Page 39 of Live Love Steal
He sighed. “It wasn’t.”
My heart went out to him and his son. They needed someone solid in their lives, like my parents. Then it hit me. The Destroyers were Sketch’s solid. And because of that, he could be Noah’s solid. Ugh. It was too easy to sympathize with him. If my parents hadn’t been so awesome, maybe I would have been the wild sister. And, if that had happened... I rubbed my tattoo. Crystal clarity revealed too many dark secrets in my soul. I could have been just like Noah’s mom. Hardened by life and demanding something to make it less difficult.
And the less I dwelt on that, the better.
“Let’s get this shit over with and get out of here. This is a horrible neighborhood,” I said.
“How would you know?”
I poked a finger north. “My sister lived about two blocks away with her boyfriend. He was much worse than your ex or you, and I’d really like to not go that direction when we leave. Okay?”
Sketch quietly scrutinized my words. Finally, he relented. “Stay in the car.”
Translation? This deal was much more dangerous than remaining in a stolen car in the middle of one of the worst neighborhoods for about fifty miles in any direction. Great.
“Please make sure you get my keys and laptop?”
Sketch nodded. He popped the trunk and banged around for a moment while pulling whatever he had stashed in the car out. It was enough to fill a small duffle bag. I watched all the mirrors and anything I could see from my position in the front passenger seat, but the entire block was dark and surprisingly quiet. Not even a dog bark or the noise from loud TVs. It didn’t match my experiences at my sister’s.
Strange.
The security floodlights behind the house went on as Sketch approached. His body was outlined by them and the light that blazed out of the entrance when someone finally unlocked the door.
Then everything went dark for a bit. I waited, getting more and more nervous as it took longer and longer. A car drove down the alley. It slowed as it went past the opening where my car and this one were parked. I ducked down and watched the glow from it move across the headlining as the sole sign of life in this area slid past. I sighed in relief as it finally faded. Where was Sketch? Surely a deal didn’t take…what? Hours? I glanced at my phone. More like five minutes. Damn.
Five minutes later, I checked my phone again, certain it was at least twenty. “Fucker.” He needed to hurry up.
Maybe I could steal my car back? I knew how, thanks to Sketch. But I didn’t have my keys, therefore the immobilizer would stop me.
“Stupid bikers and stupid drug deals,” I muttered. I pulled up a game on my phone to play while I waited. The glow and the familiar monotony made me feel better. I got sucked into trying to beat one of my high scores.
That was a mistake. I’d just started a quest when a sharp bump startled me so badly I dropped the phone. I looked around, trying to see what had happened, and noticed the red glow of brake lights behind the car. Then, they shifted to the tell-tale white of backup lights.
Oh shit.
Whoever was backing up was insane. I was in the car, for crying out loud. They slammed into the car again, tossing me forward, and the seatbelt locked before I hit the dash or the windshield with my face. I screamed.
They pulled away, and I waited for them to ram the car again. But instead, four shadowed figures climbed out of the car and surrounded me. As they triggered the building’s security lights, I recognized Victor. My sister’s ex didn’t wait for me to try to explain or escape; he hit the window—hard. It was as if he intended to punch my face in. Luckily, the glass held.
I scrambled to lock the car, but he pulled the handle before I could find the right button. “I thought this was your car.” His smile was evil. “Now it matches my car.”
I gripped the seat belt, holding the locking mechanism so it would be harder for him to drag me out. I didn’t dare mention that he’d messed with the wrong car. I could barely talk as it was. “H—hi, Victor.” Lame.
“Bzzt. Wrong. It’s El Maleante.” His henchman mocked me.
Dicks. Victor gave himself that nickname. Audrey told me so. What a poser. Picking a Spanish nickname when he obviously had zero genetic ties to anything remotely Latin. Worse? It meant ‘criminal.’ For a guy already named Victor King, he had to go and add another descriptor on himself? Can you say ‘ego?’
He tipped his head to his posse. One of them tried the driver’s door and found it unlocked. I shrank into the seat as he climbed in, tore at the duct tape surrounding Sketch’s patch job, and twisted the makeshift “key” Sketch had jammed into place. He turned to grin at me. “We’re going for a ride, mamasita.”
Victor slapped his hand on the roof. “My place, we’re going to have some fun tonight.” He leaned in and addressed me. “Let’s see if you’re half the lay your sister was.”
Gross!
Commotion coming out of the house caught his attention.
Sketch exited, gun raised.
I shrank in the seat, praying he wouldn’t spray the car with bullets as he fired on the gang.
