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“She’s ready to go.” Benji handed Ollie the key at the checkout counter. Why they referred to all the vehicles that passed through as female he didn’t know. Tradition, maybe? Ben Sr. had done it, as did every mechanic and car enthusiast Benji had ever met. As he scanned the customers watching TV in the waiting area, he caught Willy’s eye.
The burly, gray-haired man scuttled to the counter. “Why’re you workin’ the floor? Don’t ya got a big crew?”
“Not today.” Benji patted the old-timer on the back. “Half my guys called off since the big snowstorm is coming, and Ollie face-planted a tree last weekend. Luckily, the only thing that broke was his arm.”
“And my pride,” Ollie grumbled and clasped his arm. “That mountain better watch out if I get this stupid cast off before ski season is over.”
Benji chuckled as Willy tsked. “Anyway, Ollie is manning the front while I’m in the back. It’s a rare pleasure to get my hands dirty.” But the supply of new parts couldn’t order themselves. When would he find the time?
“There’s nothin’ better than a bit of grease under your nails.”
“Yep.” Benji swiped his smudged hands down his dark T-shirt and dingy khaki pants.
“What do I owe?” Willy pulled his worn wallet from his overalls with gnarled hands. “Damn arthritis. I would’ve changed the oil and tires myself, but my grip ain’t like it was. Enjoy the work while ya can, boys. When ya get to be my age, you’ll be dreamin’ of the good ole days.”
Though Willy only tinkered with cars, he’d worked construction and supported Ben’s Auto Repair when it first opened. Probably because Ben Sr. was the only legitimate employer willing to hire Willy’s jailbird son.
Ollie smashed the calculator buttons, tallying the total cost of the oil change, four new tires, and the state-mandated yearly inspection.
“Better get back out there.” Benji clapped Willy on the shoulder before heading out the employees-only door into the series of garages. The ding-dong noise echoed around him. The stench of gasoline, burning rubber, and deodorant-masked BO struck him in the face. He loved it. How could he not?
He’d spent most of his life in the garage—first as a little boy under his father’s guidance, as an impatient teenager who craved something more challenging than oil changes or tire rotations, and now as a man who enjoyed his job.
Could I have given this up for Belle?
In a damn heartbeat.
A gorgeous blue sports car occupied the first lot. Metal creaked, and a power drill whirred as two men removed parts of the engine.
Benji tsked. Why couldn’t he have been the lucky one to doctor that baby?
In the second lot, the upraised hydraulic lift secured a truck as the mechanic beneath it torched the bent exhaust pipe.
Damn. Someone had likely backed the truck against a wall. He shook his head and strode through the third section, now empty.
“Goddamn it.” Mason’s voice rumbled from the last lot as Benji crossed the threshold. The younger man cleaned the underside of a dirty hood.
“Hey, Mase. What’s the problem?” He perused the beat-up sedan and oil-covered engine.
“It’s fucking dirty for starters.” The tall, built ex-con rinsed his rag in the water bucket that was by his feet. “Oil leaked from some bad valves. After I clean up the mess, I’ll be able to tell the extent of the damage.”
“All the valves will probably need to be replaced. Maybe even the spark plugs. That’s usually how it goes when the engine is this filthy.” Benji grabbed an old rag from a metal shelf and submerged it in the bucket. Ah, nice. The cool water lapped at his warm skin while the heat blowing from the large, chugging space heater in the back slicked sweat on his nape. What he wouldn’t do to stand in the cold parking area or the scrapyard out back.
“That’s a big rock you gave Belle.”
“Huh?” Benji cleaned the engine block as Mason continued scrubbing the hood.
“She stopped by the loft yesterday to show off her new engagement ring.” Mason flashed a grin and punched Benji on the shoulder with a friendly tap. “Congrats. You got a keeper.”
Damn right. His chest puffed. “Belle was a hard one to nail down, that’s for sure. With all the crap going on, though...” he trailed off and fisted his hand.
