
Turning, he opened the cabinet over the coffeemaker and pulled a foil-wrapped toaster pastry out of the box. Filling a stainless steel mug with fresh coffee, he carried it and the pastry into the shop and circled Kenzie’s disassembled car while he waited for the caffeine and sugar to kick in. The poor excuse for transportation put a knot in his stomach as he debated where to start. So many options, and the best choice might be scrapping it for parts. Couldn’t move forward on any of it until they discussed what she wanted. Please scrap it, he thought. It would be a public service.
He drank more coffee, savoring the jolt of caffeine, and shifted his focus to the far more appealing 1967 Camaro SS. This was the car that got Stephen out of bed every morning since the client, Matt Riley, had dropped it off. A total rebuild, inside and out, and despite the need for fresh paint, about as far from Kenzie’s nondescript junker as a car could get. He’d cleaned every inch of the engine until a person could practically use it for a dining table, and now that the muffler was installed the Muncie four-speed transmission was ready for a second test drive.
Inside the Camaro, the upholstery was in decent shape, with only a few repairs and touch-ups needed. Same with the body. Stephen wondered where Riley had managed to find such a gem and if he’d share the source.
The Camaro wasn’t the only thing waiting on him, just the most fun. Finishing the pastry, he dusted the crumbs from his fingers and trashed the wrapper. Time to get busy. With a sigh, he turned to the car parked in the last of his four service bays. His sister Megan had dropped off her minivan for new brakes and fresh tires. Naturally, she was hoping he’d deliver it when they were all at family dinner tomorrow.
Did none of them realize he could smell these setups a mile away? Megan and her husband could pick up the minivan as soon as he was done this afternoon. By insisting on making the exchange tomorrow, they made sure he couldn’t skip the dinner. He supposed he should be grateful for Megan’s willingness to go without her beloved minivan for nearly forty-eight hours. Given half a chance, she’d tell him to appreciate her devoted-sister sacrifice, but he recognized his mother’s influence at work. No one was better at keeping family together than Myra Galway.
With more affection than gratitude, Stephen turned up the music and put the vehicle on the lift to knock out the single straightforward job on today’s agenda.
* * *
Kenzie came out of the recurring nightmare riding the hard wave of adrenaline and confusion. It always started with the same call to the row house fire. The same search protocol. When she found the victim, the nightmare shifted on her. The man was too heavy for her alone and the fire was burning too hot and fast, blocking every route as her team tried to reach her. The victim shouted at her, berating her until his throat went dry, yet none of his ideas was remotely plausible. Huddled in a corner, surrounded by smoke with flames marching toward them, she would wake up with the unbearable pressure of failure in her chest and the sheets tangled around her legs.
She had not failed that victim. Randall Murtagh was alive because she’d done the right things. She’d pulled him out of a terrible fire with minor burns that were probably healed already.
She tried to wriggle free of the sheets, nearly ripping them away before she remembered they weren’t hers. Her skin clammy with the sweat of the nightmare, she found herself registering other details. This wasn’t her bedroom. The space was too bright, the mattress too firm, and the scent of the laundry detergent on the linens was wrong.
Scrubbing at her face, she felt the rest of her situation crash over her like a bucket of ice water. At least the last wisps of the nightmare were gone. She untangled her legs from the sheets and paused as a variety of sounds and smells drifted by her waking senses.
For a moment she wallowed in the comfort and familiarity of clean motor oil, grease and new rubber tires. She heard the pulse of heavy metal music underscored by the whirr of power tools. All of it mingled with the promise of another hot and humid summer day in Philly.
She straightened the bedding and then headed for the bathroom, which was almost roomy, considering the limits of the camper. Fifteen minutes later she emerged refreshed and feeling human again. Dressed in denim cutoff shorts and a T-shirt sporting the logo of a local microbrewery, she made a cup of coffee and tried to figure out what to do with all the hours between now and her shift at the club tonight.
