“I wasn’t asking for help. I was going to ask for a trustworthy recommendation.”
“I know. I know someone reliable, diligent, and trustworthy.”
“He sounds expensive.” She reached for another grape but only stared at it like it was crystal ball. “Like I have much of a choice. Can he do it on short notice?”
Noah nodded. “I guarantee he’s available.”
She smiled at him. The effect of it went all the way to his groin. Harley, nose practically in Noah’s crotch, made a whiny noise. Just what he needed, a dick odometer.
He picked up his fork, salivating at the food before him. “We’ll talk later.”
She didn’t smile again, just cut another wedge of cheese.
While Noah and his dog went out so that Harley could do his thing before they headed back downtown, Carly stacked their plates and went in search of her aunt.
She found her peeling potatoes at the sink.
“Thanks for lunch. And I’m sorry about your cake, Aunt Fredda. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”
“No need.” Fredda looked over at her. “That dog didn’t eat my cake.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m not saying I’d put it past a dog to eat cake. But then wash the platter?” She pointed her potato peeler at her best cake plate resting in the dish rack. “You ever known Jarius to wash a dish he didn’t use?”
Carly almost felt sorry her cousin. Caught out by his mom. And Aunt Fredda was not one to be crossed.
CHAPTER TEN
Hemmed in by scrub brush and barbed wire, the driver sped along Shelby Road, a rural lane south of town, at sundown. As the turnoff for Village Creek Motocross passed his window, he scowled. He’d planned on making an appearance at the 4th Dealer Series competition next weekend, followed by an evening celebrating at Bikini’s in Arlington. But now all his plans were shot to shit.
He rubbed his gloved hands over the steering wheel. He needed this fix very badly, to work off some stress before he made another mistake. He needed to relax. Clear his head.
Only one solution for that.
After a few minutes a black-humped shape appeared in an empty field off on the right, backlit by the embers of the sunset. That’s what he was looking for.
He checked his rearview mirror. No car on the road. Piece of luck there.
He shut off his headlights and braked hard, fishtailing off the blacktop and onto a gravel road where the truck bounced over the metal cattle grate into the field.
The bouncing continued, jarring his teeth, until the truck jolted to a halt as a tire slammed into a deep unseen rut.
He gunned the engine twice, hoping the tire would grab traction and spin out of the hole. But the only things ejected from the rut were clods of dirt.
Swearing viciously, he slammed the truck door shut and walked back to inspect the tire. At least it hadn’t blown.
He swung his head left and right, the plastic shower cap he wore under his baseball cap crackling. A car was in the distance, but he doubted they would notice a truck in a field with its lights off. If they did, it was too dark to make out much. Even so, he didn’t like being out of his truck before nightfall. He might be spotted and later described. For that reason, he’d stopped to take off the truck’s license plate when he hit open country. It was a risk worth taking if he was stopped.
Lost my tags, officer? Didn’t even know it. That’s the last thing I need about now.
Then he’d have casually mentioned he worked for CowTown Fire and Water Disaster, then revealed his volunteer fire department credentials as he went for his license. Funny how that always worked up a conversation. Didn’t matter if he or she was a trooper, deputy, or patrol. Law enforcement seemed to get a hard-on when talking with firefighters. Most times he got away with a friendly warning. What did they call it? Oh yeah. Professional courtesy. That’s what he was. A professional firefighter. Even if he worked for an all-volunteer fire department. Why didn’t the shit-for-brains candidate review board of the Fort Worth Fire Department get that?
He went to the back of his truck, shifted free a section of planking, and shoved it under the stuck tire. It didn’t matter that he got mud on his clothing. The disposable biohazard coveralls he wore from work didn’t shed, leaving no fibers for forensics. It and his booties would go into a Dumpster in Mansfield.
Once back in the cab, he reversed his engine and stepped on the gas. This time the truck moved, tire gripping wood to move up and out. Problem solved.
He was good at thinking on his feet. Problem solving. This last time, he’d scored well enough on his third attempt to make the cut from thirty-two hundred applicants to seventy real contenders.