"Yeah?" He turned and flashed me a cocky grin. "So why don't you get your sweet ass in the car, and let me finish up?"
I swallowed. If he thought my ass was sweet, he should see his own.
Damn it. Not helpful.
Shaking off the distraction, I tugged harder at his hand. "There's nothing to finish up. Let's just go. Okay?"
When he still made no move, I gave a sigh of irritation and dropped his hand. I took a deliberate look around. If nothing else, there was always the ditch.
Under his breath, the painter said, "Don't even think about it."
So, under my breath, I replied, "I wouldn’t have to, if you'd just cooperate."
But already, he was looking back to the pickup. He frowned, like he didn't like what he saw.
Oh yeah? Welcome to the club, pal.
Still, I followed his gaze, only to feel myself pause. A second face had appeared in the passenger's side window. This new face belonged to Mike Lakowski, another wrestler from high school.
His eyes were wide, and his mouth was open. He was staring, star-struck, at the painter. "Hey, I know you."
After a long, awkward pause, the painter said, "No. You don't."
"Sure I do." Mike grinned. "I saw you fight at State."
The painter's mouth tightened. "I never went to State."
"Well, not state-state," Mike said. "It was in that warehouse on the East Side." He gave a low chuckle. "Man, you totally slaughtered that guy."
I tensed. What?
Slowly, I shifted my gaze back to the painter. He wasn't denying it. In fact, he wasn't saying anything at all. But from the look on his face, he wasn't thrilled with Mike's comment.
Well, this was just great. So the steamroller was also a butcher? Yes, I realized that Mike wasn't speaking literally. Still, an image of blood and guts flashed in my brain.
Unlike the painter, it wasn't pretty.
I was so ready to leave. But I was hemmed in on all sides. I turned and gave the ditch a longer look. Was the water dirty? Or just dark?
Suddenly, a strong hand closed around mine. When I looked up, the painter tightened his grip and gave me a warning look.
Oh, for God's sake. I wasn't really planning to hit the ditch.
Well, not without a canoe, anyway.
I met his gaze straight-on, refusing to be intimidated. While I was at it, I also refused to be intimidated by his insanely long eyelashes, that full mouth, or his finely cut muscles – the ones that made Chester's look like budget beef in comparison.
Still gripping my hand, the painter turned back to Chester and gave him a final warning look. And then, he turned away, guiding us toward the Camaro.
As we moved, I snuck a quick glance over my shoulder. Chester was still staring, and he still looked perplexed.
Yeah, I knew the feeling.
Chapter 11
A minute later, I was sitting in the passenger's seat of the Camaro, watching as the painter shut my car door and then circled the Camaro's front to claim the driver's seat.
When he closed his car door, I blew out a shaky breath. No turning back now.
Behind us, the pickup was still there, with its engine running and headlights blazing through the Camaro's back window. I turned in my seat and gave the truck what I hoped was a cheery wave. Under my breath, I said, "Alright guys, just go already."
Next to me, the painter eyed the truck in the rear-view mirror. "Don't bet on it."
"Why not?"
"My guess? They want us to go first."
I gave him a sideways glance. "So…Should we? Go, I mean?"
"Not yet."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because I don't want them following you."
"Oh." I hesitated. "Honestly, I don't think that matters. I mean, Chester knows where I live, so…" I shrugged and let the sentence trail off.
"So…?" the guy prompted, as if waiting for me to finish.
I hadn't planned on finishing. I mean, what could I say? Still, I tried again. "I just mean that if he wants to find me, he wouldn’t have to actually follow me to do it."
The painter was still looking in the rear-view mirror. "You want him to follow you?"
"Not really." I tried to laugh. "But he's harmless. I knew him back in high school." I snuck another quick glance behind us. "It's been years since I saw him last. If he really wanted to bother me, he would've already."
The painter pulled his gaze from the mirror and gave me a long, sideways look. "Seemed like he was bothering you tonight."