Her stomach growled, but she didn’t feel right about helping herself to Stephen’s groceries, despite his hospitality. Of course, with the loaner car he’d given her, she could restock his supplies easily. It still felt weird going through his cabinets for a bowl and cereal. She added milk and found a spoon in the basket of utensils on the counter. At the table she ate her cereal and used her cell phone to scroll through travel sites, looking for the best prices on decent motels near the club.
She knew she was hiding from Stephen, and life in general, when she’d washed her dishes and caught herself reorganizing her backpack. Stephen deserved better from her. For that matter, she deserved better. The sooner she got out there and helped him with her car, the sooner she could be on her way. She shoved her bare feet into her tennis shoes and headed over to the garage to say thanks again and refine her plans to get out of his hair.
The music crashed over her as she approached the garage through the open bay door nearest the office. Though her car was in pieces, she grinned, recognizing one of her favorite heavy metal bands doing a cover of one of the recent pop chart hits. She was about to follow the sound of an impact wrench to the other side of a champagne-colored minivan on a lift when the phone rang.
Stephen didn’t seem to hear it over the tools and the music. Kenzie assumed he had a machine or service that answered calls for him. He might even have his calls forwarded to his cell phone during business hours. The phone kept ringing and, following impulse, she picked it up. “Galway Automotive.”
“Hello?” a woman said, clearly startled. “Where’s Stephen?”
Is this a girlfriend? “His hands are full changing a tire at the moment,” Kenzie improvised.
“Who are you?”
Not as much jealousy as speculation in those three syllables. “I’m Kenzie,” she replied, using her best polite-receptionist voice that she’d refined during her first week of administrative duty for the PFD. “May I take a message for him?”
“Umm, sure. This is his sister Megan. I was checking on my minivan.”
Kenzie smiled. She’d heard a few typical big-brother stories from Mitch, but never met Megan. “If you can hold a moment, I’ll see if I can get an update for you.”
“Great.”
The curiosity and confusion came through loud and clear and Kenzie had to stifle a chuckle. Stephen must not keep a receptionist around. The place did have the feel of a one-man operation. Accustomed to working with a team and having people around constantly, she couldn’t imagine so much solitude. She didn’t want to risk making a mistake with the hold button and cutting off Megan’s call, so she placed the handset gently on the desk and hurried into the garage.
She saw her little rust-bucket in pieces, but her gaze locked for a long, reverent moment on the classic Camaro SS. A 1967, she knew. Oh my. Her hands tingled to peek under the hood. It would benefit from fresh paint and oh, that pure American muscle cried out for a touch. This was as close as she’d come to a car like this since her dad died. She hoped Stephen would be willing to show it to her and fill her in on the details later.
A classic Camaro was her dream car, if money weren’t an object. It was a pipe dream at the moment, and likely would remain so for the next decade. One day, she promised herself, exerting significant willpower to stay on track with the minivan, when she would’ve happily gone exploring the Camaro.
From her vantage point only Stephen’s legs and lower torso were visible under a minivan on the last lift. She failed in her attempt to ignore the appeal of those long legs and the T-shirt lifting to reveal toned abs when he stretched for something. Whew. She tucked away that little buzz of attraction.
Kenzie had no chance of getting his attention over the blaring music. It wasn’t hard to find the speakers, but she didn’t see the controls. She shouted. He didn’t flinch. There were too many things in a working garage that might catch a finger or hand wrong if he was startled. She came around the front corner of the car and shouted his name again.
This time he froze. Slowly, he turned in her direction, and she could see the wire brush he was holding in hands darkened by brake dust.
He stared at her as if he couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t alone. “Kenzie.”
She started to shout, pausing when he held up a finger and lowered the volume with a voice command. “Your sister Megan is on the phone,” she said. “She’s asking about her minivan.”
He rolled his eyes and then glared down at his hands. “Give me a second.”
“I can handle the call for you. You’re doing both front and rear brakes?” she asked, when he didn’t volunteer any information.
“No. Just rear brakes, and new tires all around,” he replied.
Kenzie glanced about, judging his progress. “Do you want her to come by this afternoon?”
“Not really,” he muttered.
Kenzie laughed, understanding the sibling dynamics. “When works for you?”
