The formality still throws me. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course.”
I lower my voice and explain what we need.
“You good with that?”
“Consider it done. Any specific time?”
If I know Mason, he’ll want it recorded. We need enough daylight for clear footage, but not so much that Tommy gets suspicious.
“Early evening. Not too dark. Need the visibility—just in case we need leverage later.”
Lee nods. “I’ll set it up now, if that’s okay?”
I clap a hand on his back and steer him toward the bay doors. “Get on it.”
Once he’s gone, I check the job board and pitch in where I can.
The sun beats down on my back, heating the leather of my cut as I ride through downtown Laurel Springs. Dime and Thunder flank me—protection, presence. We roll through Main Street like royalty. Lunch time today means we’re headed to a Laurel Springs institution.
At a red light, I glance left. It’s Laurel Springs PD. K-9 Rambo’s SUV, to be exact. Rambo and Ransom, the dream team, so to speak. Our eyes lock. His nod is slight—barely a gesture—but I catch it. I’ve trained myself not to react to recognition, so I turn my head back and fix my gaze forward.
The light flips green. We ride one street over and park outside The Café.
“I can taste the chicken-fried steak already,” Dime says, cracking his neck.
I rub my stomach. “First thing I’m getting? Fried pickles.”
Thunder grunts. He’s very much a man of few words.
We step inside and take a booth near the back. None of us sit with our backs to the door. Old habits. We’ve barely settled when a group of Laurel Springs cops files in. Chief Harrison included.
He locks eyes with me, jaw set hard.
I hold his gaze. Don’t blink. Then I grin, lift both middle fingers, and flash him a cocky smirk. Our table chuckles as Harrison turns away with a twitch of a grin.
I glance at Dime. “Any luck on the job postings for the garage? Anyone worth a second look?”
He nods. “Couple of high school kids applied. Thought it might help with prospect flow down the line. One of them,” he tilts his head toward the PD table, “is Keegan Thompson.”
Ransom’s son.
“Yeah?” I say, voice casual. “We’ll talk it through. See what makes sense.”
“Hey, y’all,” Leigh says as she approaches with a notepad. “What can I get you started with?”
“Fried pickles,” I groan. “Top priority.”
She laughs. “Coming up. Drinks?”
We order, and she heads to the kitchen. Within minutes, she’s back with our drinks, setting them down and letting us know the food will be out shortly.
Dime grabs his drink and takes a long pull. “Not like I need you to hold my fuckin’ hand, Dad. But if you feel like you gotta be part of it, knock yourself out.”
The guys snicker. Standard banter. But if Keegan really applied, what if there’s a plan brewing—and we’re not in on it yet? What if we’re not meant to be in on it?
And that? That’s never a good sign.
