“Are you crushing on the mechanic?” Blaze says.
Snake shrugs. “Maybe. They say everyone’s got their unicorn, the person who’ll make them swing the other way. For some guys, it’s Tom Hardy and a desert island, for others, it’s George Clooney.”
“And for you it’s an old greaseball named Max?” Blaze says.
“Maybe,” Snake says, casting a look toward Max that makes me want to punch him. “You never know until you try.”
“Brother, you creep me out. Any more weirdness out of you and I’m not inviting you to Matty’s birthday party,” Mack says. “I will not have your fucking deviance around my son.”
“Seriously, Mack? You’d deprive me of birthday cake just because I’m unafraid to learn?” Snake says.
I put a hand on Snake’s shoulder. “Snake, it should go without saying, but I will say it anyway: keep your weird shit to yourself and away from the mechanic. At least until he’s fixed our truck. Got it?”
“Fine,” he says.
Deeper in the mechanic’s shop, a phone rings. Grumbling, Max trundles across the worn concrete floor and puts the receiver to his ear. The second he picks up the phone, his expression changes. His worn, craggy features show concern and anger in equal parts.
His gruff voice is loud enough that, even on the other side of the shop, I can hear him.
“What’s that? Vi? Slow down, slow down, dear. Talk slow. I’m old and I can’t keep up with your fast talking.”
He goes quiet for a second. All four of us — Mack, Blaze, Snake, and myself — trade wary looks.
Then Max clears his throat and hangs up the phone.
“You. Crash. Get your ass over here.”
I cross to him and, from the grubby table that constitutes his desk, he snatches up a grease-stained sheet of paper and scrawls an address on it.
“You’re needed,” he says as he shoves the paper into my hands.
“What the hell is this about?”
“That was Vi. She needs you. And you’re going to get your ass over there. Now.”
“I’m not her fucking errand boy.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a grown fucking man. And she’s a woman. And she’s in trouble, and she needs help. So, be a fucking man and get your ass over there. Because, if you don’t, you will find just how fucking slow I can be when it comes to fixing your truck.”
Shoving the sheet of paper into the pocket of my jeans, I storm toward the parking lot, stopping only to shout “Keep an eye on the fucking truck and keep out of trouble” at my brothers before I get on my bike and speed down the tiny streets of the shit town of Carbon Ridge.
I get to my destination in four minutes. It’s a small two-storey home, with a white coat of paint, blue trim, and a literal white picket fence out front. There’s a novelty mailbox in the shape of a doghouse with Snoopy asleep on top of it. And there’s a sheriff’s car parked in the driveway.
When I stop my bike behind the car, there’s a good long moment where I consider turning around and forgetting this whole damn mess. Whatever’s waiting for me inside, I do not want to deal with it.
Then, through the front living room window of this small, picturesque house, I catch sight of Violet. Standing in front of the sheriff, gesturing wildly, with tears streaming down her face. And, when she turns, I see the ugly purple bruise that — even from this distance — I can tell has got to be painful as hell.
Someone hit her.
My blood catches fire in anger and I’m off my bike and storming to the front door before I know it.
Someone hurt her.
And that someone is going to die.
Pounding my fist against the front door, I shift back and forth on my feet like a rabid animal ready to strike. If whoever attacked her is inside, I don’t give a damn that a sheriff is here, I will kill them.
The door opens, and the sight of Sheriff Cartwright’s smug, ugly mug greets me. My anger flares even hotter at the thought of this corrupt son of a bitch being the first person Violet sees after suffering an attack.
It shouldn’t be him.
It should be me that takes care of her.
Coming from behind him, I hear Violet’s sobs and, without waiting for the asshole sheriff to get out of my way, I barge past him.
“What happened?” I say, my voice loud and furious.
“Calm down, buddy. Calm down. She’s already given her statement. Just take a seat and let the law handle this,” Sheriff Cartwright says.
I whirl on him. Take a step toward him and grin as he takes a cowardly step back.
“Like I give a fuck about whatever you pissant sheriffs think you can do.”
“Crash, please, calm down,” comes Violet’s tear-strained voice.
I turn back to her. My blood is still on fire — with anger, and with frustration over the fact that, no matter what I do, I keep getting pulled deeper and deeper into the morass that is Carbon Ridge. And that, for all the fighting I want to do, the one thing I can’t fight is how this woman has some kind of hold on me.
“Crash, please, sit with me,” she says again.
After a moment, I comply, taking a seat next to her on the living room sofa. The sunlight streaming in through the window warms the back of my neck, and I let out a sigh as Violet leans over and rests her head against my shoulder.
“Thank you for your time, Sheriff,” she says. “I have nothing more to add to my statement, but I’ll call
