Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(74)

“Jesus,” I grumbled. “Do you always have to be so reasonable?”

“Yes.”

I fought a grin. “So now what? The daughter—”

“Genevieve,” she corrected.

“Genevieve is a dead end. What’s next?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “Honestly, with everything that’s happened over the last couple of days, I need some time to think. To let it breathe until it comes to me.”

Breathing and time sounded good to me too.

The parking lot at The Betsy was nearly empty when we arrived. My bike was parked beside the building where I’d left it last night. No one who went to The Betsy would dare touch it.

Bryce stayed in her seat as she waited for me to get out of the car. “Bye.”

“Call you later.”

“You don’t have my number.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

I’d had her phone number memorized since the day she’d come to the garage for a fake oil change. Willy had given it to me when I’d called him. I doubted Bryce knew her employee had once been a frequent guest at our underground fights. He’d always bet on me and I’d made him a lot of money, so there wasn’t much he kept to himself whenever I called.

“Fine. Whatever. Call me later.”

She left me at my bike and I watched her drive away.

I waited a whole five minutes before digging my phone out of my pocket.

“Seriously?” she answered, a smile in her voice. “Do I need to be worried that you’re turning into a clinger?”

Yes. There was no keeping my boundaries with her. She’d stood by me these past twenty-four hours and things were different. From the beginning, everything about her had been different.

“Got a deal for you,” I said, straddling my bike. “I’ll fold the rest of your laundry if you cook me dinner.”

“I’m making breakfast for dinner. I feel like biscuits and gravy.”

My mouth watered. “I could eat breakfast.”

“I’m making the biscuits from scratch. It’s a pain in the ass and makes a mess. Toss in cleanup with the laundry and you can come over at six.”

How was it this woman could make me smile after the afternoon we’d had?

Sorcery.

“I’ll be there.”





Chapter Twenty





Bryce





“Good morning,” I said as I walked into the Clifton Forge Garage. One of the men I’d seen the first day I came here was working on a motorcycle in the first stall.

“Hey there.” He glanced over his shoulder from his crouched position on the floor.

This one wasn’t Emmett. Emmett was the bigger guy with long hair. “You’re Isaiah, right?”

“Yep.” He finished tightening something—a bolt?—with a something tool—a wrench? I’d have to work on my car terms if I was going to hang around here. He put the tool down, then stood. “You’re Bryce.”

“I am. Nice to see you again.” I walked over, my hand outstretched.

“Sorry, I’m greasy.” He held up his hands, making me drop my own. “What can I do for you?”

“I was looking for Dash.”

“Haven’t seen him yet this morning. Still a little early for him to get here.”

It was only seven thirty, but I’d woken Dash up at six. I’d left for the newspaper early to spend some time with Dad. Dash had gone home to shower and change, then I assumed he’d be on his way to work. The garage opened at eight and I didn’t feel like leaving just to come back again.

“Would you mind if I waited?” I asked Isaiah.

“Not at all. Would you mind if I kept working?”

“Go for it.” There was a black stool on wheels a few feet away. I took it, letting Isaiah return to the motorcycle as I took in the space.

For a garage, it was bright and clean. The smell of oil and metal hung in the air, mixing with the crisp morning air flowing in from the open bay door. Car signs were hung on some of the walls, tools on others. It was nearly pristine.

That Mustang was still in its stall. Ever since Dash and I had gone at it like wild animals on that car, I’d kept my nails painted hot-sex red. I smiled to myself, thinking it was my own dirty, little secret that the owner of that car would never know.

“Dash told me that some celebrities get their bikes and cars redone here. Is that a famous person’s motorcycle you’re fixing up?”

“No celebrity.” Isaiah chuckled. “This is mine.”

“Ah. Were you in the club?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “I just moved here. But this one was cheap so I thought I’d get it. Fix it up.”

That explained why it looked more like a dull mishmash of scrap metal than Dash’s gleaming Harley. Isaiah’s motorcycle had a lot to improve upon if it was going to fit in here.

“Where did you move from?” I asked, but before he could answer, I waved my hand like I was erasing the question. “Sorry. That’s the reporter in me coming out. You’re trying to work and I’m distracting you. Forget I’m here.”

“It’s okay.” He shrugged, still not answering my question as he went back to work.