Charity let out a snorting laugh, then coughed to cover it up. Andrew glared at her.
“Out of all my nieces and nephews, you’re the only one who gives me a headache. Why are you always so disagreeable?”
He had said different variations of this to me while I was growing up. It stung back then, and it still stung now. I crossed my arms. “Am I? Maybe because you’re not particularly my favorite person.”
He didn’t hold back, so why would I?
He sneered. “I heard you’re back in college now,” he said. “You should stop fooling around and just finish your studies. Look at my son, John. He’s a successful pharmacist now. My daughters, Chloe and Judith, are both teachers. Your other cousins too—Cecille, Miriam, Naomi—they all graduated with degrees. What about you and Dylan? Your dad—”
I could tolerate some insults about me—I’d had so many thrown at me by nasty kids at school—but if he thought I’d let him get away with insulting my dad, he was very wrong. I was going to boot his bald ass out.
“Oh, but I’m very proud of my kids, Drew,” my dad announced cheerily. He stood at the front door, wiping his shoes on the outdoor rug on the porch before entering. He was lanky like me, and his six foot two inches were very hard to ignore. He took off his gimme cap and shoes and put them in the storage closet by the door. “They haven’t murdered anyone…yet.” My dad winked at me. “How’s it going, Charity?”
He trooped toward the kitchen sink to wash his hands of the grease that he could never get rid of entirely. For as long as I could remember, my dad’s hands were always stained with it. He wiped his hands with the dish towel hanging on the fridge handle and put water in the kettle to boil.
“You should encourage your kids more, Mike, so they can have big dreams, unlike…”
Unlike you was what he wanted to say.
Son of a bitch. I opened my mouth to deliver a killing blow, but my dad popped a piece of bread in my mouth. He sat on one of the barstools under the kitchen island that served as our dining table.
“I only need them to be decent human beings.” He smiled indulgently at Andrew. “Kara helps me with paperwork, and I’m training Dylan in the shop. They’re both with me. Healthy, happy. All I need, Drew. All I need.”
Andrew’s children didn’t ever visit him. They were too busy with their lives to bother with their parents.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charity look at my dad with longing. I heard from my dad’s sister that Charity liked my dad when they were younger, but my dad fell in love with my self-absorbed mother, who broke his heart and left him in the end.
Maybe that was why Andrew always looked down on my dad. He was still bitter. My dad, however, always respected him. When my grandparents’ farm wasn’t doing well, Andrew had sent money until they were back on their feet again. My dad always told me to have patience for my uncle because he owed a lot to him. I understood that. Why did he think I hadn’t murdered Andrew yet?
But right now, I really needed to put some distance between me and my uncle. Besides, four people in the house felt a little claustrophobic to me, so it was either escape to my room—which would upset my dad because he’d think it was rude—or leave, which was the safest bet. I’d tell him I needed to go to the library and study like a responsible college student. But first, my phone.
I tuned them out and stopped at the closed bathroom door, listening. My heart started beating faster at the thought of my phone ringing, but there was no sound on the other side. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door.
Ten missed calls.
From Dylan.
What the hell did he do now?
I turned the faucet on—I was sure I would hear a heartfelt lecture about paying the water bill from Andrew when I came out—and stood in the tub so they wouldn’t hear me. The walls in the house were paper thin.
“Kar? Why the hell weren’t you answering your phone?”
I scratched the back of my neck. Itchy. Frustrated. “Just so you know, Sour Face is here.”
“Ah. Glad I’m not there then.”
“Where are you?”
“At a friend’s house. Kar…I need your help.”
Pause.
“Did you kill anyone?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you put someone in the hospital?”
“No.”
“Are you in the hospital?”
“No. I told you, I’m at a friend’s house.”
“I don’t have money, Dylan. I told you—”
“It’s not that. I… You know this morning when I tried collecting that bill for the Camaro?”
“Well, you failed that one big time, and if I hadn’t had classes this afternoon, I would have nagged that hairy giganotosaurus a little more to pay his bill. And what’s he saying, that you owed him money? What’s between you and—”
“Kar, focus. Listen to me.”
The urgency in his voice made me stop.
“Kar,” he said quietly.
I waited.
“I…” His deep breath rattled in my ear. “I hit someone’s motorcycle.”
Chapter 6
Kara
“Wait. Back the hell up.” I smashed the phone against my ear. “Did I hear you say you hit someone’s motorcycle?”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before I heard Dylan’s quiet reply. “Yes.”
I gripped the phone hard and swallowed the panic threatening to climb up my chest. “Which one were you driving?”
This time the moment of silence was longer.
“Bertha,” he answered.
I snapped my eyes closed. Bertha was the ancient GMC truck rotting away in the garage’s lot for years.
Dylan had a weakness for classic trucks. He had begged my dad to let him drive the one we had in the lot—so he could show off to his friends—but it needed a lot of work done to it before it was even safe to drive. Hell, it needed a blessing from Jesus to make it safe to drive.
And, more importantly, it wasn’t insured.
I felt a headache trying to worm its way into the base of my neck. The idiot must have sneaked out with it.
