“Can we stop at a truck stop?”
“Seriously?”
“I have an idea,” she said. “But we need a place with a big store. The kind with touristy knick-knacks and stuff.”
She didn’t elaborate, but she’d proven herself with the stash of money and clothes earlier. He was willing to go along for now.
A few miles down the road, he spotted a tall sign for Tough Tony’s Truck Harbor and exited the freeway. The lot was brightly lit and crammed with semis, but the car lot was mostly empty. From the parking stall, he had a clear view of a lanky, bearded black man standing behind the store’s counter. The rest of the shop was hidden from view, but there were only a few people sitting at the counter in the attached diner.
It was four in the morning, after all.
“Hang on,” he said. “You can’t go inside with my shirt on your arm.” Unbuckling his seat belt, he retrieved a first aid kit from under his seat. “Let me see,” he said, with a little wave.
Her gaze followed his every move, making him acutely aware that he was still half naked. Sweat trickled down his back, and he forced aside the unhelpful memory of her pressed to his body. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him. Had anyone ever hugged him?
He hadn’t quite known what to do with her at first, but he wouldn’t mind a repeat now. Especially if she were shirtless too.
Jesus.Focus.
Scooting to the edge of his seat, he gently took her arm, which lay across the armrests between them. He cleaned her wound with an alcohol swab, using gentle strokes, feeling every wince as if it were his own. Now that he could see the cut without the blood, it didn’t appear deep enough to require stitches, thank God. He had first aid training, but he was no medic. “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”
She shrugged. “I think I had a booster a few years ago.”
Not like they could do anything about it right now. He applied antibiotic ointment and covered the wound with a large gauze pad, taping down the edges. “How’s that?”
“Good, thanks.” She withdrew her arm and reached for the door.
“You go in,” he said. “I’ll keep watch from out here.” And put on a shirt while he was at it. “If I honk, you drop everything and get the hell out.”
It was too soon for video from the gas station robbery to be in the news. Her disguise—even without the fake glasses—should still be solid.
“Okay.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were tucked away in the dim corner of an apartment complex parking lot that butted up against the back of a deserted strip mall, eating crackers with hummus and drinking pop. In addition to snacks, she’d come out of the store with window markers and a buttload of bumper stickers.
“You ready?” he asked, offering her the last cracker.
Waving off the food, she nodded. “Let’s do it.”
He had to admit, her plan was pretty smart. The cops might not have been able to make out the van’s license plate on the camera, but they’d be able to see the rear of the van, at least from an angle. It was currently devoid of anything but a dealer decal. With Valerie’s stickers, they could change that.
“Before we put them on, we need to make them look old.” She took the stickers from the bag, handed him the markers, and opened the passenger door, careful to unlatch it slowly to minimize the noise.
Scott exited his side, flinching at the squeak of the hinges in his own door, and met her by the back bumper. “Can you get this off?” she asked, pointing to the dealer logo.
While he used his pocketknife to pry off the shiny plastic letters, she spread the stickers face down on the asphalt in a single layer the way he’d laid out the cards from his Memory game as a kid. Then she walked back and forth on them, occasionally twisting her foot.
She held up a UCLA sticker that was now smeared with dark streaks and punctured through the A. Peeling back one corner, she rubbed the sticky backing on the ground and then pulled the paper completely off.
“Any preference?” she whispered.
He shook his head, and she placed the decal neatly on the rear window. With its drooping corner and weathered face, the sticker looked like it had been there for years. “Brilliant.”
How could he not admire a woman who understood camouflage?
Twenty minutes later, the back of the van was plastered with logos for the Los Angeles Kings hockey team, Zuma Beach, two surfboard companies, and a bunch of quips about global warming and world peace.
“I told the cashier we were playing a trick on a friend,” she said, keeping her voice low even though they were far from any windows.