“She’s such a nag,” he grumbled. “When she dropped it off, she made me agree to deliver it for her at Sunday dinner tomorrow.”
“No problem. Leave it to me.” Kenzie returned to the office and picked up the phone. “Megan?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks for waiting.” Kenzie smiled as she explained Stephen’s progress and his confidence that the minivan would be delivered on time to Sunday dinner.
“Great. Thanks, um, what was your name?”
“Kenzie.”
“I’m so glad you’re there. It’s about time he hired good help,” Megan said. “Have a good day,” she added brightly.
“You, too.” Replacing the phone in the cradle, Kenzie sat back in the chair and swiveled side to side gently. Maybe she could give Stephen some time in the office or the garage while she waited to return to her normal schedule at the firehouse.
“Was she rude?”
Kenzie smothered the reaction as the deep burr of Stephen’s voice skimmed over the nape of her neck. He stood just outside the door frame, wiping dark streaks from his hands with a shop towel. Something about him sent her heartrate into overdrive. This was not the time for her hormones to take a detour.
“Not at all,” she replied, she managed in a steady voice.
His eyebrows arched in disbelief. “She didn’t do any wheedling to get her minivan back today?”
Kenzie shook her head.
“Huh. Thanks.”
The man was pretty cute when he was baffled. “No problem.” She was about to ask about her own car when the phone rang again. Stephen’s face clouded over with a scowl. “Go on back. I’ll handle it,” she told him.
“Really? Thanks. Just take messages,” he said, practically running back to the shop.
She handled the various inquiries for the rest of the morning. When her stomach was rumbling around noon, she wandered back into the shop with the intent of picking up lunch for both of them. Stephen wasn’t in the garage. The bay where the minivan had been was empty and Kenzie followed the sounds of water running outside.
She found him power washing the brake dust off his sister’s tire rims, and her first thought was that he should hire someone to handle that kind of thing. It would be a great job for some high school kid. Not her business how he wanted to run his garage.
Her second thought, and those that followed right after it, were centered on the way his T-shirt, damp from the spray of water, molded to his chest. When he turned that serious, brooding gaze on her she nearly forgot she was here about lunch.
“Keys are in the loaner,” he added, after requesting a meatball sub from the pizza place down the block.
“They are?”
“Well, sure. It’s yours to use whenever you need it. The key fob will handle the security gate for you.”
She was still processing all the implications of his easy generosity when she returned with lunch. He’d finished the brakes and cleaned up the service bay during her brief absence, and she marveled at his efficiency.
A man who obviously appreciated solitude, he didn’t want her hanging around while they ate, she assumed, but she didn’t want his well-earned break interrupted by the phone. He’d seemed almost afraid of the thing earlier.
“So what’s with delivery over having Megan pick up her minivan?” Kenzie unwrapped her sandwich and took a big bite. “This is amazing.”
He nodded, his mouth full, too. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Delivery tomorrow isn’t ideal, but I’m already doing the job for the cost of parts. If I do it in record time, they’ll never let me rest. Do you know how many Galways there are?”
She did a quick head count. “You have four siblings, right?”
“Yes,” he said between bites. “Add in parents and cousins and in-laws, and a man wouldn’t have time for anything else.”
“I thought Mitch helped you out.”
“He does. He prefers the custom work more than the maintenance stuff,” Stephen said.
“Don’t we all?” There was an excitement in restoration, in breathing new life into quality machinery.
Stephen raised an eyebrow. “To be fair, he would’ve handled Megan’s van if I’d been slammed.”
“Based on the phone calls I managed this morning, I’d say you could be slammed at any given moment. If you can spare the bay, and time with the tools, I can fix my car on my own,” she said. “After hours, so I can stay out of your way.”
“You know cars?” he asked.
“My dad taught me more than enough to handle that particular car.”
He lifted a bottle of water to his lips and Kenzie caught herself staring at his jaw and throat. It was as if he was carved from some substance that could shift between a solid and fluid state at will. He was almost too lean and the shadows under his eyes were a sure sign he didn’t sleep as much as he should.