“I’m going to kill you,” I hissed.
My dad was tapped out for cash from buying new equipment for the shop. Dylan was in high school, and Dad was still training him in the garage. I thought of the money I had worked so hard to save up sitting in my bank account.
All those times I had to wake up at four in the morning to do my shifts at the coffee shop. The backbreaking twelve-hour shifts at the personal care home and hospital. The odd jobs I had to take on the side, so I could add all that income to my savings.
It was supposed to pay for my tuition fee for next semester and buy off Andrew’s shares from the shop.
Now a huge chunk of it was going to pay for my brother’s stupidity.
I thought of the lecture my uncle pompously spouted at me every chance he got about me having a direction in life and finishing my studies. How could I when every time I took a step forward, something always slapped me in the face, reminding me it was all one big fat joke? Tears threatened to spill, but I held them off.
Steel, baby. I’m made of steel.
“Tell me what happened,” I said. “If you lie to me, I’ll cut off your dick, so help me God.”
“Okay, okay.” I could hear the whine in his voice, and the underlying fear in it.
Dylan was easily scared. Ever since we were kids, it was the trace of fear I heard in his voice, that same fear glittering in his eyes, that always, always got to me. And never failed to soften me up, raise my protective instincts.
It was one of my many weaknesses to want to protect him and bail him out of whatever trouble he was in or share that trouble with him.
Whenever Dylan had nightmares as a kid, he
would always call out for me. When he got bullied by the kids at school, he’d come home crying to me. Of course, I’d beat them up for him—and usually dragged Damon to be my sidekick.
When my brother got teased at school for wearing the same clothes over and over again or for wearing the hand-me-downs of the brothers and cousins of his classmates that the ladies at church had donated to us, I’d persuaded my grandma to ask her dressmaker friend to teach me how to cut and sew, so that I could redesign the hand-me-downs. I wasn’t going to win an award for best dressmaker of the year, and it didn’t stop the teasing completely, but it lessened.
I raised Dylan as much as my dad did. I never had a mother, but I learned how to be one out of necessity.
“After I tried to collect the money from Big Tony—”
“That giganotosaurus said you owe him money,” I said.
“It was a stupid bet. We were joking around. I had no idea he was serious about it.”
The headache had spread to my temples. Dylan was naive, especially about his “friends.” I tried to protect him, but I could only do so much. Maybe I was the root cause of it. I had sheltered him so much that he didn’t know how to spot users and had no street smarts. “Tell me about the motorcycle.”
“Big Tony threatened to beat me up if I didn’t pay him,” he said carefully.
I knew this already. It was why I drove to the customer’s place to collect his bill this morning.
“I was freaking out when I reversed the truck from his driveway. I didn’t know I reversed that far and veered off. I never even saw the motorcycle. It was an accident,” he whined.
“You idiot!” I pressed my finger to my eyes, sighed. Opening the medicine cabinet, I grabbed the bottle of aspirin, shook two into my mouth, and drank from the tap. “Did you damage it?”
“It was only a couple of scratches, I think…”
“You think? I need you to gather all your working brain cells right now—those that aren’t infected by your stupidity.”
“I was in a hurry! I didn’t get the time to inspect it. I got out of the car and lifted it back up. Maybe I didn’t damage it after all. I mean, it stood well enough. What do you think?”
“What do I think? You little shit. Dad told you not to drive Bertha!”
“I know. I’m sorry!” he wailed.
“You’re a spoiled kid, is what you are. Don’t you dare tell Dad about this. He’s already got so much on his plate without you adding to it.”
“What if someone saw me? My life is over. What if someone took a video on their phone and uploaded it online? What if I’m in the news tomorrow? Should I just come clean to the owner?”
“Calm your tits. Let me think.” I placed my hand on my neck, mulling it over. “So you’re saying there might be a chance you didn’t damage it at all.”
“I… Maybe.”
I heard the hope in his voice. Maybe in mine too. Maybe he didn’t damage it and he could get away with it. Maybe we were both just freaking out. If the owner saw him, he would have reported Dylan by now. The police would have been here by now.
“You think someone saw you?”
“I don’t know, Kar…”
“Listen. I’m going to drive by that house. You better start praying on your knees right now that motorcycle isn’t a wreck and is sitting in the driveway or I will sell your organs to pay for it.”
He sighed. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. Besides, I’m going to stop by your friend’s house and try to collect his bill. If he doesn’t pay this time, I’m calling the cops.”
“Aw, Kar. Don’t be like that.”
“Don’t you ‘Aw, Kar’ me. You’re lower than a worm right now.”
“What if his motorcycle is not in the driveway? What if I damaged it? What if he has a camera on his front porch and recorded everything? He’d see my license plate. My face. My gawsh.”
Judging from the tone of his voice, he’d be crying in a minute. I sighed. “What if you started sprouting wings out of your ass and flew to outer space? Man up.” And because I knew he was seriously freaking out and could have a panic attack, I softened my voice. “Look, Dyl, I’ll take care of it, and if there’s more to it, I’ll let you know. For now, I need you to come home and just…don’t touch anything. You got that?”
