Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
"For what? Bodyguard services?" I asked, teasing, but Che's serious look let me know he had been thinking just that. "I don't need a security detail. I need to figure out who this is, so I can handle it."
"Can't handle it if you're dead, Sass," he told me, tone a little more cutting than I was used to from him. "But I was actually thinking more of using one of his safe houses to stash you in if shit goes really south."
"Hey, Che, do I look like a child?" I asked, waving toward my body.
"What? No."
"Good. Because I'm not. And you don't get to make decisions for me like I am. I just want to make that abundantly clear. I came to you for help. That doesn't mean you swoop in as the knight in shining armor. I'm not the helpless damsel in distress. We are partners in figuring this out, and getting me my life back. I'm not hiding out in some safe house while you handle my problems."
"I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Good. Me either."
"You always did like an argument," he said, smirking at me.
"Oh, honey, that wasn't an argument," I told him, smiling.
"Honey?" he repeated, head cocking to the side a bit.
I hadn't meant it in the sweet way. In my head, it came out condescending, not sweet. But something about the look in Che's eyes said he didn't hear it that way.
"So, what did Arty say?" I asked, instantly uncomfortable.
"He said he will look into it. We will probably hear from him within the next day with something to go on, some direction to go in. He won't be able to sleep until he figures out something."
I found myself torn with that information.
On the one hand, it was reassuring to know we had someone on the team who would be able to get us answers, who was going to be as dedicated to figuring it out as we were. On the other, the poor guy desperately needed to take care of himself.
"Hey, Sass," Che called, shaking his head. "If it wasn't our case, it would have been someone else's. You're not contributing to his lack of self-care. That's just how he's always been. It's how he's wired. But if it makes you feel any better, when he does have something to go on, we will make him tell us it over a meal."
"That does actually make me feel a lot better," I admitted. "So what do we do until then?" I asked.
"Go back to the house," he said, shrugging. "It doesn't seem safe to be on the street right now with you having a target on your back. What?" he asked, picking up on what must have been uncertainty on my face, since that was what I'd been feeling.
"I am never just... not doing anything," I admitted. "I wouldn't even know how to not do anything."
"You had to have downtime between jobs."
"I was usually driving, looking for new areas to find some possible clients. Or I was working on my car. I was never just... sitting around doing nothing."
"Well, we can work on my car if you want," he offered, shrugging. "Until you can learn to relax a little," he added.
"You have a car? I thought you were about the bikes now," I said, waving at his.
"I like the bike, but there is no replacing my cars. I might not race them anymore, and I don't even drive much other than my bike these days, but I still work on it, tweak it."
"Well, now I have to see it," I said, excitement bubbling up.
About forty minutes later, Che was opening up the garage door.
"Oh, my God," I said, gaping at him. "We can't tweak a two-hundred-thousand dollar car, Che," I snapped, staring at the Huracan in front of us, a sleek matte black car that I could only ever dream about. Sure, for a Lamborghini, it was considered an "affordable" choice. But to us mere mortals, it was an astronomical amount of money to pay for a racing car that he didn't even race.
"Sure we can," he said, going over to the steel tool cabinet, opening up some drawers. "What were you driving?" he asked, making a stabbing sensation pierce my heart at the mention of my car.
"It was a Camaro. I spent hundreds of hours on that thing," I added, feeling the loss like a good friend instead of a car.
"Where did you leave it?" he asked, giving me an understanding look. Our cars were our babies. It hurt to lose them.
"Up in Georgia. It was the kind of car that stuck out. Especially with the damage on it. I had to get rid of it."
"That had to hurt."
"More than you know," I told him, sighing, as he popped the hood of his car. "Oh, that's just too pretty," I grumbled at the sea of pristine black broke up only by the muted bronze intake manifold castings. "Do you ever bring this to races just to show it off?" I asked, leaning down to get a closer look.