Baddest Bad Boys(34)

The bar had bowls at intervals, heaped with multicolored dyed Easter eggs. Robin had forgotten about Easter. Not that she’d ever really noticed it. A person needed a mom to make Easter eggs and bonnets and baskets and bunny hunts happen. Busy older brothers couldn’t be bothered with stuff like that. She perched on a stool and tried to catch the eye of the bearded guy with the big belly who was tending bar.

He lumbered over, looking grumpy. “What can I get for ya?”

“Are you Earl?” Robin asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Ruby at the store told me you might know where Robbie is,” Robin explained. “My car won’t start. I need a mechanic.”

Earl grunted. “He ain’t here.”

“Is he likely to drop by? Does he have a phone?”

“Nah. Deadbeat don’t pay his bills.”

Robin let out a slow, controlled breath. “Could I wait for him?”

“Gotta buy a drink if you want to take up bar space.”

“I’ll have a diet Coke,” Robin said.

Earl rolled his eyes, and looked pointedly at Kelly.

“Mineral water with a twist of lemon,” the woman said brightly.

Earl slapped the drinks on the bar and turned his back on them.

“They pride themselves on service, I see,” Kelly murmured.

Robin tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t work. “Looks like it.”

“I should have mentioned this before, but I’m a pretty decent mechanic myself,” Kelly said. “On older cars, anyway. My dad was a mechanic. If you like, I’ll take a look at it for you.”

Robin looked at her, startled. The woman was so pretty, with the bouncing blond ponytail, the delicate features. She didn’t look like a mechanic. She looked like a china doll, in forest camo and polar fleece.

Kelly laughed. “Yes, that’s one of the reasons I went into sales. No one took me seriously as a mechanic. But I’m good, really. Just one thing.”

“Yes? And what’s that?”

“My tool chest is in the van,” Kelly explained. “And I’ve got a torn rotator cuff. Could you help me haul my chest over to your car?”

“Oh, sure. What a question,” Robin said.

Kelly beamed. “Great. So let’s just—”

“What the f*ck are you doing in a dive like this?”

Robin spun at the harsh voice. It was Jon, glowering down at her.

The impulse to yank Robin off that bar stool, clamp her under his arm and carry her out of that stinking bar was almost overwhelming.

“How did you find me?” Her voice was accusing.

“Saw your car. And the cashier tipped me off. Stalled?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Robin said crisply. “It’s covered.”

Damn. What he wanted to say was stuck in his throat. He had to get her someplace private, to pry it out somehow. Make her understand.

“I’m helping her with the car,” said the woman next to her.

Jon turned his attention reluctantly to the delicate-looking pale blonde. “You?” he asked. “Helping her how?”

“She’s a mechanic,” Robin said.

A secretive smile curled the blonde’s lips. “Strange, but true.”

He could give a flying f*ck about the blonde’s mechanical ability. He wanted to talk to Robin. But the woman showed no sign of disappearing. She grabbed an egg, cracked it, and peeled it.

“Forget the car, Robin,” he pleaded. “Let’s just go get a beer somewhere. Not here. We need to talk.”

“We’ve said it all. I think we should stick to the original plan.”

He scowled. “We had an original plan?”

“Remember? When it’s over, it’s over? What plays in Vegas?”

“That wasn’t a plan,” he barked. “That was a starting point.”

“And now it’s an end point,” Robin said. “We’ve come full circle.”

Desperation clawed from within at the stone wall in his throat.

Robin broke eye contact. “Damn it,” she whispered. “Don’t, Jon.”

“Do you want me to call someone?” the blond chick asked. She shook salt on her egg, took a bite, watched them avidly as she chewed.

Robin shook her head. “I’ll just go wait by my car.” She glared at Jon. “Do not follow me. Or I will scream, and make a spectacle.”

She hurried out. Jon stood there, feeling empty and gutted. The blonde reached over the bar to get herself a slice of lemon. Her sleeve rode up, revealing—what the hell? At first glance, it seemed a crocheted bracelet. Dots and lines, curling spirals…cuts and burns.

Decorative scarring. A weird chill shuddered down his back.

She dropped her lemon into her water. The sleeve slipped back down. Surreal. He could see it on a punk rocker, a Goth. But not her.

“She seems special,” the woman said, her voice sugary with false sympathy. “I can see why it’s hard to let go.”

He stared coldly into her fake smile. None of your business, you nosy bitch. He let his vibe say it. Professional necessity had put some checks and balances on his natural tendency for bluntness.

“Have a nice evening.” She dropped a twenty on the bar, and left.