Page 9 of Live Love Steal
A gang from Harrisburg stretched west and picked up the slack. And they were growing in number while we weren’t.
Sure, the Destroyers had more money and a national network, but without boots on the streets or a heavy outflow of payouts, we were all walking targets. Not only us, but anyone associated with us.
“Thanks for waiting. I had to check my email and let my boss know I was done. He’s pissed.”
“Pissed? You had court. He doesn’t own you.”
She grimaced at me. “He thinks he does.”
Give me a name, I’ll— That was shit I did in the past. I couldn’t offer to take a hit out on her boss. Doing something that dumb would put the club in more hot water. And we had enough to deal with. “There are labor laws for a reason.”
“I’ll remember that.” She dipped her head, and I studied the profile of her nose. It was delicately curved, coming to a halt almost too abruptly, but as a whole, it worked with her high cheekbones and plump lips. They weren’t artificially enhanced either.
“What are you staring at?”
Busted. “You.” I felt like a fucking high-schooler. Except I was a lot more experienced than most at that point, so maybe middle school. “I’m walking you to the car and then getting your number, right?”
Those crinkles flashed briefly. “Okay.”
She didn’t argue, score! “Lead the way.” I motioned her forward.
I was too distracted by her ass to notice her car until we were alongside it.
The make, the model, heck, even the interior matched one of the club’s ghost cars. Immediately, I knew how she’d gotten that ticket.
“Did you have to pay a fine?”
“No, they threw it out without hearing my case. The judge said I suffered enough by getting caught in the elevator.”
That was a damn good thing. That ticket would get dumped from the system now. No paper trail. Which left me with one huge problem. No matter how pretty or how kind she was, Isobel would hate me soon.
I’d ordered her plate stolen. Worse? The match to her car, stolen plate and all, was tucked inside a shed about forty feet from where I slept at night.
Fuck.
3
The good kind - Isobel
Sketch was the good kind of bad boy. He had all the stories from a misspent youth tattooed on his skin, but his eyes spoke a different tale. They were focused, intelligent… and glued to my ass. I put extra sway in my gait to give him a show.
It was almost an embarrassment to lead him to my beat-up, 4-door, graphite steel-colored Kia. I turned to see if the ramshackle, dented sedan had completely turned him off, but instead noticed something else. There was a crease of concern between his eyebrows.
“Iz? Get behind me.”
I looked around, wondering what was wrong. Then I saw the broken glass of my rear passenger window, the plastic of my steering column hanging off, and the wires dangling from the gaping hole exposed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Could the day get any worse? “What did I do to deserve this? I pay my taxes. I don’t kick dogs. I’m just…” I wanted to rant longer, but ran out of things to say that weren’t a string of curse words. One stood out because Sketch mentioned it earlier. And I was rethinking my ban on it. If only it applied to car thieves without sounding completely sexist, I would’ve used it right about then.
“Stand over here.” Sketch pulled me between the row and sandwiched me against an SUV before he circled my car and peered in from the other side. “Looks like they couldn’t knock the ignition loose. Did you get a recall on this lately?”
“Yes. But Dad installed an immobilizer. I thought that was all I needed.” But I’d neglected to use the steering wheel lock sitting on the passenger seat. Sketch picked it up.
His eyes met mine through the driver’s side window. It was almost the same look my dad sent me whenever I was late for an oil change.
And… crap. I was due for one of those—and the accompanying family dinner. This weekend was going to be… interesting.
Totally the wrong word. It would be a suck fest. Maybe I could divert some of the lecture about maintaining my vehicle if I mentioned Audrey’s rescue? Of course, then she’d hate me for bringing up the asshole, and there’d be a big fight where she’d storm off and Mom would blame me. “I can’t win.”