"Yeah, but that was just a fluke, you know?"
Even as we talked, it struck me that this whole thing was decidedly off-kilter. I knew Chester. He'd grown up a few miles from here. His dad was the local chiropractor, for cripe's sake.
But this guy? The painter? He was practically a stranger. He could be an ax-murderer for all I knew. After all, he did "slaughter" people.
I bit my lip. What the hell was I doing? Probably, I shouldn't even be sitting here at all.
Trying to get a grip, I reminded myself that Mike had recognized this guy. That pretty much guaranteed my safety, right? I mean, no one would slaughter a girl they'd just been spotted with in public.
I swallowed. Would they?
From the driver's seat, the painter said, "If you need 'em, there's nunchucks in the glove compartment."
I gave a little jump. "What?"
His gaze had already returned to the mirror. In a deadpan voice, he said, "Just letting you know."
I didn't even know what nunchucks were. Reluctantly, I looked toward the glove compartment. Should I open it and find out? Or was I better off not knowing?
Trying to avoid looking clueless, I said, "Why would I need those?"
He was still eyeing the truck. "Protection. What else?"
"Protection from who?"
He glanced briefly in my direction. "Well, from the look on your face. Me."
A flash of heat blazed across my cheeks. Damn it. It was like the guy was some kind of mind-reader or something.
My shoulders slumped. No. That wasn't it. More likely, my thoughts were just that obvious.
Going for a recovery, I straightened and said, "I'm not afraid of you, if that's what you're implying."
"Uh-huh."
"I'm not," I insisted. In a funny way, it was almost true. Yeah, my imagination could run wild sometimes, but there was a reason I was sitting here, and not in the pickup.
True, the painter didn't like me. That much was obvious. But it was also obvious that he'd made a special trip to track me down and offer me the ride that I'd originally requested. And, he'd gone along with that whole boyfriend sham, even though he hardly knew me.
On top of all that, there was one fact I couldn’t deny. When I'd felt the urge to flee, it hadn't been from him. It had been to him.
If I'd been truly worried that he might harm me, I would've taken my chances with Chester the Shirtless Wonder and his trusty sidekick.
After a long moment, I concluded that I wasn't afraid of the painter at all. It was just that, well, logic dictated that I should be.
I cleared my throat and turned to give him a better look. "Should I be afraid?"
Slowly, he pulled his gaze from the mirror and turned to face me. In the brightness of the truck's headlights, I saw the hint of a dimple on his left cheek and the remnants of worry lines between his eyes. The contradiction caught me off guard, and I blurted out, "Well? Should I?"
"No." Again, he looked to the mirror. "But you'd be smarter if you were."
"What?"
Abruptly, he turned again to face me. His voice hardened. "You shouldn't've been out here."
Well, that was rich. I felt my gaze narrow. "You know, I wouldn't've been out here, if only someone had given me a ride when I asked."
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Refusing to let it go, I demanded, "So why didn't you?"
"I figured you'd call someone."
"Like who?"
I stared at him. "A servant?"
"Hey, I saw your house, remember?"
"Oh, trust me. I remember." My tone grew sarcastic. "But unfortunately, it's Jeeves’ night off."
If he was amused, he didn't show it. "I'm just saying, I figured you had a driver."
I was still staring. What world did this guy think I lived in? I had no driver. I barely had a car.
And as far as the house? Yes, it was big and impressive, but I maintained it on my own.
I was the maid. I was the gardener. I mopped the floors and mowed the lawn. In a weird, twisted arrangement, the estate actually paid me for some of these services, but the amount sucked, and I was still broke.
I practically snorted. "A driver?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry, but I sent him out." I gave the painter a sarcastic smile. "For caviar."
His eyebrows lifted. "Caviar?"
"Yes." My mouth tightened. "And a yacht."
He looked at me for a long, silent moment. Whether he caught the joke, I had no idea.