“I got it. Thanks, Kar.” His voice broke. “Thanks.”
I hung up and placed my phone in my pocket.
I got this.
I grabbed my keys and left.
* * *
I parked my car three houses away from Mr. Motorcycle’s place. Not too close, just in case someone in the neighborhood got suspicious. Not too far, just in case I needed to make a run for it.
The screen dashboard in my car indicated 7:00 p.m. It was dark. The streetlights were on, good folks tucked away in their lit-up houses, probably having a homecooked dinner or relaxing in their overpriced, comfortable beds.
Which I should be doing. Instead, I was here on a mission to save my brother’s ass.
I grabbed my thick hair—it was too long, and I needed to give it a trim—twisted and squished it under a cap. Should’ve brought my shades to be more incognito, I thought as I slid out of my car. Mr. Motorcycle’s house wasn’t that far from ours; someone might recognize me.
I shivered. Must be the cool night air, I decided as I zipped my oversized jacket closed. It was absolutely not because I was nervous. Or excited. Nope. Normal people stalk all the time. It was a legit pastime.
I always do it on social media.
Correction. Not stalk. Research. I was here to do research. I was just going to look around, see if the motorcycle was in the driveway. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as Dylan suspected.
What if the owner came back while I was sneaking around? I stopped in my tracks. Maybe I should bring the flyers from church I had in the car. If Mr. Motorcycle caught me around his house, I could simply hand him a flyer and say I was distributing it around the neighborhood. Genius.
Giving out flyers at seven-shit-o’-clock at night is genius? Really.
I shushed the bitchy voice in my head and spun around to return to my car to fetch the flyers.
Mr. Motorcycle’s house looked like a modern bachelor pad. Tall privacy-glass windows, sharp angles, lots of concrete. It seemed like a spare house for a drug lord’s youngest son. Not too big, but luxurious and expensive.
If my hunch was right, Dylan was going to be in an enormous pit of trouble. And it wouldn’t be just him in that pit. It’d be him, me, and my dad.
There was a long, wide driveway that led to the garage. On the driveway was a muscle truck, but no sign of a motorcycle. Why was his truck on the driveway and not in the garage?
Maybe there was more than one person living in the house. That would make it a little more complicated, but nothing my investigative skills couldn’t handle.
A six-foot-high fence extended from the side of the windowless garage with a door I assumed led to the backyard. There were no lights in the house except for the soft glow of the porch light. No one was home.
I imagined an evil grin on my face, rubbing my hands in glee at this golden opportunity. I cracked my knuckles. My body is ready.
Maybe I should whistle casually.
Overkill much?
Swallowing the nervousness down, I walked closer. There were no trees or bushes I could jump in to hide. My eyes scanned for any cameras attached to the exterior of his house. In the darkness, it was hard to see every nook and cranny, but I was 97.9% sure there weren’t any.
My heart beat madly as I studied the fence. I looked behind me to check if I was still alone. Everything was spookily quiet except for my loud breathing and the occasional scratching sound my shoes made against the concrete as I stopped in front of the fence.
I laid my palm carefully on the door, pushe
d gently. It was locked. Damn it. It was too high to see over, and there were no gaps between the wood posts to peek through.
There should have been something in the front yard I could use to step on, so I could see what was behind the fence, but he didn’t care to have anything on his lawn but grass. My eyes shot to Big Tony’s house. He still owed us money, and he was next on my list. I marched quickly to his front yard, unapologetically grabbed a fake wood stump made of plastic surrounded by funny-looking gnomes, and returned to Mr. Motorcycle’s fence.
There, I thought, dusting my hands off after positioning the stump. I stepped on it, looking down to make sure it didn’t wobble. When I looked up, my jaw dropped.
La-dee-freaking-da. A huge pool sat empty in the backyard—probably didn’t bother filling it because it was too cold to swim outdoors now—but the blue lights on its walls were on and some fancy lampposts scattered in the garden, casting an eerie glow around the yard. Mature trees, beautiful stonework. I loved good landscaping, and this was first-class.
I almost forgot my mission. The motorcycle. Peace of mind was imperative, and I just had to make sure this wasn’t going to bite us in the ass later. Still, there was no sign of the motorcycle. I could very well be honest about it and knock on his door and confess everything, but what if this guy proved to be a psycho? I didn’t want to risk it.
Should I climb the fence and see if he had another door behind the garage? Maybe it was open, and I could sneak inside quickly. But…what if he had a dog?
Focus. If there were a dog, it would be barking by now.
Gathering my powers, I laid my hands flat on top of the fence. I was going to lift myself up, hook one leg on top, when I heard a noise behind me. Every hair on my body rose.
Holy shit, I’m going to prison tonight.
“Who are you?” A very deep, very male, very cold voice said behind me.
Everything inside me froze.
Run!
But my limbs were frozen. Legs weak, I let gravity take over and lower me to the ground, tripping when my foot missed the stump. I squealed, grabbing the fence to maintain my balance. All the jostling loosened my hat, spilling my hair down my back.
Spitfire in Love Page 4
