Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“Eight-car pileup on seventy-five,” he said, his gaze focused on Moran who hadn’t tried to hide. “Multiple casualties. Needed all hands on deck.”
“Damn,” I winced. “That sucks.”
“What did she have to say?” he asked as he fell into step beside me.
“Same shit. Her brother’s missing. She thinks Webber had something to do with it,” I grumbled as we got to where he would go left and I’d go right. “Let me know if you need anything.”
We separated and went our different ways, but I could tell that Chevy would be letting Webber know about the altercation.
Which made me feel all warm and gooey.
I loved the club.
I loved the family that Aella found for us.
Oh, and I loved Piers Webb, even if he didn’t love me back.
Nine
I’m gonna be nosy. I want to know why your kids are in your bio on FB but not in your custody.
—Silver’s secret thoughts
SILVER
The Grand Am was acting up again.
I knew what it was.
I needed a new timing belt.
The squeal was god awful, not to mention embarrassing.
I contemplated whether to go to Webb’s or not for a solid thirty minutes—because I hadn’t spoken to my father in weeks after his latest incident and there was no way I was going to his place—before I finally decided…fuck it.
I went to my bedroom—which was actually my living room—and searched through the stack of clean clothes on my dresser before finding the oldest pair of cutoff shorts that I owned.
The same shorts that I wore every time that I worked on cars, and I didn’t care if they got dirty.
It being mid-July, there was no way in hell that I was going to wear jeans. Even if it was the smarter thing to do because of all the grease I knew was about to coat my legs.
It was damn near impossible for me to stay clean when I was working on my car.
No matter how hard I tried, I inevitably ended up getting coated in grease from head to foot.
Which was why I also chose a sleeveless cutoff tee that barely reached the top of my jean shorts.
I followed the outfit up with my old pair of sneakers that I keep to work on my car. Fuck running in them. I snatched up my car keys before heading out the door.
I was throwing my hair up in a bun when I got out to the parking lot and headed for my car.
I was wholly unsurprised to find Moran in the parking lot leaning against my car.
If I hadn’t needed my car, I would’ve just turned around and walked the opposite way.
However, I did need my car.
So I got up to it, didn’t acknowledge the woman that was leaning against it—luckily on the passenger side—and unlocked it.
When I was inside, I locked the door again and started it up.
I was satisfied when the bellowing peel of the belt filled the space around us, causing Moran to jackknife out of her casual lean against my car and stare at me with anger on her face.
Like I was the one that actually made it squeal and scare her.
The absurdity…
Using her anger and distance from my car to my advantage, I pulled out of my spot.
I’d started to back in when the Truth Tellers had first entered my life.
I’d witnessed them all back in, everywhere they went, no matter what. And I’d adopted the habit.
It had proven to be great, especially for situations like the one I found myself in now.
It being a Saturday, I treated myself to some donuts on the way to Webb’s, and made sure to get enough to feed an army in case some of Webber’s crew was there working.
When I arrived it was to find Hush the only one there.
He was also working on a pretty sweet looking short bed, square body Chevy.
He was leaned deep into the engine, his arms flexing and tightening as he used what would be my guess of a ratchet, when I pulled up.
My face flamed as I turned the car off and got out.
“Timing belt?” he said.
“I know,” I confirmed. “Would it be okay to use y’all’s shop for a bit so I can change it?”
His brows rose. “You know what’s wrong?”
“Yes,” I said. “My grandfather, and sometimes even my dad, taught me everything that I might need to know about fixing cars. I’m not fluent in anything over two thousand and eight, though. That’s when the cars started to get smart, and we’d never been affluent enough to be able to afford the newer cars, and my dad doesn’t work on anything after that time.”
“Your dad is a mechanic?” he asked.
“When he wants to be,” I answered. “When he doesn’t have someone to support him and he’s forced to work.”
That was what he did.
He married, had his wife support him. When that wife got tired of supporting him, and not getting any help around the house, she’d kick him to the curb. Then he’d start the process all over again with the next chick.