She threw her hands in the air. “Why not? Sure. I’ll come and serve homeless people next Saturday, I’ll try this whole honesty thing with you, and you can drive. Now, you’ll need a suit. If you follow me to the front, I’ll get you some cash to cover the expense.”
After all the progress we’d made, that felt like a slap in the face. “What the fuck?” I asked.
She paused mid-turn. “What?”
“What about me makes you so sure I don’t own a suit? You think I need your money, Julia? That I can’t buy my own suit?”
Confusion crossed her face, and then her expression softened. “No. That’s not what I meant. Your financial status is none of my business. You’re doing me a huge favor, and it would be rude if I didn’t at least offer to pay your expenses.”
Her explanation softened the blow a little, but it still rankled.
“I’m a man, Julia. I’ll buy my own goddamn suit.”
I expected her to be scared or upset like most women were when they got a glimpse of my temper, but Julia’s eyes lit up with something else entirely. Excitement? Arousal? She liked it—liked me—of that, I was certain. Biting her lip, she nodded in agreement. “Of course. I see that now.”
Her voice was deeper. Huskier. Yep, she was turned on. Maybe I’d get a little something out of helping her after all. Before I could think too much about that, my phone buzzed. I tugged it from my pocket and saw I was being dispatched to an accident site. As one of three tow truck drivers for Formation Auto Repair (the shop owned and run by the Dead Presidents MC) I was on call today. Lousy timing, since I’d really like to spend more time trying to figure Julia out.
“I gotta run. Work calls.”
Her eyes hardened as she watched my phone slide back into my pocket. Did she think I was blowing her off? There had to be history there. Hot as she was, she sure came with a shit-ton of baggage. But as my gaze drifted over her fan-fucking-tastic figure once again, I decided she might be worth the trouble.
“Hand me your phone and I’ll put my number in it,” I said.
Without hesitation, she passed her cell to me. I sent myself a text and handed it back.
I needed to jet, but there was something else I had to know. “Your family… they’re not racist, are they?”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t think so. It’s not very becoming to be racist these days, and the Edwards always keep up with the latest trends. Besides, we have a wealthy African-American family on the guest list.”
The country club’s token black family. Bet I’d fit right in.
“Thank you again for doing this,” she said.
That heat was back in her eyes, making me want to explore the depths of her gratitude, but I had a crash to get to. “Yeah. No problem. Don’t forget to send me the information for the gardener.”
She picked up her phone and started typing. “Doing it right now. His name’s Javier. I’ll call him and tell him to expect your call.”
I took a step toward the door. “What time should I pick you up Saturday?”
“The ferry leaves at one-ten, so… noonish?”
“All right. See you Saturday.”
She said goodbye and I headed out. I had a car to tow and a suit to buy, and before I even climbed into the tow truck, Julia had texted me the phone number to her parents’ gardener. I had no clue what the fuck I’d just signed up for, but it promised to be interesting.
Havoc
THE CRASH I’D been routed to was located on I5 southbound, just north of Exit 165A—the James Street exit—one of the busiest stretches of freeway in the whole damn city. By the time I arrived, traffic was already backing up and police were doing their damnedest to route rubber necking, nosy-ass drivers around the accident. One of Seattle’s finest broke away from the group and waved me forward, directing me toward the shoulder. Apparently, it would be a while before I could hook up. Dammit. The bastards had interrupted my time with Julia, so I could sit out here and wait. Such bullshit. But since I hadn’t had the best luck with cops—especially not lately—and the club needed this contract with the city I kept my attitude in check. Head down, I parked where I was told to, rolled down my window, and waited for them to get their shit together.
The two ambulances parked in front of the cop cars were blocking my view of the scene. Curious about how far along they were, I leaned over my seat to get a look and saw two cars. One was sandwiched between the guardrail and the other car, looking like a goddamn accordion. Rescue workers shouted to each other while a woman wailed about someone named Jimmy. That was far more than I needed to see or hear. Memories tugged at the back of my mind. Refusing to give in to them, I righted myself and watched the traffic, trying to block out the woman’s desperate cries.
I shouldn’t be here for this shit. They weren’t supposed to call until they were ready for me. Some new asswipe must have been anxious to get the wreck cleaned up so traffic could flow again and made the call too damn early.
A fire truck arrived, parking beside the ambulances. Firemen piled out, carrying the jaws of life toward the scene. Minutes later, metal screeched, adding its own noise to the chaos. A news helicopter swooped in, dipping low so the camera crew could get their shot of the scene.
Too many sounds and sights. The familiarity of it tugged at my subconscious, threatening to pull me under. I fought to stay in the present, but my goddamn memories wouldn’t let up. Heart and mind racing, I was transported back to Kobani, Syria.
Link jogged in front of me, his expression pinched tight as he signaled for the team to enter the border town. It was my first mission as an Army Special Forces Weapons Specialist. We were going in on the tail of a US-led air strike that had targeted Islamist militants, and our mission was to take out some lead ISIS bastard who’d somehow survived. This air strike had been the last of more than one hundred and thirty strikes in the area, sending more than five hundred ISIS al-Nusra Front shitheads to hell where they belonged.
