They were halfway down the forecourt when she asked, “Overtime?”
“Wood and Pop are always busy and gettin’ busier, especially in the summer,” Ty answered. “They got a good reputation for their work and got enough work that they can keep the cost of parts low and pass that on to customers so folks from Chantelle and even Gnaw Bone go outta their way to use us for regular maintenance and repairs. But Pop’s been workin’ on Harleys for goin’ on fifty years, he’s good at it, passed that shit down to all his boys so men with bikes from as far away as Aspen, Grand Junction, Glenwood Springs even Denver bring ‘em to Pop. They were two mechanics down when they took me on and they held off hirin’ in order to cover me when I got out. Their desire to continue tradition of good work, they don’t hire just anyone and still haven’t found another guy. Seein’ as I had to take a few unexpected days off, so Wood wouldn’t eat that, I started workin’ late to make up the time. Then he needed me, I kept that shit up and started workin’ Thursdays. Gym stays open late, could go after the garage was closed and did ‘cause I had no reason to get home.”
It was more than that. It was all the evidence of the them he fucked up all around that he told himself to get shot of and never could bring himself to do it that made him not want to go home. Now, he was glad he didn’t get rid of it. But just a day ago, walking down the stairs in the morning and up them at night was a form of torture.
Not to mention, considering he was an experienced mechanic therefore his salary was far from shit and Pop and Wood paid time and a half overtime, he’d made a fuckload of cake.
“Are you going to keep doing that, the overtime, I mean?” she asked and his hand gave hers a squeeze.
“Depends,” he answered then joked, “I gotta save for four college tuitions, I probably should start now.”
He felt her shades on him as they turned the corner to the sidewalk and he looked down at her.
“Is money an issue?”
She clearly didn’t take it as a joke.
“Babe, we stick together, nothin’ is an issue.”
“What?”
He stopped, stopping her with a tug on her hand then he drew her close, letting her hand go and winding both arms around her. When her shades hit his, he spoke.
“This is it, Team Walker, you and me. We want somethin’, we find a way to get it. We hit a rough patch, we find a way to get over it. We face a challenge, we find a way to beat it. It’s good, we savor it. What I’m sayin’ is, this team is a winner. We never forget to celebrate the victories and we get a lotta those because we never admit defeat.”
She stared up at him, unmoving, silent and with the dark lenses on her shades, he couldn’t see her eyes.
So his arms gave her a squeeze and he called, “Lexie?”
“Team Walker,” she whispered.
“Team Walker,” he repeated firmly.
Her hands slid up his arms, his shoulders so both could curl around the sides of his neck where she squeezed as she got up on her toes and said softly, “I like that.”
“That’s good because the position you play on this team lasts a lifetime.”
She grinned then smiled then giggled.
Then she put pressure on his neck, he bent and took her mouth.
Then he let her go, took her hand and guided her down three blocks and across the street to the diner.
They were seated in a booth at the back, a booth he requested because no one was sitting around it so no one could overhear. His back was to the wall; his woman was across from him.
They’d ordered, got their drinks and Ty started sharing, including Detective Angel Pe?a’s involvement which got him a loud gasp then a sweet smile that was not for him but for Pe?a, who she might not think about a lot but she clearly liked. It was a smile Pe?a would have liked to have seen. It was a smile Ty was glad he never would.
Their food was served and he was in the middle of telling her about Crabtree when his phone rang, he leaned forward, pulled it out, looked at the display and it said, “Tate Calling.”
“Eat, mama, gotta take this. It’s Tate,” he muttered, she nodded and continued to devour her curly fries and cheeseburger as he flipped his phone open and put it to his ear. “Yo.”
“Brother, you sittin’ down?”
Fuck.
“What?”
“Misty Keaton is dead.”
Ty froze. Then his blood turned to ice. Then he guessed their play.
“Do not tell me they’re gonna try to pin that shit on me.”
“Hard to do since she was done with Rowdy Crabtree’s service revolver.”
Holy fuck.
Two birds, one stone.
His eyes went to his wife who did not miss his words, tone and vibe and was staring at him with one ketchup soaked fry halfway to her mouth, eyes big, face pale. Ty gave her a short head shake in hopes of calming her fears. She nodded once but he knew by the look in her eyes he hadn’t succeeded in calming her fears.
As he did this, he asked Tate, “No shit?”