“Whoever this prick is, he won’t get her. If you need Alan or me, call us.”
“Thanks.” No way. Getting police aid was bad enough, but he wasn’t ready to stamp failure on his forehead and bring in reinforcements.
“Mia’s worried, but she’s doing her best not to call Belle a hundred times a day.” Mason pursed his lips. “Fuck. None of us can catch a break. This is bullshit, man.”
That was the understatement of the year. Benji rolled his shoulders, easing the tension. “Detective Greer has ordered a patrol car to drive by my house a few times a night.”
The fellow mechanic snorted. “If someone wants to punish Belle for singing at the Blue Magick, one cop car won’t stop him. You guys sure it’s a man?”
“Pretty sure. The police aren’t doing much, but I’m trying to be objective. Until they get a solid lead, they’re stuck playing the waiting game.”
“A little B&E topped with vandalism ranks low on their give-a-shit list since they have murderers to track down.” He sighed heavily and rinsed the rag again. “Not that they have a high success rate. Have you seen the yearly unsolved murder statistics on the city’s website? The rape, prostitution, and drug cases too? God, it’s crazy.”
“No, but I believe it.” What was he thinking? Of course, the ex-con would slam the police. He’d known Alan a helluva lot longer than he had Mason, but he and Mase were two peas in a pod with politics and the justice system. He withdrew from the engine and lowered his voice. “You mind if I ask you something personal?”
“Go ahead, but I won’t answer if I don’t want to.” He dropped the rag in the bucket and leaned on the grille. “It’s not every day we work side-by-side, so I already figured you needed to talk. What’s up?”
“I can’t ask Alan. Curse words fly from his mouth every time I mention Meghan and the shit she fell into.”
“You mean Onyx?” He tapped the rose-in-bloom tattoo that now covered the gang symbol on his neck. After Meghan had blurted out Mason’s secret—rather, that Benji and Alan already knew the secret—the former gang member got the tat inked over. “I’m not proud of what I did in prison. I’m pissed you and Al knew all along, and I wish you’d told me you figured it out. About Meghan, I don’t know what she did.”
Shame hit Benji hard. He should’ve done more to help his sister. Maybe he could’ve prevented her downward spiral had he paid more attention to her when they were kids. Maybe he could’ve convinced her to seek professional help had he taken the time to see her when she visited Dad for money. Aargh. The should haves, maybes, and what ifs churned his stomach. None of it mattered anymore, at least not until Meghan returned, if she ever did. What would he do then? Try to force her to go to addiction meetings?
“Snap out of it, man.” Mason smacked his arm. “Wake up.”
Benji shook his head to clear it and dropped the rag. “Sorry. Lost in space.” He pivoted from the car to the doorway that opened into the third garage. Good. No eavesdroppers. He returned to his friend’s side. “Meghan’s boyfriend, Iversen, fed her drugs like candy.” His cheeks heated as Mason arched his eyebrow. “She’s a manipulative, compulsive liar, so I always take her words with a grain of salt.”
Mason whistled low. “Fuck. Iversen’s the captain of Dowitcha. He’s a real bad dude you don’t wanna mess with.”
“I looked him up online, Dowitcha too. The media and police seem to have no clue as to Iversen’s identity and only a basic knowledge of how Dowitcha works. Meghan knows his real name, but she wouldn’t tell me.”
“If she did and Iversen found out, he’d kill you both. Dowitcha is a mid-size set, but none of them beat the manpower and reach of Capularia.”
Benji scratched his rough, whiskered cheeks. “It’s not my business, but do you have any experience with Iversen? What kind of man did my sister hook up with?”
“Aw, hell.” He rubbed his neck. “This stays between us, all right.”
“Of course. That’s a given.”
“Back when Mia and I first got together, two Dowitcha dealers attacked us. We were fine.” He held up his hand as Benji scowled. “You should see Mia swing a pipe. It’s fuckin’ sexy. Long story short, we escaped, and I called a friend who called Iversen. The captain killed those dealers because they slung drugs on Capularia turf.”