Finally, he said, "I'm just saying, you shouldn't be getting in a car with some guy you barely know." His voice hardened. "It's a dangerous habit."
"I don't make a 'habit' of it," I told him. "It was just one of those things. You do remember that my car broke down, right?"
"I remember."
"So, what is this?" I said. "A lecture?"
"I'm just saying, someone like you? Should be more careful."
"Someone like me?" My voice rose. "What, like too rich and stupid to drive my own car?"
"No. Like too trusting." He looked away. "And too pretty to be out here alone."
My lips parted, but no words came out. He thought I was pretty? If so, that was news to me. Without thinking, I asked, "Are you serious?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?" He made a point to look around. "This road? At night? With almost zero traffic and a big-ass ditch? It's like something from a bad movie."
His response felt like a non-answer. Still, I knew exactly the kind of movie he meant, the kind where buxom hitchhikers meet their untimely doom, thanks to bad luck and worse judgment.
The thought wasn't exactly comforting.
Behind us, the truck still hadn't moved. I looked to the painter and said, "Can we just go? Please?"
He spared me half a glance. "If you wanna go, buckle up."
Eager to move this along, I reached for the seatbelt and fastened it over my lap. When I finished, I looked to the painter and hesitated. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt. "What about you?" I asked. "How come you're not buckled up?"
"No seatbelt."
"Really?" I felt my eyebrows furrow. "Is that even legal?"
He gave something like a shrug. "Don't worry about it."
But I was worried. Safety aside, I knew the answer to my last question. And even if I didn't? There was a helpful road sign, literally one car-length ahead. The sign said, Buckle Up. It's the Law.
I pointed. "You do see that sign, right?"
"I see it."
If he'd grown up anywhere in the state, he would've seen a hundred signs just like it. So I had to ask, "Then why don't you have a seatbelt?"
"Because the car was in storage."
It was then that I recalled something. Oh, no. The car had no plates. In the big scheme of things, that was several degrees more serious than a missing seatbelt. My stomach twisted. Was this car even legal?
With growing nervousness, I said, "But you do have license plates? Like somewhere in the trunk or something?" I hesitated. "Right?"
He shook his head. "Sorry."
I groaned. "Oh, my God. Is that why you didn't want to give me a ride?"
"I never said I didn't want to."
But he had. I racked my brains. Hadn't he?
Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, I said, "What does that even mean?"
"It means, the car had nothing to do with it."
"But then why?" I asked.
"Because I’m a stranger." He made a hard scoffing sound. "And an asshole. Seems to me, you were showing piss-poor judgment."
Well, that was nice. So he was back to insulting me again? I gave him an annoyed look. "Then why'd you come out to get me?"
"Better me than someone else."
I gave him a stiff smile. "Like my driver?"
He didn’t smile back. "No. Like a fuckin' psycho. The world's full of them, you know."
"Yeah," I snapped. "I know." In fact, I was pretty sure that I was looking at one now. "But about this car–"
"Trust me. You don't wanna know."
"Actually, I do." I gave a bark of nervous laughter. "You didn't steal it or anything, did you?"
He looked at me for a long, tense moment. And the longer the silence stretched out, the more I wondered if my so-called joke was actually true.
Suddenly, I wasn't laughing anymore. "So, uh, did you?"
He turned away. "Like I said, you don't wanna know."
Oh, crap.
And with that, he shifted into gear and hit the gas.
Chapter 12
The Camaro roared forward with us inside. I whirled in my seat and saw the truck's headlights fade into the distance.
I whirled back to the painter and said, "You stole this? That's what you're saying?"
He was still watching the road. "Did I say that?"'
"No."
"Well, there you go."
I stared at him. "That's no kind of answer."
He gave me a sideways glance. "Relax. I didn't steal it."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "You didn't?"
He returned his attention to the road. "Not exactly."
