Page 2 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
I tightly clutch my phone in my hand and ease out of my car, scanning around me as I do so. There are too many stories of women being snatched or attacked just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. My heart begins to race and each breath trembles out of me while I hurry to the front of my car and pop the hood. A useless endeavor because as soon as it lifts, I realize I have no idea what I’m looking at. There are enough knobs and tubes to confuse me instantly, and my heart sinks.
Mom is going to kill me.
The biting November air wraps its long, cold arms around me, seeping through my short coat and biting at my bare knees above the hem of my boots. Any warmth lingering inside me quickly fades even as I stamp my feet on the frozen ground and peer down at my phone while quickly scrolling through my apps for my mechanic. Getting anyone on Thanksgiving is painfully unlikely, and I’ll have to eat whatever extra charge they throw my way for making them work, but it’ll be better than facing the wrath of my mother for letting her down.
Again.
The number dials with a tap of my trembling thumb and I press my phone to my ear. The street remains dark and empty, so dark, in fact, that I catch the twinkle of stars above me somehow not swallowed by the light pollution of the city.
Beautiful.
The line clicks and a rasping voice comes across the line. “MacMillan’s Break Down.”
“Hi! Oh, thank goodness! My name is Hollie Wolfe. My car has broken down on the corner of…” I pause and peer around at street signs, but nothing jumps out at me. “Hold on, I’ll check my?—”
Click.
Did they just hang up on me?
Lowering my phone, my heart sinks as the empty battery image flashes up on the screen and then fades to darkness.
“No! There’s no way! Not now! Oh my fucking God, this is turning into a nightmare!” As panic rises inside me like an overboiling pot, the sound of a car engine freezes me to the spot.
A sleek black sedan pulls around the corner and crawls slowly down the road toward me. Every orange streetlight reflects off its black tinted windows as it slowly drives closer and closer to me. Something about the car plus the looming dark alley beside me turns my frustrated panic into a spike of cold feet, and reflex takes over. I duck down behind my car and throw a hand over my mouth.
What are the chances it’s someone who can help me? Low, given this neighborhood. But what other choice do I have? Walk back into the city and try to find a place willing to let me charge my phone? Or sit here until daylight and hope everything looks less scary in the daylight?
Neither choice sits well with me, and I mentally kick myself for not being more proactive with my battery life. If I wasn’t rushing around so much, this wouldn’t have happened.
I huddle next to my car’s front wheel and wait for the car to crawl past and out of the street until a soft squeak of brakes greets my ears. They’re not driving past.
They’ve stopped.
Given the state of my own vehicle parked at an angle with the hood wide open, there’s a chance they’ve seen it and decided to help me, so I place one hand on my wheel and try to nonchalantly act like I know what I’m doing should anyone come around my car and spot me.
No one does.
Rising from my haunches, I peer through the window of my own car to spy on the sedan that’s parked exactly opposite me in front of a closed restaurant.
Vinny’s Pizzeria.
Three men in dark clothing have climbed out of the car. Two stand at either end of the vehicle while the third pulls up the shutter to the restaurant. Seconds later, the neon sign bursts to life with red and white colors when the third man opens the door and heads inside.
Then a fourth man climbs out of the car, and my frantically pounding heart screeches to a painful halt in my chest.
Iknowhim.
He stands a good head taller than the other two men, illuminated in the glow from the pizzeria lights. His shoulders are almost as broad as he is tall, and alarmingly thick muscles flex along his thick arms as he raises one hand and points to one of the other men, briefly engaging in a conversation I can’t hear. Even in the brisk November air, he only wears a white T-shirt that looks seconds away from bursting at the seams across his thick, broad chest. Those arms are entirely covered in tattoos. There are far too many to count from this far away, but the ink weaves an intricate pattern over all his exposed skin, telling a story that vanishes under his clothing.
His large hand moves to caress the thick, neatly kept medium-length beard that hugs his thick, square jaw, then he turns and strides into the restaurant. My last glimpse of him is as he runs that same hand through his jet black hair. The two men left outside turn and follow him in, returning the street to its eerie silence.
I’m still frozen in place, staring after him in a mix of awe and disbelief.
Two months. I’ve spent two months trying to track him down and then he just drops right back into my lap like this? I can’t lose this chance, and if I’m lucky, he’ll be kind enough to let me charge my phone. If I’msuperlucky, he’ll even be able to help me with my car.
Ensuring my car is locked, I dart across the street and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. It’s enough to make mequickly run my fingers through my crimson hair to try and look less haggard as a nervous flutter enters my heart. The last time I saw Maxim, those massive arms were wrapped around me like two warm logs and I was soaring higher than I’ve ever been in my life.
Despite my relief at finally finding him again, there’s a note of frustration too. How can someone just vanish after a night like that? I roll my eyes faintly while hauling open the door to the pizzeria and heading inside.