“Death for a drug deal?”
“That’s Onyx. Territory means everything, and the sets obey the rules. You make a sale on the wrong turf; you’re dead.” Mason grabbed his rag and rung it out. “I trust you, Benji, or I wouldn’t tell you this. What happened with those dealers was a fluke. I left shit like that behind in prison. I’m out now.”
Benji’s gut twisted, but he nodded. “We’re still good.” He grabbed the rag, and they continued cleaning the oil. Did Meghan know about Iversen’s brutality? Did she condone it?
Ollie popped his head in the doorway as Mason unbolted the engine block. “Hey, Ben. We got another. You want it?”
“Go. I got this.” Mason laid the block cover on the ground, the bolts rolling and clinking in the basin. Then he grabbed the bucket and dumped the dirty water into a workstation sink.
“Yeah. Be there soon.” Benji accepted the car key from Ollie. After the lanky man left, he turned back to Mason. “Thanks for the talk. My mind’s not at ease, but it is what it is.” They slapped each other’s hands for a firm shake, and he headed for the third lot.
The rest of the afternoon dragged, despite the surplus of customers.
“Drive safe, guys.” Benji waved off his employees. Once he shut down the space heaters and bolted the garage doors, he washed up in the restroom. “Finally.” He plopped down in his office chair as his back ached, and he tapped Belle’s name from the contact list on his cell.
She never answered the phone while driving, so her voicemail clicked on.
“Hey, babe. I guess you’ve left the office. I’m behind on paperwork, so I’ll be late. Love you.” He ended the call and logged into the computer. He’d taken inventory during his so-called lunch break—if only he had time to eat—and now compared his hard copy to the digital spreadsheet. As he ordered the needed supplies, the cordless phone rang. Now, what? He grabbed the receiver. “Ben’s Auto Repair. Benji speaking. How may I help you?”
“You’re Belle’s boyfriend, right?”
He stiffened. “Who is this?”
“An old friend. That bitch never should’ve performed at the Blue Magick.”
Benji jumped up and clutched the phone. “Who are you? Why are you targeting her?”
“Belle’s an amazing musician, but she doesn’t deserve a contract. Trista does.” The man muttered a few curse words. “I should’ve left June a letter, too, but how was I supposed to know the judges were that damn stupid? If not for Belle stealing the limelight, Simon Verdell would’ve offered Trista a deal. You know Simon, so fix this. Get Trista a meeting, and she’ll charm him. If she can’t, you better convince Simon to give her a record deal.”
“I have no sway with Simon. Let Trista get her own damn deal. Does she know you’re doing this?”
“No, but I want her. You have Belle. It’s only fair.” The stranger’s low, deep voice heightened. “If I get Trista the contract, she’ll take me back. Simon better call her by Monday. I’ll keep an eye on Trista. If he calls her, I’ll know.”
“Who the hell are you? If you come near Belle again, God help you.”
“I have pictures of you screwing Trista. Arrange the meet, or I’ll give Belle the photos.”
“Bullshit. I’ve never touched that slut.”
The man growled. “Belle won’t believe you with evidence in her hands.”
Hell, no. Benji smashed the end call button and dialed call return. Restricted number. Figures. His hands shook. He slammed the device back on the base and shut down the computer. After he locked up the lobby and jumped into his truck, he drove through town like the hounds of hell chased him. The anger burning in his core heated him from the inside out. Snow fell in heavy sheets, but his pounding heart struck his ribs harder than the drafts against the windshield. Whoa. The air in his throat froze as he whipped around a curb. The back tires kicked up snow and rock salt, but the tire chains gripping the slick road steadied the vehicle. Did he have a death wish?
“Goddamn it.” He hit the brakes as the sedan in front of him stopped at a yellow light. Jesus. He had to calm down. The cell buzzing in his pants shot vibrations down his leg. He grabbed the phone and checked the text. Thank God. It was from Belle.
