over his head, putting a crisp hole just inches above him, and then just as quickly had the gun aimed at his face again.
“You shot my truck! I can’t believe you just shot my truck.”
“You need a grown-up truck, anyway. What is the deal with you?”
“You’re nuts!”
“Yeah, like that’s a news flash. I need you to follow that Saab.” She climbed in, keeping her gun trained on him.
The sirens were closer now.
He gazed past her to something in the parking lot, and his expression darkened, though she wouldn’t have thought it possible. “Lady,” her hostage said, seething and obviously straining not to fire his Glock, “unless you want a bullet hole in that cute shirt, you’d better get out. I’ve got my own emergencies.”
“You think calling my shirt
cute
is going to make me goall wilty and fluttery and step out of this truck? You have seriously been dealing with the wrong kind of woman.” She aimed Fred’s gun at the fancy GPS/DVD/CD player. “Either you follow that car, or the DVD bites it.”
“What’s so all-fired important about that Saab anyway?”
“They stole . . . something.” She followed his glance to the Saab a couple of blocks away and disappearing fast. “I’ll make it worth your while if you help me get it back.”
Oh dear Lord
. That look he was giving her would melt steel. Steel protected in a nuclear fallout shelter. She tried for
nonchalant
as she glanced down to make sure her clothes were still intact.
He holstered his own gun. “Fine.
Just don’t shoot the truck
. It took me three years to get this thing in shape.”
“Start sharing life stories, and I may have to shoot
you
.”
“Promises, promises.”
He raced after the Saab, cutting off the silver Taurus which was pulling out of the bank’s exit.
Wow, that was easy. Really easy. Too easy. What was wrong with this picture?
“What kind of reward?”
So much for freaking
easy
. She had no money for a reward. Nothing to hock. And the Saab was so far away, if this guy didn’t keep going . . . She glanced his direction and caught him reading the text on her shirt. And grinning. What had he paid Satan to have a grin like that?
“I am
not even
a part of the reward,” she said, waving the gun in his face. “It’ll be a real reward. Of some sort.” Her Hormones voted that it wouldn’t really be a bad thing to be a teeny part of a reward.
Shut up shut up shut up
. . . then she saw his bemused expression and realized
oh crap, that was out loud.
“Don’t even ask,” she answered. “I’ll figure out a good reward.”
“If I’m going to risk jail time, lady, it better be worthwhile.”
Holy freaking geez, what on earth could she give a guywho was such a guy’s guy that he obviously liked stupid big-wheeled trucks and guns and . . . oh. Yeah.
“I know where there’s a 1929 Indian Scout you could have.”
He eyed her. She didn’t blame him for being suspicious.
“Almost completely restored. It was my brother’s.”
“Was?”
“You help me get back that thing they took, he’ll sign it over to you.”
“Why in the hell would he sign over an expensive collector’s motorcycle?”
“Do I strike you as the kind of big sister that takes ‘no’ for an answer?”
“You strike me as a total loon, but I suspect that works in your favor.”
Four
If I have to take on Bobbie Faye as a client, I quit.
—Diane Patterson, former high school guidance counselor
Bobbie Faye crowded the truck’s driver as they passed the intersection where Eva’s Grocery sprawled, all four hundred square feet of it, with two whole gas pumps and three locals in the gravel parking lot selling everything from shrimp to watermelon out of the back of their camper-trucks. She spied the car running along a parallel street, and as she craned to get a better perspective, she blocked the driver’s view of the road. He whipped the truck into a sharp left turn and the momentum smacked Bobbie Faye against the
“You shot my truck! I can’t believe you just shot my truck.”
“You need a grown-up truck, anyway. What is the deal with you?”
“You’re nuts!”
“Yeah, like that’s a news flash. I need you to follow that Saab.” She climbed in, keeping her gun trained on him.
The sirens were closer now.
He gazed past her to something in the parking lot, and his expression darkened, though she wouldn’t have thought it possible. “Lady,” her hostage said, seething and obviously straining not to fire his Glock, “unless you want a bullet hole in that cute shirt, you’d better get out. I’ve got my own emergencies.”
“You think calling my shirt
cute
is going to make me goall wilty and fluttery and step out of this truck? You have seriously been dealing with the wrong kind of woman.” She aimed Fred’s gun at the fancy GPS/DVD/CD player. “Either you follow that car, or the DVD bites it.”
“What’s so all-fired important about that Saab anyway?”
“They stole . . . something.” She followed his glance to the Saab a couple of blocks away and disappearing fast. “I’ll make it worth your while if you help me get it back.”
Oh dear Lord
. That look he was giving her would melt steel. Steel protected in a nuclear fallout shelter. She tried for
nonchalant
as she glanced down to make sure her clothes were still intact.
He holstered his own gun. “Fine.
Just don’t shoot the truck
. It took me three years to get this thing in shape.”
“Start sharing life stories, and I may have to shoot
you
.”
“Promises, promises.”
He raced after the Saab, cutting off the silver Taurus which was pulling out of the bank’s exit.
Wow, that was easy. Really easy. Too easy. What was wrong with this picture?
“What kind of reward?”
So much for freaking
easy
. She had no money for a reward. Nothing to hock. And the Saab was so far away, if this guy didn’t keep going . . . She glanced his direction and caught him reading the text on her shirt. And grinning. What had he paid Satan to have a grin like that?
“I am
not even
a part of the reward,” she said, waving the gun in his face. “It’ll be a real reward. Of some sort.” Her Hormones voted that it wouldn’t really be a bad thing to be a teeny part of a reward.
Shut up shut up shut up
. . . then she saw his bemused expression and realized
oh crap, that was out loud.
“Don’t even ask,” she answered. “I’ll figure out a good reward.”
“If I’m going to risk jail time, lady, it better be worthwhile.”
Holy freaking geez, what on earth could she give a guywho was such a guy’s guy that he obviously liked stupid big-wheeled trucks and guns and . . . oh. Yeah.
“I know where there’s a 1929 Indian Scout you could have.”
He eyed her. She didn’t blame him for being suspicious.
“Almost completely restored. It was my brother’s.”
“Was?”
“You help me get back that thing they took, he’ll sign it over to you.”
“Why in the hell would he sign over an expensive collector’s motorcycle?”
“Do I strike you as the kind of big sister that takes ‘no’ for an answer?”
“You strike me as a total loon, but I suspect that works in your favor.”
Four
If I have to take on Bobbie Faye as a client, I quit.
—Diane Patterson, former high school guidance counselor
Bobbie Faye crowded the truck’s driver as they passed the intersection where Eva’s Grocery sprawled, all four hundred square feet of it, with two whole gas pumps and three locals in the gravel parking lot selling everything from shrimp to watermelon out of the back of their camper-trucks. She spied the car running along a parallel street, and as she craned to get a better perspective, she blocked the driver’s view of the road. He whipped the truck into a sharp left turn and the momentum smacked Bobbie Faye against the
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