Rock Chick Redemption (Rock Chick #3)(45)

“Yeah?” I cal ed.

“Dinner’s ready,” Uncle Tex boomed.

I set aside my MP3, rol ed off the bed and headed out of the room.

* * * * *

It was late. Uncle Tex and I had eaten our blanketed pigs and macaroni and cheese. Later, we had some cookies and cream ice cream. Even later, after-dinner drinks of Uncle Tex’s moonshine.

We finished watching Letterman and I got up from the couch and said, “I’m going to bed.”

I looked down at Uncle Tex. He had the phone (a rotary phone, by the way, its cord strung across the living room) sitting on his lap and he was glaring at it so hard I thought laser beams were going to shoot from his eyes and burn it to cinders.

“‘Night,” I said when he didn’t answer.

He looked up at me.

“He’s gonna cal .”

I smiled at him. Even I knew it was a sad smile.

I’d had a short conversation with Nancy, but I figured she’d soon be family, so she’d be safe. Eddie had cal ed again, so had Indy. I didn’t talk to either of them.

Hank had not cal ed.

I knew what it meant. I’d known it even before I went on my date with him.

It was dark in my room, he couldn’t see me last night, battered face, bruised body, but he knew. He could smel it on me. He dealt with people like Bil y every day. I was Bil y’s girl, even if it was once upon a time.

Hank didn’t want that stink in his bed.

I bent down and kissed the top of Uncle Tex’s head again.

“He’s gonna f**kin’ cal ,” Uncle Tex growled.

I touched his shoulder and walked away.

I got into the bed and lay there for a while.

Then I got out my MP3 player and found the song.

I listened to “Because the Night” from Springsteen’s Live 1975/85 box set.

Then I listened to it again.

On the third time around, I started crying. Not huge wracking sobs, even with the paper-thin wal s, Uncle Tex would never hear me.

Then I shut off my player, wiped my face on my pil ow and went to sleep.

Chapter Eleven

Pretend World of Bubble Gum Goodness

I rol ed out of bed feeling better than I had the day before, the aches and pains were subsiding.

The mirror in the bathroom showed me another gruesome concoction of bruising colors on my face but at least they were fading. The marks around my neck, arms and wrists were stil visible but not nearly as angry.

I wandered into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee and saw Uncle Tex’s note saying that he’d gone to work and would be home around one.

I was wandering back to my bedroom, having visions of a morning spent performing more musical self-torture, when I glanced sideways out the picture window in Uncle Tex’s living room, and stopped dead at what I saw, coffee cup arrested halfway to my lips.

I huge truck was stopped in the middle the street and, hovering in the sky, dangling from what looked like a crane, was my car in straps.

Regardless of the fact that I was wearing nothing but a pair of pajamas (strawberry colored bottoms with cute powder blue and turquoise retro stars printed on them and a strawberry camisole with turquoise lace), I threw open the door and ran, barefoot, to the sidewalk.

“Hey!” I shouted at a big, black guy in dirty blue coveral s who was at the truck’s levers. “That’s my car!”

“Taking it in to change the tires,” he said, not stopping from his maneuvering of my car, which was floating precariously in the air over the flatbed truck.

“Can’t you change the tires here?” I yel ed over the noise.

“Tex wants me to do it in the shop, told me to give it a tune up and detail while I got it.”

I was going to kill Uncle Tex.

“It doesn’t need a tune up. I had it serviced before I drove out here.”

He shrugged.

I scowled at him.

He ignored me.

I saw a car approaching and turned to watch as Hank’s 4Runner rol ed up the street.

I forgot about my no-longer earthbound car and stood frozen watching Hank park.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Hank got out, his eyes on my car in mid-air, and walked to me.

He looked good.

He wore jeans, boots and a wine-colored henley. There was a gun and badge attached to his belt. Al that was missing was the white hat.

He stopped next to me, eyes stil on my car. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked, not looking at me.

I realized, belatedly, that it was warm as a summer’s day outside. Stil , I was standing on the sidewalk in my pajamas and I hadn’t done anything with my hair.

Shit.

“That’s my car,” I said.

Hank looked down at me and I just caught myself from holding my breath.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Uncle Tex slashed my tires.”

Hank stared at me.

“He didn’t want me to leave,” I explained.

Hank stared at me another beat, then his eyes moved on my face, then to my throat, my arms and my wrists, taking in the bruises. I almost bit my lip but forced myself to stay stil under his scrutiny. Then his eyes moved to mine. “We have to talk,” he said.

Damn tootin’, we had to talk.

He turned and walked to the porch.

I fol owed him.