The Things She Says. Kat Cantrell
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good enough to hold off a drunken rage if her father had a mind to follow her.
Numb, she stumbled around the room throwing things into a bag. Lots of things, as many as it would hold, because she wasn’t coming back. She couldn’t spend a couple of nights at Pamela Sue’s house and wait until Daddy sobered up like usual.
She tore out of her waitress uniform, ripping a sleeve in the process, but it hardly mattered since she’d never wear it again. Her father had been right—she would quit her job, but not because he said so. Because she was leaving. Without glancing at them, she pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, blinking hard so the tears would stay inside.
Abandoning Mama’s collection of romance novels almost killed her, but five hundred paperbacks lined the bookshelf. Maybe someday she could come back for them or ask Bobby Junior to ship them to her, but they’d likely be thrown out before she had the money for something that expensive. She couldn’t leave behind Embrace the Rogue and slipped it into the overstuffed bag. It had been Mama’s favorite.
A crash reverberated from the other side of the door.
Quickly, she yanked the curtain aside and threw up the window. With the heel of her hand, she popped off the screen and flung a leg over the windowsill, careful not to look back at the sanctuary she’d called hers since the day she was born. Her courage was only as strong as the sting across her face and when it faded, she feared reason would return.
She had nowhere to go, no money and a broken heart.
VJ started walking toward Main and got about halfway to Pearl’s before the tears threatened again. Two deep, shuddery breaths, then another two, socked the tears away. She didn’t have the luxury of grief. Other folks made a career out of drama and hardship, but none of that nonsense paid the bills. Only firm resolve got things done.
Twenty-six dollars in tips lay folded in her pocket, a windfall on most days. The crowd had been thick, thanks to lightning-quick word of mouth about the fancy foreign car in Pearl’s parking lot.
Twenty-six dollars would barely cover a day’s worth of meals at the cheapest fast-food restaurant, if by some miracle she could hitch a ride to Van Horn anonymously. Everyone for fifty miles knew her and would tattle to Daddy before breakfast. He’d come after her for sure if that happened.
The school she’d attended for twelve years loomed ahead, ghosts of those years dancing in the weak moonlight illuminating the playground. The next building on the block was the garage, and the sight of it almost changed her mind. Lenny and Billy would only miss her at meal time, but Bobby Junior and Tackle depended on her to pitch in around the shop.
Then again, Tackle had bought the truck for Daddy. Surely he’d asked where the money had come from. Daddy could have lied, but her brother’s probable betrayal hollowed out her insides.
She passed MacIntyre’s Drugstore. No more hanging out there with Pamela Sue at the lunch counter.
The end of things would have come soon enough once the condo in Dallas was built, but that was later. This was now, and it was harder than she’d expected.
Mercifully, there were no buildings on Main past the drugstore for a quarter of a mile. She finally reached the one and only motel in Little Crooked Creek and rehearsed some lines designed to talk her way into a free room.
A flash of yellow drove everything out of her mind.
Moonlight glinted off the muy amarilla Ferrari parked under the lone streetlight. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Kris was still here. Not driving toward Dallas and Kyla, to whom he wasn’t engaged.
It was fate.
Maybe he’d give her a ride in exchange for directions. He’d defended her against her brothers. He would help her, she knew he would.
But then she’d have to explain what happened to her money and why the big hurry to get out of town. She ground her teeth. Kris didn’t need to be burdened with her soap opera. Neither did she want to lie.
What if she made it seem like she was helping him? What if something was mysteriously wrong with the car?
Oh, it won’t start? Let me look at it. Ah, here’s the problem. No, I couldn’t accept anything in return. Except maybe a ride to Dallas.
Stupid plan. It’s a Ferrari, dummy, not a Ford. What if the engine was different than the domestic ones she knew?
There was only one way to find out and what else did she have? Not money. Not choices. Here was a golden opportunity to escape Little Crooked Creek forever and start over in Dallas. Her future roommate would surely take her in a little early, allowing VJ to crash on her couch. Once she got on her feet, she’d pay Beverly back, with interest.
Holy cow, the trip to Dallas was like nine hours. Nine hours in the company of Kristian Demetrious. Five hundred and forty minutes. More, if she could stretch it out.
She peered into the interior of the car, careful not to touch the glass in case the alarm was supersonic. The dash was devoid of blinking red lights, which hopefully meant no alarm at all. She fished a metal nail file from her purse and frowned. Not nearly long enough to pop the lock from the outside. Maybe she could peel the convertible top back a little and stick the file in that way.
On a hunch, she tried the handle. The door swung open easily. Unlocked. Only the rich.
Quickly, she released the deck lid and beelined it to the rear of the car. At least she knew the engine was in the back instead of the front. But it was downright foreign, an engine for a space ship instead of for a car, but one mechanism was the same. She reached in and wiggled the ignition coil wire loose.
Now nothing would start this car without her help. She closed the deck lid with a quiet click and retrieved her bag. Now, where to wait for Kris?
Wrinkling her nose at the space next to the Dumpster, she settled onto the concrete by the ice machine and tried to relax enough to fall asleep. Not likely with the knowledge this was probably the first of many nights sleeping on the street.
This plan had to work. Had to. Heavy, humid air pressed down on her in the dark silence. Crickets chirped in the field beside the motel, but the music did nothing to take her mind off the panic rolling around in her stomach.
What if Kris wasn’t meant to be her knight in shining armor?
Three
Kris examined the engine of Kyla’s car. Nothing seemed out of place, but how would he know if it was? The Ferrari had started fine every time he’d driven it. Why had it picked now, and here, to flake out?
Penance, for the delay. That’s why. Kyla had undoubtedly cursed it, then texted him to bring it to her in Dallas, pretty please. He should have shipped the car instead of driving it. She wouldn’t have cared either way, but no. He’d driven to allow time to obsess over the inflexible Hollywood machine. Muttering slurs on Italian engineers, he yanked his phone out of his back pocket.
“Car problems, chief?” VJ’s honeyed drawl rang out from behind him.
He grinned, strangely elated, and twisted to greet her. Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.
With a succinct curse, he ran a thumb over the welt on her upper cheek. “What happened to your face?”
She flinched and turned away, but he hooked a finger under her chin and guided her face into the sunlight. The injury wasn’t bad enough to need medical attention but quick-burning rage flared up behind his rib cage nonetheless.
“Who did that to you?” he demanded. “One of your brothers?”
She better start naming names really fast before he tore this town apart, redneck by redneck, until someone else spilled. VJ was small, so small. How could anyone strike her with force hard enough to bruise?
“Nobody. I tripped.” She shifted her gaze to the ground and pulled her chin from his fingers. “It was dark.”
“Right.”