One year later...
Reggie and I were at the shop working on our new pet project, restoring an old Shelby Mustang that some kid had blasphemously turned into a fucking donk. A hydraulic system was hooked to the suspension so the car would hop up and down on the tires, the body was painted a matte black from a fucking spray can, and when Reggie pulled it into the lot of my shop and put it in park, the twenty inch gold rims continued to spin. The six inch lift made it almost as tall as my truck.
I imagine that when I died someday, the hell that was waiting for me looked very much like the purple velvet ridiculousness that covered the entire interior.
My stomach rolled when I thought back to the condition it'd been in when I first saw it. Reggie felt the same way because when the kid who was driving it pulled into the parking lot of Bert’s Bar one night, Reggie had flagged him down and offered him way more than what it was worth. Thank fucking god the stupid kid accepted his offer, handing over his keys as soon as I rode in with the cash.
I wasn't even mad that Reggie made the deal without asking me first. I'd gladly have paid twice that amount for the opportunity to turn it back into what both God and Ford had intended.
Maybe not necessarily in that order.
I'm glad Abby and Georgia weren't there when the Sheriff showed up that day, fish-tailing his old patrol car into my gravel parking lot like he was a fucking stunt driver for Dukes of Hazard, dust and dirt billowing from under his tires as he skidded to a stop, lights and sirens blaring in the middle of the fucking day. The Sheriff’s only deputy followed closely behind him with the only other patrol car in Coral Pines.
Sheriff Fletcher and Deputy Harbord got out of their cars and drew their guns, shielding themselves behind the open doors of their vehicles.
"Get your fucking hands up!" the sheriff ordered through a small portable bull-horn that muffled his voice as if he was repeating our order back to us from the old drive through of the Dairy Queen.
Reggie's hands shot up in the air. "Drop the wrench!" Deputy Harbord shouted.
Reggie looked up to his raised hands and dropped the wrench as soon as he realized he was still holding it. It bounced off the concrete and clattered down into the oil bay.
I lifted my head out from under the hood of the Shelby and wiped my hands with the rag I kept over my shoulder. I took in the scene in front of me as I lit a cigarette and wondered which of my arrestable offenses could've warranted such theatrics.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked sarcastically. Leaning up against one of the tall tool boxes that lined the outside of the work bay, crossing my legs at the ankles. I took a long drag of my cigarette and blew the smoke out of my nose.
Sheriff Fletcher was as crooked as they'd come. After I found out he'd helped Owen when he'd raped and almost killed Abby, the motherfucker was lucky he was still fucking breathing.
I couldn't kill everyone.
At least, that's what Abby kept telling me.
"Jacob Francis Dunn?" the deputy asked, slowly approaching the work bay. Sheriff Fletcher stood his ground by his car, gun at the ready.
Fucking coward.
"Griff, put that thing down," I said, gesturing with my cigarette to the gun he had aimed at my chest. "You know me. Don't pretend like you fucking don't." I put out my cigarette on the heel of my boot. "You've know me since the ninth grade when I fingered your girlfriend in the back of the room during English Lit while you gave that presentation on Jane Austen." Griff's face dropped. "Don't worry though. I only made her come once."
"Not exactly the thing to say to someone holding a gun to your head," Griffin spat, his face turned red with irritation. "And it was Shakespeare, asshole."
"So you do remember. It was so long ago, man. You remember the name of that whore you used to date?" I goaded. I already knew the answer.
"Kristy, her name was and is Kristy. And if you say one more word about my fucking wife I'm going to squeeze this here trigger," he warned. "Now put your fucking hands up." He redirected his gun from my chest to my head.
"Everything all right over there?" Sheriff Fletcher called out, still hiding behind his car door.
"I got this, Boss." Griff called back without taking his eyes off me.
"What exactly do you fuckers want?" I asked, irritated that they'd interrupted me while I was resuscitating the Shelby. I'd just started Mustang CPR on her when they'd pulled in.
"Jacob Dunn, we have a warrant for your arrest. We came to take you on in," Griff said, proudly.
"You gonna arrest me?" I asked. "What the fuck for?"