Page 114 of Flint’s Strike

“Ready when you are.” He reaches for a highlighter.

Chapter Forty-Six

Parker

Nate lasts exactly four minutes in the passenger seat before he starts looking for an imaginary brake pedal.

Mid-morning traffic crawls through the streets of downtown. A bright red convertible darts around a delivery truck and slips into my lane with barely enough room to spare.

“They missed us by three whole feet,” I mutter. “You’re fine.”

Cyclists weave among the cars while office workers crowd the sidewalks, coffee cups in one hand, phones in the other.

I ease my Toyota through another green light and turn onto Guadalupe.

Nate has one hand wrapped around the “oh shit” handle, the other fisted against his thigh. Every muscle in his body is braced for impact.

“You know,” I say, easing to a stop behind a city bus, “this car’s ten years old and the paint’s still almost perfect.”

“And…?”

“You can stop trying to save us from the perils of driving the speed limit.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

I angle my gaze at his right hand.

With a sigh, he releases the handle, then folds both hands in his lap. “See? Relaxed.”

“Your jeans disagree.”

Nate looks down, grimaces, and smooths the deep crescents his fingers left in the denim. “Circumstantial evidence at best.”

I snort.

The city rolls by. Another bus. Another coffee shop. Another office building with people rushing to meetings that could probably be emails.

We make it through two more lights before I realize Nate hasn’t said another word.

I cut my gaze to him as the sidewalks start to empty. He looks calmer. Well, to anyone who doesn’t know him. But his eyes never stop moving.

Fewer skyscrapers now. The occasional old live oak at the edge of a parking lot. Traffic eases, and reaching the speed limit stops being aspirational.

Office buildings give way to strip malls, fast food joints, and gas stations. We pass a billboard advertising Austin Large Animal Feed, the same place Eliot’s calendar came from. A hint of a smile curves my lips.

Out of the corner of my eye, Nate shifts. Like he’s about to say something. By the time I look over, he’s watching the traffic again.

The strip malls are the next to go, replaced by tractor dealerships and more feed stores. A barbecue trailer sits outside a used car lot, the smoker pumping out a scent that makes my mouth water. Even Nate can’t resist a glance.

“If that’s still open on the way back, we’re stoppin’,” I say.

“What are the chances they have anything with vegetables in it?”

“Collard greens are a veggie. One usually paired with bacon, but still…”

“It’s called ‘Cooter’s,’ Parker. That truck is a felony waiting to happen.”

My phone drops a bar. Nate grits his teeth. A few minutes later, another one bites the dust. His hands tighten into fists, but at least he’s not trying to tear through his jeans anymore.