“Fuck!” The asshole shoves away from me so violently, it has him toppling to his ass on the bus floor. Holding a hand to his neck, he stares at me like I’m the fuckwit who attempted to rob someone at knifepoint.
Mentally shaking off the odd bloodthirsty haze, I make a shooing motion with my free hand. “Get the fuck out of my sight.” He scrambles to his feet while his eyes spear me with hatred. “And get a damn job while you’re at it.”
He stomps to the rear of the bus, and I flip the switchblade closed and pocket it, a little smirk gracing my lips.
At least I got something useful from that little fucker.
8
DANIEL
I’ve tried every fucking possible spelling, yet nothing’s panned out.
Pinney, Pinny, Pinnie. You name it, I’ve searched it out. But whoever or whatever my sister mentioned doesn’t seem to exist.
As if that’s not enough to have me frustrated as fuck, I’m at yet another place going by the name of Freebird and nobody’s heard of anyone named Mac.
“Heard of a Mack truck.” This comes from a trucker who looks like he’s been on the road for an entire century or two, face covered in wrinkles, skin looking paper-thin.
His chest rattles with a raspy laugh, but it doesn’t stop him from lighting the cigarette pinched in the corner of his lips. “Got one right outside, matter of fact.”
Frustration has my mouth flattening. “Thanks, anyway.”
“Mmhmm.” He eyes me just like everybody else did the moment I stepped inside. They’re in either overalls or jeans that are filthy or just look it and T-shirts to match. I stick out like a sore thumb, but I don’t give two shits about that.
A guy like me walks into a place like this, frequented by “lot lizards” offering up pussy to all these lonely truckers who’ve been on the road far too long, and I stick out like a sore thumb.
I’m wearing my usual—black slacks with a matching button-down and black steel-toed boots to match. My shirt’s untucked, but it’s a half-ass attempt to conceal my holstered gun.
Even if I were dressed like the rest of them, I sure as hell wouldn’t blend in. Not with my darker skin and my accent, that’s for damn sure.
Sidling up to the bar, I slide onto the stool that’s decorated with a long, wide strip of duct tape to hide the split in the old leather. Might as well grab a drink while I’m here. Fuck knows I deserve it after hitting so many goddamn dead ends.
The bartender’s old as shit, but I’ve got a feeling he won’t turn me away based on my appearance. Prison tats cover his bare forearms. His eyes alone tell me he’s seen some serious shit.
He slaps a thin-as-shit square beverage napkin down in front of me. “What’ll it be?”
My eyes drift past him to scan the liquor bottles on the shelves behind him. “Whiskey neat. Three fingers.”
A nod is all he offers before turning around and grabbing the bottle and a glass. A moment later, he sets my drink on the napkin.
“Thanks.”
He gives another nod, glances around, then leans in. His dark gaze locks with mine, his voice hushed, words meant for only me to hear. “You ain’t plannin’ to cause trouble in here, are ya? ’Cause I ain’t got no beef with y’all.” His eyes flick down to the inside of my right forearm at the inked scorpion tattoo that represents our gang—our family, for all intents and purposes.
I lift my glass and dip my chin. “Not plannin’ anythin’.” Holding his gaze, I toss back half the whiskey, welcoming the familiar warmth as it slides down my throat.
He’s smart enough to read the truth in my eyes. “Fair enough. Let me know if you need somethin’ else.”
“Will do.”
He walks away, leaving me in silence. I stare into the amber liquid wishing like hell Emilia had given me more to go on.
With an inward grunt, I’m tempted to ask the bartender to give me the whole fucking bottle of whiskey, but drowning myself in alcohol won’t get me any closer to finding her murderer or tracking down this guy named Mac.
I’ve got more motherfucking Freebirds to hit up. Who the hell knew there were that many within a two-hour radius of downtown Jacksonville where Emilia worked?
With a sigh, I toss back the rest of my drink and slide off the barstool. Dropping enough cash for my drink and a decent tip for the bartender beside my empty glass, I leave the bar.
Wishing like hell I weren’t leaving empty-handed once again.
9
MAC
Monday Morning
Wiping my greasy hands on the rag, I heave out a sigh and turn away from the Tacoma sitting in the bay of my garage.
“In local news, another body was discovered early this morning along the banks of the St. Johns River.
“Authorities have admitted that the body was of a woman in her late twenties to early thirties, but they cannot reveal more at this time. The Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office will—”
Stepping over to the radio, I’m not sure why I’m antsy as hell to do it, but I shut it off in mid-news story. Relief settles over me at the absence of the radio’s noise, and I breathe a little easier.
I move in the path of one of the industrial-sized fans sending gusts of wind barreling through one open end of the bay doors to the other. They never quite combat the humidity Florida’s known for but serve as a small reprieve from the heat.
Tossing my rag on the top of one of my tool chests, I lift the hem of my tank top and swipe at the layer of sweat and grease coating my forehead. I’m about to lose daylight, so it’s time to wrap it up.
I lower each of the bay doors and secure them. Nobody’s tried to break in, but it’d be my luck that the first time I leave things unlocked, it’d happen.
The perimeter of my property is securely fenced in—I was grateful to inherit it that way because it would’ve cost me a pretty penny otherwise.
Instead, I was able to put the bulk of my trust fund toward updating the bay doors and purchasing better equipment to enable me to take apart vehicles more easily on my own. Since it’s labor intensive and has me moving some heavy shit by myself, they were necessary upgrades.
Once I lock up and shut off the lights, I climb the outside stairs that lead to the separate top floor. It’s where I live, and yeah, it’s nothing that’ll make people envious, but it’s plenty for me. Plus, I don’t have to worry about any nosy or noisy neighbors since this salvage yard sits on ten acres and is bordered by woods.
I leave my boots outside my door before padding inside. The moment I slide the door’s lock in place, a calmness spreads through me. It’s probably overkill considering how secure this entire place is, but it’s a habit.
Stripping in my laundry room, I toss my clothes in the basket sitting on top of the dryer before heading to my bathroom.
I turn on the shower and adjust the temperature before tugging out my hair tie. A sigh of relief breaks loose at having my hair unrestrained as I step beneath the warm water. Resting my hands on the tile wall, I close my eyes.
An idea has been fluttering around in my brain since I left Dr. Phillips’ office yesterday. There could be a way to tap into the traumatic memories my mind has buried.