Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
“What?”
“Why did I get you out of bed again?”
This time, it’s me who laughs, and I slide open the kitchen drawer, tearing into a new pack of candy necklaces. Drawing it over my head, I smirk at the man.
At my man.
My girly inner self screams and squeals and stomps her feet in delight.
“Because you want to take me to this ominous place called ‘somewhere.’”
He pouts. “Right.”
Amused, I move to the counter, putting away ingredients after he uses them to move us along faster. He passes me mine, and I take a large bite, leaning my hip on the counter. “So,” I speak around my mouthful, swallowing. “Any chance we can take a small detour on the way?”
He steps in, peeling the crust off his bread with his lips, and I laugh as he pulls it into his mouth with his tongue. “What kind of detour?”
“Mm.” I tip my head back and forth as I consider his question. “The exciting kind?”
“A candy store?”
My laugh flies from me, and I shake my head. “No, but I like the way you think.”
“I was doing my best ‘think like Davis’ for that one.” He grins, devouring the rest of his lunch with a single bite. “How long will this little detour take?”
“Five minutes tops.”
Crew digs into his pocket, holding his keys out for me. “Lead the way, Sweets.”
Giddy, I squeal, and then we’re off.
Mere minutes down the road, and we’re there.
Crew side-eyes me as I switch into the suicide lane, the only place to go, an old mechanic’s shop my dad found me last summer. Turning into the parking lot, I’m sure to keep us on the south side of the building, where the inquiring customers pull in.
Killing the engine, I throw my seat belt off, swiftly turning to Crew when he does the same.
“Wait here?”
His frown is instant, but with another glance at the place and a quick read of my gaze, he agrees. “Two minutes.”
“Fair enough.” I smile, dashing out of the car and into the building.
The man with the mullet—who only now looks hip, when I’m sure he’s had his since the first time they were in style—smiles, his coveralls covered in grease and hard labor.
“Last one, huh?” He steps up to the counter, glancing at the two-hundred-and-fifteen-dollar check on the counter.
“Last one.” I beam, bouncing on my heels as he does his part, crossing t’s and dotting i’s, and with a giant thank you, I’m out the door, opposite the one I came in through.
As I come around the building, Crew’s head snaps up from where he stands perched at the back of his hood, phone in hand.
At first, he appreciates, and then recognition clicks.
His frown is instant, deep, and then in slow motion, he kicks off, sliding his phone in his pocket.
I come to a stop right behind his car, and his heated eyes flick along the frame, eating up every inch of the fresh polish and settling on the whitewall tires, an unplanned addition I love, the white hood popping because of it.
“Davis.” His voice is low and gravelly, on the edge of flip-the-fuck-out mode.
Shoving my door open, I quickly hop out, hands raised. “Okay, I know what you’re thinking.”
“I will take a crowbar to this fucking thing before you can stop me if you don’t speak. Now. Might still if I don’t like what you have to say.”
Shit. Right.
Here we go…
Crew
My body is vibrating from the inside out, my blood hot and threatening to boil over, sending me into a fit of rage I might not be able to contain.
She said she was mine.
That the deal was off. Done.
Didn’t fucking matter.
So why the fuck did she bring me to this shop only hours after the terms of the bullshit deal were done?
Her cherry is good and fucking popped. Mine.
And the item she offered me in exchange for the job is shining behind her, mocking me. Mocking us.
“Um,” she starts, swallowing nervously. “I’m not—we’re not here so I can give it to you, though, I do think it should be yours.”
I reach behind me, popping my trunk, and her eyes widen.
“I just made the last payment!” she says quickly.
“Because that makes a fucking difference.” I pull at my restraint, connecting with the crowbar lying ready in my peripheral.
She continues. “I’ve had it here for a year now. My dad found this place, towed it down, and made the first payment to get things going, but I’ve been making the rest since. It’s been ready and waiting for almost three months now, but it took me a bit longer to pay it off since I had the seats redone to match the originals and got new tires. New seat belts and a glove box, too, so no more tape.”
My memory flashes to the white cleat tape me and Memphis dug out of our baseball bags to hold the thing up, sometimes using it as a place to hide a joint or something stupid from his parents.