Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(11)
“There he is!” Rust slides off the end to throw an arm around Boone’s shoulder. “Thought you weren’t coming tonight.” I’ve met the tall blond man exactly twice before, for two minutes apiece. He’s the money behind the garage but he leaves the actual garage operations to his manager, Steve Miller, a 250-pound man with a long, scruffy beard and abysmal people skills.
Boone jerks his head back the way we came. “Just hanging up front with Jesse for a bit.”
Rust’s sharp blue eyes land on me—the same blue as his nephew’s. He reaches out to offer me a firm handshake, his gold watch catching a glint of light from above. “How are things going at the garage, Jesse?
“So far, so good.”
He gestures at the two empty chairs pulled up to the outside of the booth. “Top-ups?” He reaches for the bottle of vodka—the label in some foreign language with a weird alphabet—that sits in the middle of the table. I can’t say I’ve ever seen an entire bottle of hard liquor sitting on a table at a bar before, but I guess that’s how the rich roll.
And these guys stink of money.
As we take our seats and Rust pours, I scan the three other guys sitting around the table. Two are talking quietly on cell phones. The third, a lean, blond guy with angular features, dressed all in black, in his late thirties by my guess, gives the glass in front of him a hard glare while he rolls what looks to be a wedding band around his ring finger.
Now I know why Boone likes hanging around with these guys. He loves the stink of money.
“From what Miller tells me, my nephew’s not full of shit. Miller’s never seen anyone work so fast before.” Rust pushes my glass—almost overflowing—to me. “And I hear you might have my Corvette running again soon? No one’s been able to get that lemon working.”
I’m unable to smother the proud smile. I’ve been fiddling with engines since I got my first wrench and a dirt bike at nine years old. I used to sit on the bench in the garage and watch my dad work on his ’67 Mustang. The car I ended up finishing before he sold it. It was just a hobby to him. To me, it was a calling. The guys in high school shop used to call me the engine whisperer because I can fix anything; it doesn’t matter how complicated or how broken.
Regardless, I try not to act like a douchebag about it, so I play it off with a shrug. “I like classics.”
“Luke was telling me. You’re looking to get a . . .”
“’Sixty-nine Barracuda. Black.” No hesitation with that answer. It’s what I’ve wanted since I was seven years old and saw one race through Main Street back home on rodeo weekend, its black paint glistening after a car wash. It’s what I’ve been saving for. It’s the reason I’m driving a piece of shit now. Another year and it’ll be mine.
“Huh. That’s a good one.” Rust nods slowly, seemingly impressed. He lifts his glass in a toast and then gestures to the man in black across the table. “Well, my business partner here, Viktor, may have some extra work for you.”
I turn to find steely blue eyes already fixed on me from across the table, in a hard face that doesn’t appear accustomed to smiling. He sure as hell isn’t smiling now.
“Yes . . .” This guy, Viktor, pulls out a single cigarette and lighter from his shirt pocket and proceeds to light it up. “Perhaps first you could tell me about yourself. Rust has not shared much.” An accent touches his words, though I can’t identify where it’s from. Either way, he doesn’t sound particularly friendly. He must not be from America. That would explain why he thinks it’s okay to light up in a public establishment. That or he’s just ballsy as f**k.
I shrug. And then I hear my dad’s voice inside my head, ordering me to stop shrugging. Criminals and half-wits answer with shrugs. “Not much to tell. I just love working on engines is all.” There’s not much else Rust could tell this guy because there’s not much his nephew knows about me. Despite Boone and I living together and going to school together, we stay out of each other’s personal lives. He’s too self-involved to ask and I’m too private to offer. He knows I’m from mid-state but he doesn’t know I’m from a small town northwest of Bend, called Sisters. He knows my parents still live there and he’s overheard enough arguments over the phone to know that our relationship is rocky, but he has no idea that my dad’s the sheriff and my mom is a reputable surgeon. He knows I have a twin sister named Amber who’s a nurse, but I sure as hell am never introducing him to her.
I glance at Boone, not sure what else this Viktor guy expects me to divulge. Boone’s unusually quiet, though, his eyes bright and curious as he watches the man. In awe. Probably memorizing his style. If Boone starts smoking in our apartment, I’m going to kill him.
When I turn my attention back to Viktor, I see that he’s no longer focused on me, but on a spot behind me. Through a puff of smoke, two words laced with anger emerge. “You’re late.”
The guy to Viktor’s left slides out of the booth just as a waft of perfume catches my nose. It’s a nice enough smell and somehow familiar, but it’s way too heavy. I like a hint of perfume, where you’re not sure you caught it the first time, and you have to lean in closer, maybe dip your head into her neck, to catch it again.
A young woman in a flashy dress and too much makeup slides into the booth. Her side profile makes me think she might not be legal. Maybe a head-on look would change that assumption, but she hasn’t turned her face from the guy for one second. “My hair stylist took longer than expected,” she explains evenly.