Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(59)

More than a little wary, I follow him through a side door and down a long, narrow hallway lit with weak incandescent bulbs. I saw the plain gray building that stretched out behind the small used car store. I just didn’t realize it was connected.

My escort shoulders open a door on the left, marked number six, and leads me into darkness. I hear him hit a switch. “The keys are inside. Come around front and I’ll finish up the paperwork.” Daylight streams in as a garage door on the opposite end slowly crawls up, illuminating the small storage space.

And the 1969 Plymouth Barracuda sitting within.

He moves to leave.

“Whoa.” I grab onto his forearm to stop him. “What do you mean?”

He looks down at my hand and then back at me, and I instinctually remove my grip of him. “I mean, drive your car out front and then come in to sign all the ownership papers.”

“And then I can leave?”

“Yeah?” He’s looking at me like I’m an idiot.

“What do I do with my car?”

He shrugs. “I’ll take a look at it. See if it’s worth a couple hundred. Otherwise, I don’t care what you do with it.” The door slams shut behind him.

And I’m left scratching the back of my head, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I climb down the steps and approach the car. Viktor actually kept his end of the deal. He bought me my dream car.

Well, she will be my dream car by the time I’m done with her. She’s navy blue and needing a fresh coat at that. The driver’s-side door squeaks as I open it, and the quarter panel has a dent in it. I wonder what shape the engine’s in. The interior’s all leather and looks almost as good as new. Someone has obviously cared for it.

The question is, who?

Did he legitimately buy this car? From what Alex has told me about the company Viktor co-owns, he probably has the connections to get hold of this car by legal means. Maybe it was repoed. Maybe someone was lawfully selling it. But, from what Boone told me, he also has the connections to get hold of this car without ever paying a dime.

I’ll assume the former.

Though deep down, I know it’s likely the latter.

I stick the key in the ignition and then, with a deep breath, I crank the engine. It chugs twice before it finally turns, the loud rumble reverberating off the metal walls. A little rough, but nothing that can’t be tuned.

I throw it into first gear and release the clutch.

The car leaps forward with even more power than I imagined.

And I let out a whoop.

Viktor is standing by the open garage when I roll through the gates, a large suitcase sitting in the back of the Hummer. He’s got a rare, genuine smile on his face, like he’s happy to see me behind the wheel of this thing.

And me? I’ve been running on a natural high since I signed the papers and drove off the lot. I cut the rumbling engine and climb out, reveling in the feel of that simple motion.

“So? Do you like it?” Viktor calls out.

“It’s . . .” I step back to admire it again. “Yeah. I like it.”

“I have been told the engine needs minimal work. Nothing you cannot handle.”

And new brakes and shocks. I don’t even care. I have enough money saved up for the parts and a paint job. “It runs solid,” I finally offer. “Thank you, Viktor.” I still despise the guy but at the same time, how can I not thank him for this?

“You have earned it.” He gestures toward the garage where the Aston Martin’s engine hums. He must have started it. “I told you, I hold up my end of a deal. Always.”

He’s right. This is business, not personal. No need to feel guilty over accepting fair pay for work completed. Still, a part of me does, because I know he also hits his wife.

The other part is excited to finish up with the Aston Martin, pack my stuff up, and drive back to Sisters for the weekend to worry about nothing but working on my ’Cuda in the garage. My garage. My favorite place in the world. I haven’t been back in months.

With that in mind, I abandon my car and stroll into the garage to shut off the engine. “You shouldn’t have this running until I say so. I still have some last-minute things to do on it.”

Viktor chuckles. “That is what I like about you, Jesse. You are not afraid to tell me the truth.”

Well, that may be a bit of a stretch, considering I think you’re a douchebag. And I f**ked your wife.

“You have two hours to finish up what you need to before a truck arrives to load it and take it in.” He closes the distance between us and extends his hand. “It has been a pleasure.”

I accept it; I don’t have any other choice. But the entire time I’m wondering if he hit her with this hand or the other.

Sliding his sunglasses down over his forehead to settle on the bridge of his nose, Viktor gives me a small salute and then heads to his truck, slamming the back shut on his way to the driver’s seat. The Hummer comes to life and he guns it down the driveway.

I check my watch. Two hours. He should have checked with me before he made arrangements with the body shop. I need at least three.

A bastard. Right to the end.

I toss a wave at the driver as the flatbed pulls away, the Aston Martin loaded on the back of it. The guy was happy enough to admire Viktor’s other sports cars for twenty minutes while I scrambled to finish.