Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
The car was too low to the ground to slide under, so I made my way back toward the building, finding a jack, and dragging it back with me, then carefully lifting it up, and placing some random crap under the front wheels to keep it from crushing me if the jack failed.
Finally, I found a piece of cardboard, then used it to slide under the car.
I didn’t really know what I was looking for per se. Until the second my gaze landed on it.
A broken brake line.
The brake lines ran from the master cylinder, along the firewall under the car, and then to each wheel.
Sure, they sometimes corroded over time. But it caused cracking and a sort of fraying on the wire.
This was a neat break.
Like it had been cut.
It was a thing of movies that you would have no idea. I mean, in modern cars, you would see all sorts of idiot lights on your dash. There would be fluid under the car. And you’d notice the pedal going to the floor when you tried to tap it while backing out of a spot, or even when starting a push-start engine, since you had to step on the brake to get it to turn over.
The chances of being able to hit a high enough speed to total your car without knowing your brake line was compromised was really fucking slim.
But… but if something serious was going on, if you were trying to get away from something, if staying meant certain death, then I could see you taking your chances with a bad brake line.
I moved back out from under the car, walking around it once again.
I’d been wrong about the back being undamaged.
There was a little dent in the back.
And a transfer of red paint.
I went to the driver’s seat, popping the trunk. A Corvette had two, a small one by the engine, and one in the rear.
At first blush, nothing seemed off in the rear trunk. There were two reusable shopping bags folded in a small cargo net and a first aid kit. Nothing else.
But I was sick of not finding shit, so I grabbed the kit, finding it odd. A roadside emergency kit? Sure. But a first aid kit? Odd.
Sure enough, inside of it, at the bottom under bandages and individual saline tubes, was a flash drive.
“Got ya,” I said, closing my hand around it, and slipping it into my pocket.
I searched the rest of the kit and the empty reusable bags anyway before I finally decided this was all the car was going to give me.
It was something.
A hidden flash drive.
A pile of paperwork that didn’t make any sense.
They were breadcrumbs Clay had left.
Likely, it seemed, for me.
Whatever this was, it was clearly dangerous. And he would never get his little sister involved in that kind of shit.
I wondered, though, if it was smart to keep her completely in the dark.
If there was any chance she was also in danger, that these people Clay was involved with would think she might have information they wanted, and would come at her to get it, I owed it to her to issue a warning, didn’t I?
Especially when she was being kind of reckless with her time, not seeming to pay attention to normal dangers, let alone ones that might be coming her way because of something her brother may have been involved with.
I had to warn her.
And I was going to go ahead and pretend that the little thrill I felt inside of me had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to finish what we started back in my bedroom.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cali
It was amazing how half a dozen different deep-fried, cheesy, bad-for-you foods and bottomless margaritas didn’t dull the ache in my heart at being brushed off by Brooks.
All I got for the excursion was dehydration, a banging headache, and that super uncomfortable bloating feeling too much grease always gave me.
I was just glad it was a half day of work, because all I wanted to do was get home, chug some water, put a cold compress on my head, and relax.
It was the first night I didn’t have something planned. And, honestly, I was anxious about it. About being home alone with my own mind.
Because every time my thoughts moved even an inch, they bumped into memories of him. It was better not to think at all.
But I couldn’t find the motivation to get myself all dolled up and go out again.
A night alone in my house, eating something somewhat healthy, and binge watching some kind of mindless TV was what I had in mind as I parked on the street outside of my apartment.
Until I saw a motorcycle by the curb.
And a tall, stupidly handsome, figure leaning on the wall right beside my door.
“Brooks?” I asked, wincing at the croak my voice came out like.