—I’m home. These new tire chains are awesome! Thx again.—
They’d installed the chains that morning. Better safe than sorry.
After the sedan turned a corner, he stomped the gas pedal. The typically short fifteen-minute drive home seemed to stretch forever as every horrible outcome imaginable zipped through his mind.
Would Belle leave him? Would he have to fight her for visitation rights to their daughter? Would she die or miscarry the baby?
He shuddered as he reached the duplex. Snow clung to his hair and clothes as he dashed through the already-white yard. “Belle? Where are you?” He slammed the door shut and hurried down the hall. Warmth enveloped him.
“Kitchen. I’m making a chicken casserole.”
He dashed into the room and drew her close.
“Oh, wow. Hello.” She hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Everything okay?”
“I’m just happy to see you.” He inhaled her floral, womanly scent. She fit so right in his arms. Breathing deep, he forced himself to let her go.
“What’s wrong? Those furry caterpillars don’t drop into a V for nothing.”
He rubbed his bushy eyebrows. Caterpillars, indeed. “You get my message?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you so soon. I popped the casserole into the oven right before you barged in here.” She rested her hands on his chest and twitched her nose. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. You have time to clean up.”
Like he gave a damn about showering. “We have to talk, babe.” He stripped off his coat and dropped it on the floor. The truth rushed from his mouth in a long spiel, but then his tongue tangled. The pictures. Would she leave?
Belle blanched and clasped her belly. “Did you call Greer?”
“No, I didn’t think about it. What could he do anyway? Run a trace on the call after I hung up? Impossible.”
“He could check your phone records and possibly track down the restricted number.”
“You’re right, but he could come up empty-handed if the number belongs to a throwaway cell.” Benji tunneled his fingers through his damp hair, scattering melting snowflakes.
The officers who responded to his break-in were as useless as an umbrella in a hurricane. They questioned Benji, Belle, and Lando, but the latter had witnessed nothing out of the ordinary. Detective Greer took over the break-in case, but his busy schedule prevented him from questioning Trista and Arnett. At least he’d confirmed that some of Belle’s now-former neighbors had witnessed a young man of medium height in dark, oversized clothes entering her apartment.
Would Greer give a damn about a cryptic phone call?
Belle fidgeted with a string on her blouse. “My crazed anti-fan must be one of Trista’s ex-boyfriends if he wants her to take him back. So many guys chase after her, and she goes through them like underwear. She’s rotten on the inside. Why don’t men see that?”
“I do, I swear.”
“Of course you do. You’re not a blind, horny fool.”
“I am for you.”
Belle blushed. She filled the sink and plunged a few mixing bowls into the steaming water. “Trista might be in danger if this guy snaps. I’d warn her, but she wouldn’t believe me.”
“Why? You hate her, and you should after everything she’s done to you.”
“She doesn’t deserve to be killed.”
“Ah, babe. You’re too good of a person. I love you. I would never do anything to hurt you.”
She hugged him. “Did he threaten you? If you don’t call Simon, he has to have a backup plan.”
“No threats or blackmail.” Benji gripped her waist. He probably should contact Simon, but no damn way would he contribute to the stranger’s madness.
Belle had declined the contract, but Simon promised to keep the offer open. Trista, however, was a poor consolation prize.
“That makes no sense.” Belle pushed on his chest and leaned back. “He needs something to hang over your head if he wants you to listen.”
“Don’t ask me. I’m confused too.” He backed away, avoiding her gaze. Hell, he was lying to her, again, after he’d made that big speech about honesty and trust. But this was a helluva lot worse than fibbing about a Valentine’s Day surprise, which he still hadn’t figured out. Shit. He needed time to think. “I’ll call Greer after I hit the shower. Thanks for cooking. It’s been a long day.” He ran from the room like a coward. What must she be thinking? If she learned the truth, would he lose her forever?