Page 160 of Moon Cursed

“I’ve got an extra grand with your name on it if you take that break in the next ten minutes.”

“No problem,” he says. “Anything else you need while I’m out?”

“You could check nothing else has been tampered with.”

“Sure. See you in ten.”

He hangs up and I check the time.

Five hours until I can challenge that asshole Alpha and get Oscar back.

We’re not going to run out of time. Whatever they do, we’ll find a way around it.

I head back to the porch to sit on the steps, just as Cheryl and Rachel step outside.

“You’re ready a little early,” I tell them. “The car’s not ready.”

Cheryl raises an eyebrow at me. “What do you mean?”

“Come sit, and I’ll tell you while we wait.”

“Sure,” she says, as she sits on the step next to me. “Then we can tell you about the changes to the plan.”

“You made changes to the plan?” I ask.

“You first,” she insists.

Right. It’s not like we don’t have time to talk about both.

I get started, and Auto arrives by the time I’m done filling them in.

He changes the slashed tyres, puts them in his van, and stacks the spare set by the garage door. Then I give him the keys and he checks over everything else.

“You’re all set,” he tells me when he’s done. “The brakes are fine. Engine’s running. None of the lights have been broken. Looks like they just slashed the tyres.”

“Great,” I tell him, handing him the spare cash I promised for the quick service.

“I’ll send an invoice for the tyres. Maybe you should use that storage hut for something more than storage,” he says.

I expect him to give me shit for not using the garage, so I just roll my eyes.

“I never would have thought of that.”

He shrugs. “My advice comes free. Everything else will cost ya.”

He walks away, heading back to his van that he parked on the street.

“Almost ready to go,” I tell Cheryl and Rachel, as I walk over to the garage and get my keys out of my pocket. I open the garage door and move the spare tyres inside.

“Wow,” Cheryl says. “What is all this stuff?”

I glance at my mate, her dark eyes moving over the stacked junk curiously.

“My father’s dreams for me,” I tell her. “He had me move from one rich boy hobby to the next, looking for the thing that I’d be good at. I had to have some kind of talent buried inside me somewhere. I couldn’t be his kid if I didn’t.”

If I sound bitter, it’s only because there’s still a sour taste in my mouth, even all these years later.

I was never good enough for him. Nothing I ever did met his expectations.

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