She belatedly recalled he’d been engaged a few years back, the woman murdered before the wedding. It put Kenzie’s own issues into sharp perspective. Her career was at risk thanks to Murtagh, not her life.
“You think your car is overwhelming for me?”
“I think my car is a piece of crap and well beneath your level of expertise.” She found herself on the business end of that inscrutable expression. What was going on behind the hazel eyes shadowed by those burnished gold eyebrows?
“I can spare the space and tools,” he said. “Thanks for helping out with the phone. I usually just check messages at the end of the day.”
“I didn’t realize you had an answering machine,” she said, trying to contain the happy urge to bounce in her chair. Working on a car, even the pitiful rust-bucket, would be a fabulous distraction until she was back on shift. “That makes me feel better about leaving you this afternoon.”
His brow wrinkled. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m scheduled on the late shift again tonight at the club. Between now and then I need to find a place to stay.” She pointed to the boxes he’d stacked for her near the storeroom. “I can’t just leave all my stuff here in your way.”
Stephen’s hands stilled, the sandwich wrapper balled up between his palms. “You have a place to stay.”
Finding herself the focus of his full attention made her mouth go dry. She felt like the proverbial deer in headlights. It took two attempts to get the right words past her lips. “Last night was too kind. I’m not kicking you out of your house.”
“It’s yours,” he stated. “For as long as you need it.” He stood up, as if that was the end of the conversation.
“But last night you said—”
He cut her off. “I said we’d sort it out today.” He tossed his trash and leaned back against the counter, apparently waiting for her to say something else he could shoot down.
“That feels like way too much of an imposition.”
“You’re wrong.” A muscle jumped in his tense jaw. “I know what firefighters make,” he stated. “And I know what lawyers can charge. If it makes you feel better, keep answering the phone and taking messages when you can.”
“That’s hardly a fair trade for kicking you out of your home,” she protested.
His fingers flexed around the edge of the countertop. The muscles in his forearm bunched and relaxed slowly. “If it’s all I’m asking for, why argue the point?”
“Do logic and reason ring a bell?” Why was he insisting she stay here?
“Does sabotage ring a bell for you?” he countered, his gaze heating up.
This wasn’t the conversation she’d planned on having with him, but it was too late now and she was too aggravated to successfully turn the topic to the Camaro. “I don’t need protection.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Duly noted. Do you want to file a police report about the damage?”
That gave her pause and she took her time to think it through. As both Grant and Stephen had previously pointed out, someone had most likely targeted her with the sugar in her gas tank. At the moment she could think of only one person angry enough with her to try such a stunt. “No.”
“Because you know who did it?” Stephen pressed.
“What good would it do to file a report? I have no idea when it happened.”
“Based on the settling and filter damage, I would guess it happened within the last week,” Stephen said, his voice as hard as his gaze now. “A police report is an official record. It could establish a time line or a pattern of behavior.”
“Stop. Please.” She held up a hand as she studied him. There was obviously a bigger issue on his mind than a disabled car. Filing a report would also mean suggesting Murtagh as a suspect, which could make her look like an idiot grasping at straws to undermine his credibility in the lawsuit. She had to trust her lawyer’s advice that the truth would come out and clear her of any wrongdoing or errors.
“I hear what you’re saying,” she continued. “This was probably a prank gone wrong. Yes, the timing makes it unlikely, but it is possible this was a case of mistaken identity.” Logic and odds aside, she couldn’t risk giving voice to the outrageous theory that Murtagh had done it. “I’ve only had the car three weeks.”
“It’s paid for?” Stephen asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll put it back together for you.” He sighed and pulled such a grimace, she laughed, startling them both.
“That isn’t necessary,” she said. “I can handle the repairs, and help with the phone when I’m here.”
He shot her a skeptical glance. “And you’ll work at the club and jump through hoops for your lawyer, too?”
That image made her grin. “He keeps telling me he’s the one jumping through hoops on my behalf.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a deal, if you agree to stay in the trailer.”
