Though I hadn’t been able to afford classes when I wanted to take them at a young age, I’d snagged a boyfriend that was a coach when I was eighteen, and he’d allowed me to come to his classes for free until we broke up.
After we broke up, I found a new Jiu Jitsu gym to go to and scraped some pennies together to get enough money to cover class each month.
Now, it was my regular routine, Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and some Saturdays.
I more than knew how to defend myself.
But I needed to get to work, and I didn’t think my job would think highly of me beating the shit out of a woman in their parking lot.
“Leave me alone, Cadence,” I said to Moran. “Even better, go home. Live your life.”
I turned my back on her and smiled at Chevy who got out of his car. “Thought you had the night off?”
“Eight-car pileup on seventy-five,” he said, his gaze focused on Moran who hadn’t tried to hide. “Multiple casualties. Needed all hands on deck.”
“Damn,” I winced. “That sucks.”
“What did she have to say?” he asked as he fell into step beside me.
“Same shit. Her brother’s missing. She thinks Webber had something to do with it,” I grumbled as we got to where he would go left and I’d go right. “Let me know if you need anything.”
We separated and went our different ways, but I could tell that Chevy would be letting Webber know about the altercation.
Which made me feel all warm and gooey.
I loved the club.
I loved the family that Aella found for us.
Oh, and I loved Piers Webb, even if he didn’t love me back.
Nine
I’m gonna be nosy. I want to know why your kids are in your bio on FB but not in your custody.
—Silver’s secret thoughts
SILVER
The Grand Am was acting up again.
I knew what it was.
I needed a new timing belt.
The squeal was god awful, not to mention embarrassing.
I contemplated whether to go to Webb’s or not for a solid thirty minutes—because I hadn’t spoken to my father in weeks after his latest incident and there was no way I was going to his place—before I finally decided…fuck it.
I went to my bedroom—which was actually my living room—and searched through the stack of clean clothes on my dresser before finding the oldest pair of cutoff shorts that I owned.
The same shorts that I wore every time that I worked on cars, and I didn’t care if they got dirty.
It being mid-July, there was no way in hell that I was going to wear jeans. Even if it was the smarter thing to do because of all the grease I knew was about to coat my legs.
It was damn near impossible for me to stay clean when I was working on my car.
No matter how hard I tried, I inevitably ended up getting coated in grease from head to foot.
