Page 87 of Embody

Twenty-Eight

JT

OKAY, ANOTHERPOTENTIALLYdeadlyoversight on my part—I probably should’ve asked if Bellamy knew how to drive before getting her a car— ‘cause she sucks something awful at it. How did my dad not notice and eject himself from the vehicle,while moving?

I’m following her in my new Tahoe, praying for our, and everyone else on the road’s life, as she drives to her apartment in her new Acadia.

Sincerely praying.

A call comes in and against my better judgement, I push the Bluetooth button (yes, I set it up before leaving the lot) and dart my eyes back to Bellamy’s “Circus on Wheels” as quickly as possible. Still no horrific accident;thank God.

“Mr. Kendrick, are you there, sir?” Megan’s voice fills the car.

“Yes, I’m here. Not sure for how long,” I groan as Bellamy rolls through a stop sign and I have no choice but to do the same in order not to lose her.

“The background check you asked me to run came back all clear. It’s her real name, with a spotless record, and while the business has a very low profit margin, it is legitimate.”

“Thank you, Megan. Good work.”

“Of course, sir. Have a great day.”

One less thing I have to worry about. And, a positive I can offer up to counteract the very negative lecture I’m about to give Miss Bellamy “Brake Check” Morgan about her driving.

After what seems like for-damn-ever, we pull into her apartment complex. I take a deep breath, wait for my asshole to unclench, then get out and walk toward her…where she’s taken up two spaces to park.

“Baby,” I start gently, taking both her hands in mine, “do you work Saturday or Sunday?”

“Both, but only short shifts, four hours on Saturday and three on Sunday, why?”

“Just wondering,” I brush my lips over hers. “Go on up, I’m right behind you. I need to make a call real quick.”

“Okay,” she gives me a kiss of her own, pivoting gracefully and scampering toward the stairs.

When her bounding ass is out of sight, I pull out my phone and cue up the Internet browser. According to my hasty research, waitresses make…$2.13 a fucking hour?I’m seconds away from calling the Department of Labor and making their ears bleed when I read a little further down.

Oh, well, silly me for getting angry.Says here if their tips don’t make up the difference, which I’m willing to bet a nut they don’t in the hole-in-the-wall, almost always empty, Pit Stop, their wage gets bumped to a whopping $7.25 per hour.

So worst case scenario, Bellamy will be missing out on a whole fifty-one dollars by calling in for her weekend shifts.

Which she is most certainly going to do.

I ring Megan back at the office and fire-off a recon plan I need her to get done ASAP and call me back even faster. She assures me she’s got it and I hang up.

One last call before Bellamy starts to wonder what the hell’s taking me so long.

“JT, how are you, boy?” my Uncle Evan answers.

“Good, Uncle Evan, how are you?”

“Don’t suppose I can complain. Nice to hear from ya, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“You know that extra land you bought? Mind if I use some of those trails this weekend? Maybe stay in the house Saturday night, unless you’ve got it rented?”

“No,” he sighs, “it’s not rented. Know anybody looking?”

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