Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(5)

Either they’d lied, or they hadn’t thought I had the talent.

Regardless, I moved home feeling like a failure. Was I?

Maybe. Or maybe when I wasn’t on camera, when people needed me for my brain and not my face, I’d finally stand out. I’d prove to myself I was good enough.

I’d dedicated my life to journalism. To finding hidden truths and exposing buried lies. It was more than a job, it was my passion. If there was an epic story lurking under the surface of this quaint small town, I was telling it.

A murder investigation involving Draven Slater? Sign me up.

My foot hovered over the gas pedal as I idled at the intersection across the street from the garage, checking my rearview again for red and blue lights. If the chief was coming this way to arrest Draven, I didn’t have much of a lead.

That was, if I was even heading in the right direction.

There was the chance Draven wasn’t at the garage but at home and the cops were headed there. I stayed the course. Whether I managed to track down Draven or not, I was heading to the garage.

Today was the day I was meeting Dash Slater. Today I’d get to size up my opponent.

I used my knee to steer as I whipped off the sweater I’d pulled on this morning. Luckily, my black tank top underneath had a plunging neckline and was free of deodorant streaks. I drove one handed, grabbing the small can of emergency-situation dry shampoo from my purse to spray and fluff my hair. Then I swiped on a coat of my dark-rose lipstick seconds before pulling into the parking lot.

The garage itself was huge. I’d driven by a few times but had never actually stopped. It was more intimidating now, being parked in front of the four open bay doors that towered above my Audi.

At the end of the long asphalt parking lot, a building was tucked next to a small grove of trees. The windows were dark and there was a thick chain looped around the front door’s handle. The attached padlock glinted in the sunlight.

That had to be the Tin Gypsies’ former headquarters. A clubhouse—that’s what these gangs called them, right? There were no cars or motorcycles parked by the clubhouse. The grass around it was overgrown.

At a glance, the building seemed closed down. Abandoned. But how many men had a key to that padlock? How many men went inside after the sun went down? How many men entered through a hidden back door?

I refused to take that building at face value. Sure, it looked derelict from the outside. Was it thriving behind those closed doors?

In my mirrors, there was a row of motorcycles parked against the tall chain-link fence that bordered the property of the garage. Down the fence, there were cars, some covered in tarps as they waited to be repaired or restored. All four of the garage bays in front of me were full of vehicles—three trucks and a red classic car.

The steel siding on the garage was bright in the morning sun. The office was closest to the street, the sign above its door not really a sign. The large words Clifton Forge Garage had been airbrushed onto the steel building with pristine strokes of red, black, green and yellow paint.

Past the vehicles in the garage, the place was immaculate. Not the greasy, dingy place I’d expected. The florescent lights illuminated what looked like a mostly spotless concrete floor. The red tool benches along the walls were clean and new. This place screamed money. More money than a small-town garage could make doing routine oil changes and tire rotations.

I checked my hair and lipstick in the rearview mirror one last time, then stepped outside. The moment my door slammed closed, two mechanics appeared from underneath the truck hoods where they’d been working.

“Morning.” One of them waved before giving me a full-body appraisal. A grin tugged at his mouth. He liked what he saw.

Score one for the tank top.

“Good morning.” I waved as both men strode my way.

Each wore denim-blue coveralls and thick-soled boots. The leaner of the two had his hair cut short, revealing a black tattoo that trailed down his neck only to disappear beneath the collar of his coveralls. The bulkier man had his dark hair tied back and his coveralls unzipped, tied around his waist. His chest was covered with a white tank, his two beefy arms bare except for the mass of colorful tattoos.

Maybe this was why the garage was raking in the cash. Single women from half the state would drive here to have their oil changed by these hot mechanics. Though neither of these handsome men was the one I was after.

Where was Draven? I hoped he was in the office drinking coffee.

“What can we do for you, ma’am?” the short-haired man asked as he cleaned his black-stained hands on a red rag.

“I’m really overdue for an oil change.” I gave them an exaggerated frown. “I’m not great about making car stuff a priority. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could fit me in this morning?”

The men shared a look and a nod, but before either could answer, a deep voice came from behind them. “Mornin’.”

The mechanics stepped apart, revealing none other than Dash Slater stalking my way. His strides were purposeful. Potent, even. I’d expected to meet him here, hoped for it even, but I hadn’t been mentally or physically prepared.

Our eyes met and my heart boomed, stealing my breath. My mind went blank, unable to concentrate on anything except the way his dark jeans draped over his long legs and those thick, bulging thighs.

I’d never seen a man move like Dash, with confidence and charisma in every step. His hazel eyes, a vibrant swirl of green and gold and brown, threatened to lure me under his spell.