Not exactly? What on Earth did that mean? "So whose car is it?" I said. "Do you even know?"
"Yeah. I know."
"Well?" I demanded.
"Well what?"
"Whose car is it?"
"My brother's."
"Oh." Actually, that made a weird kind of sense. "So you borrowed it?"
He was silent for a long moment before saying, "I dunno."
"How can you not know? You either borrowed it, or you didn't."
As an answer, he only shrugged.
I made a sound of frustration. "But you are planning to return it, right?"
He gave it some thought. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" I glanced around. "Is there anything else I should know?" I gave a nervous laugh. "I mean, you don't have a bunch of guns in the trunk or anything, do you?"
At this, he hesitated.
Oh, no. I felt myself swallow. "Do you?"
He gave me a sideways glance, but said nothing.
I groaned. "Oh, my God. You do, don't you?"
After a painfully long moment, he said, "I wouldn't call it a bunch."
I sank back in my seat. Just shoot me now. No. Wait. Not literally. He did, after all, have guns readily available. I turned back to him and said, "How many would you call it?"
He gave it some thought. "A few."
"A few?" I croaked. "As in more than one? How many is a few?"
"Hard to say. I didn't count."
Hoping for the best, I said, "But they're not yours? I mean, they probably belong to the car's owner." I paused. "They do, right?"
I held my breath and waited for his response. Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.
He gave me another sideways glance. "No."
I cringed. Damn it.
He said, "They belong to my other brother."
I was staring again. "How many brothers do you have?"
His voice hardened. "Too many."
I shoved a nervous hand through my hair. Desperately, I tried to look on the bright side. The whole stolen-car-with-guns-in-the-trunk thing had completely taken my mind off the missing seatbelt.
I closed my eyes and tried to envision a glass half full. It was a total waste. I didn’t even see the glass. Instead, I saw the painter getting dragged off to
jail, with me calling out after him, "Thanks for the ride, Painter Guy!"
Right on the heels of this thought came another. What if I was arrested with him?
The guy's voice, sounding vaguely amused, broke through my thoughts. "Don't worry. They're legal. Collector's items mostly."
Obviously, he meant the guns. I asked, "But why do you have them?"
He shrugged. "Because I took them."
"Why?"
"Because he had it coming." The painter gave me a sideways glance. "It's complicated."
Oh, I had no doubt of that. I glanced around. Maybe I should've gone for the ditch. Or Chester.
Heaven help me.
As if reading my mind, the painter said, "You don't need to worry. It's fine."
I gave a bark of laughter. "You mean except for the fact that we're surrounded by stolen goods?"
He hesitated. "Yeah. Except for that."
I rolled my eyes. "Well, that's a relief."
"Trust me," he said. "It's not a big deal."
"Maybe not to you."
Oh sure, he could look calm and collected. As for me, I was a mess.
I had no idea what was going on. But I did know we were both too pretty for prison. Yes, I realized that I wasn't quite as pretty as he was, but I was definitely a whole lot wimpier.
From the driver's seat, he said, "Relax. I'll have you home in five minutes."
But I couldn't relax. My mind was still churning. I'd need a girlfriend. A tough girlfriend. But I didn't want to be anyone's prison bitch. For one thing, I liked guys.
I was still panicking when his words finally sunk in. Home – he was planning to take me to my house.
Oh, crap. I hadn't mentioned it, but I'd been planning to have him drop me off not at my house, but instead, five miles further, at T.J.'s., where everyone was waiting.
But there was no way on Earth I could ask him that now. The added distance aside, T.J.'s was located in the center of town, right next to the city's only police station.
I tried to think. What now? Assuming I made it home safely – thus, avoiding a life of shower-shanking and muff-licking, how was I supposed to get to the party?
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t blow it off. People were waiting. And they'd been waiting far too long already.
Feeling incredibly overwhelmed, I sank down in my seat.
Something Tattered (Joel Bishop Book 1) Page 5
