Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“I shouldn’t have said that shit this morning,” he tells me, “but you were fun, kid. I’d rather wake up tomorrow and see you around than not.”
I was fun? What does he mean?
The Jaegers’ garage door is open, light pouring out as Macon leans under the hood of a car, his arm completely buried somewhere in all the parts. Both of my cars sit outside.
“How’s it going?” Iron asks him as we head in.
Macon digs in his pocket and tosses me the Mercedes keys. I let go of Paisleigh’s hand, catching them. “Thank you.”
“A few days on the other one,” he says.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out what I earned today in tips, my temper cooled since I spouted off to him this morning. I set the stack of folded-up bills on the edge of the car he’s working on. “This is what I have in tips. I can Venmo the difference this week if you let me know what it’s all going to cost.”
I’ll dig up the cash somewhere.
I take his bag of food from Iron and walk over, setting it on the worktable as he looks at the money. “They make that much?” he asks Iron as if I’m not here.
Iron just smirks. “Krisjen makes that much.”
I start to turn but notice the nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam next to the food. No glass. Then I look down into the huge gray Rubbermaid trash can, glancing at Macon before I peel away a few paper towels and spot at least two other unopened bags of food from Mariette’s.
And the neck of another empty bottle.
“Garrett Ames is at the restaurant,” Iron tells him. “Krisjen says the man he’s with is from the health department.”
Macon continues to dig under the hood. “Don’t pretend to worry like you’re going to do anything about it. I’ll handle it, like I have every single year they try to come for the Bay.”
I take my sister’s hand again, the keys and bag of food in my other. “Find something they want more,” I muse out loud, looking up at all the old license plates bolted to the ceiling. Maine, South Dakota, Arizona … Strange that I’ve been to Fiji and Athens but haven’t even seen the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore. “Or give them a reason to find it unappealing here, I guess.”
I leave with my sister, buckling her into the car and setting the food safely on the passenger seat.
But before I climb in, I look up.
Macon stares at me from under the hood, and I pause, frozen for a moment.
He never looks at me.
I can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken to me.
A flutter hits my stomach, but before I can read the look in his eyes, he turns back to his work and refixes the ever-present lock in his jaw.
I climb into the car, my forehead cooling with a light sweat.
5
Krisjen
I don’t realize I’m speeding out of the Bay until I run over a pothole and nearly hit my head on the roof of the car.
I slow down, checking my rearview mirror like I pissed off Macon in some way and he’ll send someone after me.
Why was he looking at me? That’s not a good sign.
Not that it would be unpleasant to have the attention of someone who looks like him, but I don’t think anyone has ever given the impression they want to be on Macon’s radar. In fact, I’m pretty sure his usual avoidance of making direct eye contact is a mercy on his part, because he knows he scares people. If he gives you his attention, you immediately worry you’ve been caught misbehaving.
Did I say something? I don’t even remember.
Just then, my phone rings, and I snap my attention back to the present. Steering the car with one hand, I dig in my purse with the other. I finally find my phone, glancing at Paisleigh in the back seat. Her head sways against the seat, her eyes starting to fall closed.
Marshall’s name shines on my screen, and I swipe, answering it.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m on my way. I have dinner.”
“Can you come and get me?”
The car veers into the wrong lane, and I jerk the wheel, correcting myself.
“What? Where are you?”
I check the clock on my dad’s dash, but it still reads 2:04 from when it stopped running years ago.
“Fox Hill,” he replies.
I clench the phone. No one’s playing golf this late. And the family men are home at dinner.
All that’s left are the plotters, pushers, and playboys—and twelve-year-olds who have “victim” written all over them. Dammit. “Be there in ten.”
I hang up before I scream at him. “Shit!” I whisper-yell, tossing the phone and kicking the floor. I hit the gas, flying to the country club and slowing down only while on Main Street, because a speeding ticket will just delay me more.