Page 3 of Broken Pact

“Just getting there, Ern,” the boss says, pivoting to face me. “So here’s the deal, sweetcheeks. We’re your new landlords. And rent’s due.”

“Bullshit. I paid Mr. Wright for a year’s worth of rent four months ago. I’m paid up until next spring.”

The third guy shakes his head, his greasy hair not moving a single inch on his head. “New landlord, new rules, girlie.”

“Chad’s right. So you either pay up or I’m going to have to evict you. And I can’t guarantee my boys are gonna be real gentle with all this nice . . . equipment you have here.” The boss runs his gaze down my body as he says equipment, and it takes everything inside of me to stop the revulsion from shivering down my spine.

“How much?” I grit through a clenched jaw. The quicker I can get them out, the faster I can call a locksmith and change the locks. They must have a key, because I know I locked the front door this morning.

The boss finger-combs his beard. “Hm, let’s say two large. A month. With last month and next month’s due at the same time.”

My mouth drops open and I blurt, “Are you fucking kidding me?

“Nah, girlie, I assure you, the boss doesn’t joke about matters of the heart,” Chad says with a slimy grin.

I shift my weight on my feet. This is total bullshit. I’m getting a, what do they call it, a shakedown. I can’t believe I'm getting shook down by a couple of random men in the middle of downtown Avalon Falls. My mom is never going to let me hear the end of this. I side-eye them as doubt worms its way into me. How do I know they’re who they say they are? I need to call Mr. Wright.

“Now because I’m generous, I’ll give you two weeks to get the funds together. Ern and Chad’ll be back to collect,” the boss says, strolling toward the door. He pauses at the threshold, looking over his shoulder at me. “Oh and sweet cheeks? If you don’t have it, we’ll be collecting in other ways.”

He’s gone as easily and suddenly as he showed up, and I’m left alone in my bakery, wondering what the hell just happened. And more importantly, how am I going to come up with that money?

2

JASPER

Warm air blows out of the air conditioning unit nestled into the corner of bay three inside RGRC, Rosewood Garage and Repair Company. It’s in the center of a trio of auto-focused businesses the Reapers run, on the Reaper compound.

The word compound always scares off out-of-towners, but it’s just an old school way of saying community. Because that’s what the Reapers are. We’re a community within Rosewood, and we have a sort of symbiotic relationship. Mutually beneficial for all.

So we have an excellent group of mechanics at RGRC, plus The Vault and Southern Steel. The Vault is dedicated to restoring classic cars, and Southern Steel is our custom body artwork studio garage. Nova St. James, one of my closest friends, does some of the most coveted auto body artwork in the nation. He’s more selective about his work now that he’s got a family, but he’s still the most talented motherfucker I’ve ever known.

“Goddamnit. It’s fucking hot as balls in here,” Hawke yells.

Outside of Nova, Hawke’s the other person I’m closest to. A thump follows his shout, and I pull out from underneath the hood of the vintage Ford truck to look.

Hawke combs his shoulder-length dark blond hair back into a messy bun at the back of his head, frustration fueling his sharp movements.

Sweat trickles down my back, soaking the worn fabric of my overalls. The heat inside the garage feels like a living entity, pressing down on me with relentless force.

I wipe my brow with the back of my grease-stained hand and squint at Hawke, then the wrench halfway down the workbench that spans the entire back wall, and back to him again.

“You know, if Prez catches you treating his tools like that,” I trail off, leaving the threat hanging.

“It’s my fucking wrench, bro,” he mutters.

I chuckle and reach for my room temperature water bottle next to me. “I don’t think he’ll really give a fuck. Do you?”

Hawke exhales loudly, the heat making my usually carefree friend fucking petulant. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just so fucking hot in here. Remind me why we can’t open the bay doors again?”

“You know why.” I drain the rest of my water, scrunch up the plastic, and toss it across the room. It hits inside the garbage can with a tinny-sounding thunk.

Because as hot as it is inside this metal box, it’s even hotter outside. And once we open the bay doors, we’ll never be able to get the temperature in here under control. And he knows it as well as I do.

The central air has never worked for long in this garage. Like some kind of fucked-up routine, it’d break, we’d get it fixed, and it would work like a dream for six months or so. Then the cycle started all over again.

Ironically, it’s arctic-cool in the garage’s attached office. Unfortunately, it’s a ten by ten space with a desk, a mini refrigerator, some chairs, and a couch squeezed between two walls. It’s cramped, but it’s not the worst place I’ve ever taken a meal break.

Of course, I could walk across the courtyard to the compound where there’s a fully-stocked kitchen. But the constant hum of noise is overstimulating on the days where the heat frays my nerves.

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