Page 10 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
She hesitated for a long moment, then said, “Julia.”
He didn’t seem fazed by the cold, just stood there, shirtless, with both hands stuck into his back pockets. “Where do you live, Julia?”
“Lake Forest.”
“I can give you a ride home.”
She glanced at the old wreck behind him. It was the only thing resembling a car that she had seen in the yard or on the street. “In that thing?”
His eyebrows shot up in mock offense. “Uh, that ‘thing’, actually, is a 1970 Plymouth Hemi ’Cuda.”
He paused, as if expecting her to be bowled over by that fact. When she wasn’t, he grinned and added, “Only one of the greatest American muscle cars ever built. Four hundred and twenty-six horsepower. Four-ninety pound feet of torque. Original Tor Red. Incredibly rare.” He was looking at it with what could only be described as a loving expression. “She’s my ride or die.”
Julia looked more closely at the car. Beneath a raised corner of the tarp, she saw a shiny red fender. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a wreck after all. In fact, it looked brand new.
But it was still missing several vital components, even to her untrained eyes.
“You realize it doesn’t have any wheels, right?” she said.
He grinned again, revealing white teeth and a dimple in one cheek. “Minor detail.” He pointed at the motorcycle that looked like it was dying a slow, rusty death. “I actually meant, I’ll take you home on that.”
She raised her eyebrows, thinking he must have been joking. His face appeared serious. “Thanks,” she said. “But I’ll pass.”
He shrugged, like it was her funeral. Which she was pretty sure it would be if she’d said yes.
“Alright then,” he said, bending to pick up his wrench from the ground. “Adiós, Julia.”
He lowered himself onto the trolley and disappeared back under the car.
She turned to go, then spun back, waving her stupidly long sleeves. “Oh, your sweatshirt.”
“Keep it,” came the voice from under the car. “I got others.”
She walked down the dirt track that led to the street. Scrolling through her contacts, she pulled up the number of a car service.
While she waited on the sidewalk for her ride, she turned to look back at the house. It had plywood boards on its windows, rotten siding, and weeds sprouting from its gutters. From the outside, it appeared uninhabited.
There was no sign of last night’s partygoers. It looked so creepily deserted she could almost believe she’d hallucinated the whole thing.
The only thing that reminded her she hadn’t was the dull ache of the hand-shaped bruise around her neck.
FIVE
Daniel Castaño saton the steps of his trailer, watching as his old white Camry lurched over the rutted driveway, its shocks groaning under the abuse. The early morning air carried the scent of damp earth and gasoline.
Beside him, Tequila lifted her head, ears pricked. She got to her feet and whined, pacing anxiously.
The car came to a stop, and the door swung open. An enormous man unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, using the doorframe for leverage. Terry “La Araña” Bidois was built like a bulldozer—barrel-chested, thick-necked, with arms like slabs of meat. He was nearly as wide as he was tall, and unlike most older white guys who carried that kind of bulk, his wasn’t just fat. The guy could bench-press a truck.
He tossed Daniel the keys.
Daniel caught them one-handed. “Where?”
Terry pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing the intricate spiderweb tattoo covering one side of his bald scalp. His gold teeth flashed in a grin. “Dumpsters,” he said. “Back of the Yards.”
“Dumpsters,” Daniel repeated, noting the plural.
Terry’s grin widened. “Let’s see if those crime scene guys know their assholes from their elbows.” He chuckled. “Literally.”