She counted to ten. Slowly. “I don’t like the idea of pushing you out of your place.”
He shrugged that off. “You’ll get over it.”
It was such an unexpected reply she laughed again.
He pushed away from the counter and reached into the fridge for another bottle of water. Pausing at the desk, he skimmed the messages she’d taken, various expressions flitting across his stern features. He turned over one message slip and wrote out a short list.
“Can you get these parts ordered for me?”
She glanced at his neat, block-style printing. “Sure.”
“Thanks.” He looked her over head to toe and back up. “If you hit a snag, be sure to ask for help.”
“I promise.”
“I have coveralls you can borrow. What about better shoes?”
“There are steel-toed boots in one of the boxes over there.” They were battered, but though she’d had few chances to use them in recent years, they still fit.
“All right.” With one last look, he walked out. A moment later the music started pulsing again.
Sensations continued to fizz through her system long after he left the office. Part of it was the anticipation of getting her hands dirty and seeing the result of fixing something. Another part was pure lust over the opportunity to work near a man who was bringing that classic Camaro back to life. Both man and machine had her system revving, she thought with a wistful sigh.
She couldn’t recall the last time any man as sexy as Stephen had studied her so thoroughly. Her face felt hot and her fingers trembled as she ordered the parts he’d requested.
With that task done, she rooted through her belongings and found her boots, then eyed the clock. Now that she didn’t need to find a place and move her stuff, she could potentially get started flushing the fuel lines before heading to the club.
She was almost—no she was definitely relieved when a call came in for a tow truck and he agreed to go pick a vehicle up. Relieved. Yes. If she went out to the garage and tried to work beside him now, with all this fizz, there was no telling what kind of stupidity her hormones would talk her into.
Neither of them needed that kind of complication.
* * *
What the hell was wrong with him? Stephen wondered a few hours later, as he worked alone in the shop. Every time he thought he had his head on straight, the memory of Kenzie’s laughter sent him spinning, the echo of the sound rattling through his head. Cranking the radio didn’t help. He left the garage and went out to detail his sister’s van. Spoiling her with that kind of surprise was probably a mistake and his mood soured further.
That mouth on Kenzie, he thought, so mobile and expressive. Her lips were quick with a smile and he couldn’t keep the images out of his head. Her laughter astounded him, the merry sound full and loud and rich, as if she didn’t care who heard her. He envied that wide-open spirit, even when it grated against the solitude he’d carefully built here.
How could Kenzie laugh at anything with a civil suit that threatened her career hanging over her head? He shot a glance back at the garage, fighting off the urge to get in there and just do the work for her.
She claimed she could handle it, and it wasn’t a complex task to flush a little sugar out of a fuel system. If only that was all that junker needed. He was almost embarrassed to have such a sorry-looking car in the shop.
Not sorry to have Kenzie around.
The errant thought startled him and he shoved it away. He didn’t like extra people milling about in his space, but having her answering calls had been a big help. Mitch was about the only other person he could work with. Even his dad got under his skin after a few hours.
At least she wasn’t here tempting him into conversation just so he could hear her voice. The last time a woman intrigued him like this, he’d been engaged to her. Stephen fought back the unwelcome spark of interest. Kenzie was a temporary anomaly in his self-contained life. She needed a break and he could tolerate having her around for a few days as long as she didn’t start in on him with questions about the business or why he was a loner.
Finished detailing his sister’s minivan, he parked it next to the cars he was ready to sell. While he’d been out with the tow truck, Mitch had called, claiming to have a buyer lined up for the Mustang. Stephen hoped his brother closed the deal on that one soon. The upholstery and paint alone had cost them a small fortune.
He tried to work up irritation over having it sit here and failed. The car looked amazing and they’d get their asking price eventually. The swell of pride in the work drained enough of the persistent tension out of his neck and shoulders that when his mom’s sassy red sedan pulled through the open gate, he managed a rare smile.
“Happy Saturday, sweetheart,” she said, drawing him into a hug. “You look good.”
