The school she’d attended for twelve years loomed ahead, ghosts of those years dancing in the weak moonlight illuminating the playground. The next building on the block was the garage, and the sight of it almost changed her mind. Lenny and Billy would only miss her at meal time, but Bobby Junior and Tackle depended on her to pitch in around the shop.
Then again, Tackle had bought the truck for Daddy. Surely he’d asked where the money had come from. Daddy could have lied, but her brother’s probable betrayal hollowed out her insides.
She passed MacIntyre’s Drugstore. No more hanging out there with Pamela Sue at the lunch counter.
The end of things would have come soon enough once the condo in Dallas was built, but that was later. This was now, and it was harder than she’d expected.
Mercifully, there were no buildings on Main past the drugstore for a quarter of a mile. She finally reached the one and only motel in Little Crooked Creek and rehearsed some lines designed to talk her way into a free room.
A flash of yellow drove everything out of her mind.
Moonlight glinted off the muy amarilla Ferrari parked under the lone streetlight. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Kris was still here. Not driving toward Dallas and Kyla, to whom he wasn’t engaged.
It was fate.
Maybe he’d give her a ride in exchange for directions. He’d defended her against her brothers. He would help her, she knew he would.
But then she’d have to explain what happened to her money and why the big hurry to get out of town. She ground her teeth. Kris didn’t need to be burdened with her soap opera. Neither did she want to lie.
What if she made it seem like she was helping him? What if something was mysteriously wrong with the car?
Oh, it won’t start? Let me look at it. Ah, here’s the problem. No, I couldn’t accept anything in return. Except maybe a ride to Dallas.
Stupid plan. It’s a Ferrari, dummy, not a Ford. What if the engine was different than the domestic ones she knew?
There was only one way to find out and what else did she have? Not money. Not choices. Here was a golden opportunity to escape Little Crooked Creek forever and start over in Dallas. Her future roommate would surely take her in a little early, allowing VJ to crash on her couch. Once she got on her feet, she’d pay Beverly back, with interest.
Holy cow, the trip to Dallas was like nine hours. Nine hours in the company of Kristian Demetrious. Five hundred and forty minutes. More, if she could stretch it out.
She peered into the interior of the car, careful not to touch the glass in case the alarm was supersonic. The dash was devoid of blinking red lights, which hopefully meant no alarm at all. She fished a metal nail file from her purse and frowned. Not nearly long enough to pop the lock from the outside. Maybe she could peel the convertible top back a little and stick the file in that way.
On a hunch, she tried the handle. The door swung open easily. Unlocked. Only the rich.
Quickly, she released the deck lid and beelined it to the rear of the car. At least she knew the engine was in the back instead of the front. But it was downright foreign, an engine for a space ship instead of for a car, but one mechanism was the same. She reached in and wiggled the ignition coil wire loose.
Now nothing would start this car without her help. She closed the deck lid with a quiet click and retrieved her bag. Now, where to wait for Kris?
Wrinkling her nose at the space next to the Dumpster, she settled onto the concrete by the ice machine and tried to relax enough to fall asleep. Not likely with the knowledge this was probably the first of many nights sleeping on the street.
This plan had to work. Had to. Heavy, humid air pressed down on her in the dark silence. Crickets chirped in the field beside the motel, but the music did nothing to take her mind off the panic rolling around in her stomach.
What if Kris wasn’t meant to be her knight in shining armor?
Three
Kris examined the engine of Kyla’s car. Nothing seemed out of place, but how would he know if it was? The Ferrari had started fine every time he’d driven it. Why had it picked now, and here, to flake out?
Penance, for the delay. That’s why. Kyla had undoubtedly cursed it, then texted him to bring it to her in Dallas, pretty please. He should have shipped the car instead of driving it. She wouldn’t have cared either way, but no. He’d driven to allow time to obsess over the inflexible Hollywood machine.
Muttering slurs on Italian engineers, he yanked his phone out of his back pocket.
“Car problems, chief?” VJ’s honeyed drawl rang out from behind him.
He grinned, strangely elated, and twisted to greet her. Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.
With a succinct curse, he ran a thumb over the welt on her upper cheek. “What happened to your face?”