Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
She took another whiff.
No, it wasn’t tobacco. It had a different type of pungent odor.
She quickly snapped the lid shut. “Is this yours?”
“Nope.”
His baseball cap was now turned forward with the bill pulled low and he wore his sunglasses making it hard to read his expression.
“That’s pot, right?”
He ran his fingers down his cheek. “Nah.”
His face was baby smooth and wrinkle-free. The only part that wasn’t smooth was his tightly trimmed beard. It wasn’t a typical beard—something she normally wasn’t into—but one that was so short it could be considered a five-o’clock shadow. Or scruff. She wasn’t sure of the term. The way he had it, his cheeks were shaved bare and at first glance his facial hair appeared more like a goatee. On closer look, the short wiry hairs followed along his jawline.
He had just enough scruff on his face to make him not look like he was twenty. Though, she wasn’t sure how much past twenty he was. Her estimation was he had to be at least twenty-five. But if he was even thirty yet, she’d be surprised.
She shouldn’t even be focused on that. She should be focused on getting Agnes back to the shop and then getting back on the road.
A head popping up and into the open driver’s side window had her biting back a surprised gasp.
It was the owner of the garage. Now his salt-and-pepper beard, heavy on the salt, was long and shaggy, definitely not Fallon’s taste. And unlike Whip, the older man had plenty of creases decorating his face to show his age. She guessed he might be in his early sixties. If he was younger than that, he’d lived a hard life.
“Don’t you fuck up this rollback, idiot,” he growled, “or I’ll take it outta your pay.”
“Not gonna fuck it up,” Whip assured him. He twisted, grabbed the tin still in her fingers and shoved it at the older man. “You forgot this. Good thing she found it instead of one of the pigs when you’re towin’ one of the pig mobiles.”
Pigs? Pig mobiles? Why would a garage haul around pigs?
Dutch took the tin and swatted the air. “Bah. They ain’t fuckin’ up their contract with us over a little weed. They got it good here and they know it.”
“Right,” Whip muttered. “Now get off the step before I put it in gear, knock you the fuck off and you break a hip.”
The old man’s eyes landed on Fallon, stuck for a few seconds, then sliced back to Whip. He pursed his lips, yanked on his beard and smiled.
Even Fallon could see a whole lot of things went unsaid in both his eyes and that smile. Things she didn’t want to begin to unpack.
“Get the fuck off the truck, Dutch,” Whip said more firmly. “Before I actually go through with it.”
“And your ass would be fired.”
Whip shrugged. “Trip will hire me for the repo business instead and you’ll be missing your best bike mechanic.”
Dutch’s tightly pressed together lips got lost in the overgrown hair around his mouth. “Don’t fuck it up,” he said again, tapped his palm on the bottom of the window frame and disappeared.
Whip glanced in the large side mirror, probably to make sure his boss was clear.
“Why is he worried about you screwing up the rollback?”
“I normally don’t run it,” Whip answered. “Dutch does.”
“Then, why are you doing it now?”
“Trust me, you don’t wanna ride with him.” He shot her another one of those panty-melting smirks.
“Why?”
Whip’s smirk disappeared, he scratched the back of his neck, then shook his head. “Just trust me.”
“Hard to trust someone I just met,” she murmured. Even though she had to trust him enough to climb on the back of the Yamaha and also into the tow truck with him.
She wasn’t getting the crazy psycho stalker vibe from him. Far from that.
He pushed in the clutch, shoved the rollback into gear but kept his feet on the brake and clutch pedals. He glanced over at her. “True.”
Hmm.
The way he said that sounded like he might not trust her for some reason.
“You never did explain how you knew about that hiding spot,” she said, as he released the clutch and the rollback surged forward with a jerk.
“Didn’t I?” He kept his eyes on the road.
“No.”
“Just a hidin’ spot all us locals know.”
“Then it’s not a hiding spot if everyone knows about it.”
His eyes flicked to her and then back to the road, his lips pressed just as tightly as Dutch’s had been.
Interesting.
But in the scheme of things, did it really matter how he knew about the spot or why he was avoiding an explanation? No, it didn’t.
That was one of the small things she was learning to let go of.
Knowing the whys and hows of where they hid Agnes would not change the outcome of her life.