Her hugs never changed, no matter what was happening in his life. She must have just come from the salon, he realized, as a wave of feminine scents swept over him. Her hair was sleek and smooth and the gray effectively hidden by a perfect application of ash-blond color. “You look great, Mom.”
“Nice of you to notice.” A little pink warmed her cheeks as she beamed at him. “Hopefully, your father can be persuaded to take me out tonight.”
Stephen didn’t think it would be much of an effort. His parents were still in love after all this time and the challenges life tossed at them. While he knew that wasn’t in his future, he valued the rare treasure of their relationship. “Car trouble?”
“Not a bit.”
Her gaze slid past him toward the office and he realized his sister had tipped her off that a woman had been here. Answering phones and relaying messages. Stephen managed not to roll his eyes at his mother’s obvious agenda. “If you’re looking for someone in particular, she isn’t here.”
His mom’s expression fell so fast he felt terrible for busting the bubble of hope wreathing her face. “What do you mean?”
“Please.” He walked toward the office, urging her to come out of the heavy, late afternoon heat. “Megan called you, right?”
Myra nodded.
“There’s nothing to it, Mom. I’m just helping out one of Mitch’s friends. She had car trouble.”
“You’re helping Kenzie Hughes,” she stated.
“Nothing gets by you,” he said. It had been that way all his life. Myra Galway had a mysterious, maternal inside track on information involving her children. Wishing he had a better explanation for the stack of boxes near the wall and the folded linens at the end of the couch, he offered her something to drink.
“Water, please.”
He handed her a bottle of water from the fridge and waited for her to explain her visit. It didn’t take long.
“Kenzie was Mitch’s classmate all through school,” Myra told him. “You probably don’t remember her at all.”
“No.” He was tempted to ask what his mom might know about Kenzie’s dad, but that would only stoke her persistent hope that he would eventually open his heart to a relationship again. Not a chance. He couldn’t handle that kind of vulnerability again.
“Well, the poor girl’s name has been splashed all over the news lately.”
Stephen was very selective about when he turned on the news. Sometimes knowledge wasn’t power, only more pain. “Mitch told me some of it.”
“Your brother says she’s one of the best firefighters around. He’s convinced the suit will fall apart.” His mother’s gaze took in all the things that were out of place in his office. “You let her sleep here?”
He chose not to explain the precise definition of “here.” “Her landlord is fumigating or something. Her stuff was in her car.” He gestured toward the boxes. “Her car was here. It was late...” He pushed his hand through his hair. “Made sense to me at the time.”
Her smile, a mix of maternal delight and concerned tenderness, put him on edge. “You turned out all right,” she said, clearly satisfied with her parenting skills. “Here’s another bit of sense for you. Bring her to Sunday dinner tomorrow.”
No. “Mom.” He set his jaw against the persistent lance of pain searching for his heart. “She probably has plans,” he added. Kenzie at Sunday dinner was a terrible idea.
“You’ll ask and find out,” she said breezily. “There’s always room for one more at the table.”
Did she practice these careless phrases that eviscerated him? By now he and Annabeth should have been working on their first baby and joining his married siblings in testing their mother’s theory about room at the table. A lousy drug dealer had decided Annabeth had done enough good in this life, and snuffed her out with a cowardly ambush at the community center.
Three years after her death there were still nights when Stephen was convinced he’d heard those gunshots. The community center was too far from the garage for that to be possible, but the sounds haunted him anyway. I should have done more for her, he thought, though there had been nothing within his power to do. Logic seemed to have no effect on overwhelming grief.
Stephen turned away, wishing the water in his hand was a beer or a whiskey. Conversations like this one were better with a whiskey close by. Distracted by those dark memories, he flinched when Myra touched her hand to his shoulder.
“I consider Kenzie a friend of the family,” she said gently.
“Then you should be the one to extend the invitation.” Though the churlish tone shamed him, he wouldn’t take it back. She had to know she was asking too much of him.
“That is actually why I came by,” she pointed out. “Since I missed her, I trust you’ll handle it on my behalf. Politely and graciously as I would.”
