Bronson starts right in. “They said it’s gang-related as a cover?”
“Yeah.”
“Figured.” A heavy pause lingers, his voice more hushed. “Got turned on to somethin’ somebody didn’t like, huh?”
“Sure seems that way.”
“How much damage did they do?”
I survey my Chevelle and can’t suppress my painful wince at the sight. “Car’s still running, but it’s ugly as hell right now. Waiting on some tires to hold me over till I can replace the run-flats.
“Need a replacement rim.” I exhale a heavy breath. “It needs all the glass replaced, too.”
“Don’t have any holes in you, do ya?”
“No.” As soon as I answer, I know Bronson’ll hear it in that single word.
“What’re you not tellin’ me?”
I study the sign mounted on the outside of the garage. “Gonna sound crazy as shit, but I ran into somebody who can go invisible, and he mentioned meetin’ you.”
Silence greets my words for so long I check my phone to see if the call dropped, but it didn’t. When I put it back to my ear, Bronson finally speaks. “Gonna put you on speaker. Red’s gotta be in on this one.”
This sure as shit doesn’t bode well at all. From my periphery, I catch sight of Mac carrying in a rim and step further away from the building. She doesn’t appear to pay me any attention, but I can’t take any chances.
“Daniel?” Georgia, or “Red” as Bronson calls her, says my name in a way that makes me miss being back home with my people. She’s a good woman—far too good for men like Bronson and me—but he knows it and treats her well.
“Hey, Georgia.”
Bronson’s no-nonsense tone takes hold. “Now, why don’t you repeat what you just said so Red can hear.”
Once I do, they both go quiet, and I know they’re exchanging a look before Georgia finally speaks. “I don’t know his name, but he saved me. He’s…” She trails off, as if at a loss for the correct phrasing. “He’s good.”
“He’s freaky as fuck, though, with that invisible shit,” Bronson chimes in. “There’s no denyin’ that.”
“Agreed.” I’m compelled to confirm with Georgia once again. “So, if he were to point me in a certain direction, you’d follow it?”
Georgia hesitates. “I don’t believe he’d send you on a wild goose chase, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What if he…” The abrasive noise of the hydraulic lift edging up higher has me putting more distance between the garage and myself. “What if he pointed me in a direction where I don’t find anythin’ at all? Where it seems like it’s a dead end?”
Bronson murmurs, “I’d say if he’s tellin’ you to look somewhere, you gotta look there. He’s not the kinda guy who’ll have you lookin’ in the wrong place. Might be a needle in a haystack or it might be a steppin’ stone to get you to the next clue. No tellin’.”
“I agree,” Georgia adds softly. “If you don’t find anything there, maybe you’re looking at things a certain way and you need to step back? Or, like Bronson said, maybe this direction will lead you somewhere else.”
I rock back on my boots. “But what the hell am I supposed to make of him tellin’ me the safest bet is for me to head home?” Raking a rough hand through my hair, I stare down at the gravel beneath me. “And that if I continued searchin’ for Emilia’s killer, that I’d most likely end up dead, too?”
Georgia’s sigh travels through the phone, as if she senses my frustration. “One thing I can say is, when people have certain…abilities, sometimes it’s hard to communicate the danger that we can sense that no one else can.”
“What’s your gut tellin’ you?” Bronson asks this in a somber voice.
“That’s the problem. My gut’s tellin’ me where he told me to look isn’t the right place.”
A pregnant pause hangs between us before Bronson’s voice sharpens. “You got wrapped up in a woman.” He’s nothing if not perceptive as hell.
“Not exactly,” I hedge before tossing another glance at Mac. She has her back to me, and I do a better job of not letting my eyes canvas her body.
Ahh, fuck. No, I don’t. I jerk my head away and force my concentration back to the conversation. “I met a Mac at the Freebird, but she’s not the Mac who knew my sister.”
“You know what I say about coincidences,” Bronson murmurs, before we both say in unison, “Ain’t no such thing.”
I sigh. “I know, but she’s never met my sister. Never seen her before. And you know I can track liars like nobody’s business.”
The air compressor kicks on inside the garage with every pump of the pneumatic impact wrench as she loosens and removes the nuts and bolts from the wheels.
Bronson lets out a grunt, and I’m reminded how damn astute he is. “But the guy told you she’d have some answers, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.” I rake a hand along my jaw. “Hell if I know what to make of it, because she doesn’t fit the bill at all.” I stare down at my boots. “She’s innocent, man. I’d bet my life on it.”
“What if…” Georgia trails off before carefully posing the rest of her response. “He told you to seek out Mac because it’ll help you clarify something? Maybe it’s something you need to see for yourself before you move on in a different direction, and this time, you’ll be more certain?”
I sigh. “I wish I knew.”
“You need me, you just say the word.” Bronson’s offer is immediate, and not for the first time—or the last, I’m sure—I’m grateful to have him in my corner.
“Thanks, man.”
“Be safe, Daniel,” Georgia says quickly. A shuffle sounds before Bronson’s muted voice comes on the line, and I can tell he took it off speakerphone. “Don’t let your guard down.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m tyin’ up some loose ends with shit here, but I can be down there in a day—”
I quickly interrupt him, because he’s needed in Scorpion territory, not here. This is my mess. “No. You’ve got too much goin’ on. Besides, I’m good here.”
There’s a pause. “I’ve gotta say it… Don’t let your dick lead you astray, man.”
“Not an issue.” I force my words to be quiet and measured even though my knee-jerk reaction urges me to tell him to fuck off.
I know I came at Mac hard, but not once in the whole interaction did she waver. Not once did she give any indication that she was being dishonest or hiding something. Every one of my instincts tells me so.
Bronson should trust my judgment after all these years, because not one goddamn time have my instincts led me wrong.
I may not know Mac Ford’s favorite color, if Mac is her full name or if it’s short for Mackenzie, when or how she found her love for cars, or how she got her scars. What I do know is what she looks like when she dishes out her sarcasm, when she taunts me—both have her lifting that chin of hers boldly and staring me dead in the eyes.