Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(25)

I find his precise dialect and tone off-putting. He says “I will” instead of “I’ll”; he uses words like “appropriate” instead of “get”; and though he isn’t lacking in manners, he speaks with stern authority, as if he expects everyone to listen.

I cross my arms over my chest as the first swirl of tobacco touches my nostrils. My eyes scan the corners of the room, looking for cameras. From what I could see coming in, the entire property is surrounded by black wrought-iron fences. With four mint cars in the back, and one in pieces, there’s no way this garage isn’t heavily watched. I can’t find any cameras, though.

“Rust told me you are somewhat of a . . .” He searches for the word and ends with, “virtuoso.”

I’ve never heard anyone use that word before, but I have a general idea of what it might mean. “I know a few things.” I feel the smirk touch my lips. Unlike Boone, I’m not one to brag. And because I have a friend like Boone, there’s no need. The guy does plenty of it for me. “I don’t know how long this will take. I mean, I can swing some evenings and weekends, but—”

“I want you to start right now.”

My fingertips scrape against my stubble—no time to shave this morning—as I ponder how to handle what is basically an order. “No offense, Mr. Petrova, but I can’t lose my full-time job because you want to fill your garage with expensive rides.”

His lips press together in a tight smile, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or sincerely amused. “Call me Viktor, please. Fair enough. After your regular hours. And weekends. Until you’re done.”

That won’t be exhausting at all.

“It’s not going to be cheap.” He said he’d make it worth my while but we have yet to talk actual figures, and if he’s going to demand my time, then he can pay for it. I’m no sucker.

His hands lift in the air, palms up, cigarette hanging between two fingers. “Does it look like I’m concerned?” The way he says that—with that condescending smile—should annoy me but it doesn’t, because it’s the truth. I expect him to say, “Name your price,” so I start crunching numbers in my head—how much I get paid at Rust’s times how many hours this may take me, plus travel and gas, plus overtime plus extra padding, just because.

Basically, how much I can tally up to earn enough for a decent ’69 Plymouth Barracuda, which is why I came in the first place.

“You put this car together for me and I will hand you the keys to your car.” He takes an extra-long haul of his cigarette, then leans down to butt it into the cement floor.

“You serious?”

Viktor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are two things I never joke about, Jesse: cars and my debts.”

“And all the papers to go with it?” The last place I want my dream car taking me is to jail for grand theft auto.

A frown zags across his forehead. “Of course.”

“And it’ll run?”

“Does it matter? You can fix anything, right?” He gestures ahead of us. “As you can see, I have plenty of tools, an engine hoist. I can get whatever you need for my expensive rides. I am not home much, so I will make sure that my wife is here to let you in.”

Mention of Alexandria has my eyes drifting to the steel door in the corner. I assume that leads into the house. Is she in there right now? Or did she take another car and go out? Tabbs had her BMW on the hoist this morning, affixing a new muffler that had miraculously appeared overnight.

“So? One Aston Martin for one Plymouth Barracuda?” Those cold blue eyes penetrate mine. Does he hope I’ll say yes? Or does he simply expect it?

Strolling over to the frame, I slide my hand over the hood. This hunk of metal in front of me was once a beautiful car that purred and raced. If I have any clue what I’m doing, it will be again. And I get the distinct impression that if I say yes to him, I sure as hell better know what I’m doing and fast.

“It’s a deal.”

“Good.” His dress shoes scrape against the concrete as he approaches my side, a smooth, manicured hand extended. He’s not one for dirty work; that much is obvious. I guess the manly garage is just for show. “So, you’ll be here tonight to take a better look.” It’s more a statement than a question. “I’m eager to drive this car.”

“Viktor!” his friend calls from the doorway. It’s followed by something in Russian, the words sounding quick and harsh.

“If you will excuse me now, Jesse. I need to be on my way.” He stands by the door, his arm gesturing out. Clearly sending me a message to hit the road.

“I guess I’ll see you tonight, then.” I could argue with him, reject the timing. I’m good at negotiating. I’ve had years of experience doing it with a dad who thinks the world should bend to his will because he’s the almighty sheriff. But Viktor’s dangling something that I’m willing to jump through hoops for and he knows it.

I throw my shitty-ass car—I can’t wait to park this ball-less hunk of metal for the last time—into reverse to follow the Hummer out when something catches the corner of my eye. Alexandria, leaning against the window next to the door.

Watching me.

I check my rearview mirror to see the Hummer’s brake lights by the end of the drive, waiting for the gate to open. So I wave at her. Not really a wave. More like four fingers lifting into the air, my thumb still hooked on the steering wheel. I hold my hand there, wondering what she’ll do.