“Mom.” He gazed down at her, wondering why thirty-two years hadn’t been enough time for him to build up immunity to the mom voice. She wouldn’t drop it until he agreed. “I’ll text you if she can’t make it.”
His mother’s eyebrows lifted and she tried and failed to suppress an amused smile. “Thank you.” She rocked back on her heels. “Do you have time to show me the progress on the Camaro out there?”
He knew she was trying to put him back on his feet after dealing a blow, and he let her. “The engine is in and the transmission came together,” he said, as he walked with her around the car. “It needs a test drive and I’m waiting on a few more original pieces I found from a dealer in Ohio. Then it’s off for the finish work.”
“Do you know what the color scheme will be?”
At some point in the past, the paint had been a metallic champagne. “Silver with black rally stripes. He’s career army.”
“Make sure you take pictures if I don’t get over here before your client picks it up.”
“Sure thing, Mom.” She ignored the fact that he had a portfolio of before and after pictures online she could access anytime, insisting that he show her in person. He knew it was because she worried he spent too much time with the quiet thoughts in his head.
If she had any idea how disquieting his thoughts were she’d have real reason to worry.
Myra made a bit more small talk, and when she seemed convinced he wouldn’t do something stupid like take the rest of the day off and wallow in grief and alcohol, she left him in peace.
Stephen closed the gate when she’d gone and set the emergency number to ring through to his cell phone. Too restless to work, he cleaned up his tools, gave Kenzie’s car another hard look and went to move more of his things out of the trailer and into the office.
It felt rude to him to keep invading space he’d given her. Better to keep as much distance as possible between him and Kenzie. His gaze landed on the denim cutoffs and T she’d worn earlier, on a corner of the bed. A vision of her long, gorgeous legs filled his mind, followed closely by an echo of that bold laughter.
Basic human nature explained why her legs got under his skin, but the effect of her laughter baffled him. Maybe the happiness of it, a sound foreign in the shop, was what bugged him. That sound shouldn’t fit in and yet something deep inside him wanted to make room for it. Damn, he needed more sleep.
He closed his eyes and brought Annabeth’s serene face to his mind. A dark beauty with generous curves, his fiancée had had a steady, pleasant outlook underscored with integrity and grit that made her someone people trusted. The kids confided in her about things they were too scared to share with anyone else. On appearance alone, Kenzie was the polar opposite, not to mention the vast personality differences, and yet he had a random, discomfiting thought that they might have been friends.
Twice he picked up his phone to text Kenzie about dinner with his family. Twice he stopped, deleting the messages before he could send them. If his mother caught wind of him taking the easy way out, he’d get a lecture and a heavy dose of that sad disappointment she wielded so effectively.
He and his siblings agreed on one thing without fail: it was always better to make Myra Galway flat-out mad than to disappoint her.
To do this right, and avoid a mom lecture, Stephen would either have to go to the club or wait up for her. Resigned, he took a shower and changed clothes to go back to the Escape Club. He considered taking the Camaro, to get a feel for the clutch and the suspension, but he was too restless to listen to the car.
Instead, he grabbed a dealer plate, put the For Sale sign in the rear window of the Mustang they needed to move, and planned a route through the city that might spin up some interest. If that particular route took him by the community center where Annabeth had worked, that was just coincidence.
Right. Not even he believed that.
The community center was a central, positive influence working persistently to keep a toehold in a neighborhood framed with rough edges. The area was hard on the eyes and residents in broad daylight. Once night fell, those rough edges turned razor-sharp and mean.
Since losing Annabeth, Stephen continued teaching the basic automotive class despite the vicious ache in his chest every time he came near the building. After her killer was acquitted, he’d picked up the habit of frequently driving through the neighborhood in various vehicles. Occasionally, he parked a block out and walked in, daring any of the local thugs to take a swipe at him.
They often did.
His walks and drive-bys were random. Sometimes they paid off and he caught a picture of a drug deal that he forwarded to the police, or he caught wind of a name while he wandered past on foot. For all the good it did. The police would pick up one dealer and another stepped up, keeping business rolling. Once in a while he timed his visits or ended his classes so he could walk other staffers to their cars, as he should’ve done every day for his fiancée. Sometimes he just circled the block, letting the deep purr of a big engine serve as a warning to the petty criminals skulking in the shadows.
So far, the man he wanted to confront, the man who had killed his fiancée, had yet to make himself a target. Stephen didn’t have anything better to do with his life than wait him out.
Tonight, he circled the block like a shark, generally being a nuisance and interfering with the fast deals that happened at the corner. The thugs tasked with backing up the dealer showed their guns on his third pass. The familiar dance put a kick in Stephen’s pulse. He was aware they knew who he was and where to find him when he wasn’t trying to interrupt their business. Just one reason he kept upgrading the security at the garage. He used to lie awake at night, praying someone with ties to Annabeth’s murder would come by and get caught on his cameras.
Spoiling for a fight, he parked the Mustang under the floodlights and security cameras in the community center parking lot and went for a quick stroll. At this hour the facility, church and other buildings on this side of the street were deserted and locked up tight.
He walked around to the front of the building and sat on the steps. Although the building owners tried to keep security cameras operational, anything aimed in the general direction of the dealer on the corner was repeatedly disabled. Stephen had decided he had to stand in whenever possible.
Annabeth’s blood had long since been washed away from the area, but the fresh paint they’d used on the railings was peeling again after three years of weather. He knew where they stored the paint and he had a key to the center. He’d almost decided to take care of it now under the glare of the streetlights when a rusty station wagon from the nineties pulled up to the corner. It made Kenzie’s sedan look good by comparison.
Stephen raised his phone and hit the record button, making sure the video light caught the driver’s attention. The car sputtered and rolled away, deal incomplete. From across the street, the thugs shouted a warning at him.
Stephen lowered the phone and gave them a wave without leaving his post. He scared off another two cars before the enforcers stalked across the street with orders to make him leave.
Finally.
He waited for them, his weight balanced and his knees loose. They could just shoot him. Luckily for him, they knew as well as he did that two innocent people dead on these steps might inspire someone to actually come through this neighborhood and clean it up for good.
“Get the hell outta here,” the first kid said. He couldn’t be more than twenty, probably younger. His T-shirt, emblazoned with a classic arcade game character wielding an AK-47, was partially tucked into dark jeans. Stephen noted the bulging biceps and the brands seared in faint patterns on the kid’s dark skin.
At Gun-shirt’s nod a second man walked to the base of the stairs to face Stephen. Bald, his pale head lit by streetlights, he wore a white undershirt and faded jeans that rode low on his hips, revealing the band of his boxers. Stephen assumed the open jacket must be hot in this weather. An unfortunate circumstance for Baldy, since the jacket did nothing to conceal the gun shoved into his belt.
“You need to leave,” Baldy said. He drew the gun and took aim at Stephen’s midsection. “Go willingly, or go permanently, your choice.”
Stephen raised his hands. “Willingly,” he replied, starting down the steps.
At the sidewalk, Gun-shirt grabbed Stephen’s arm and drove a fist into his gut. Although Stephen was braced for it, the blow took a toll, stealing his breath. He gasped, doubling over, hands on his knees. When Gun-shirt leaned close to make more threats, Stephen punched him in the throat. The thug staggered back into the street, bouncing off the hood of a slowly passing car before he caught his balance.
The bald man swore and aimed his gun once more, but Stephen was quicker. He kicked out, connecting with the guy’s knee. Baldy crumpled into a whimpering heap.
Across the street, the furious dealer called for reinforcements. Stephen shouted out a crude suggestion before he ran for the parking lot. He knew none of these criminals wanted to get caught chasing an innocent civilian by those cameras.
Safely in the Mustang, Stephen drove off. He was several blocks away before the pain started seeping through the adrenaline rush. He kept to the rest of his planned circuit, cruising through much nicer streets filled with people out for the evening at restaurants and posh bars. Hopefully, the sign in the rear window would attract some positive inquiries.
The sooner they moved this car the better. He had other builds in mind and more plans to keep himself busy through the summer.
