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Before I have a chance to edge into a parking spot, the girl waves us forward into the empty bay next to the car she’s working on. I enter at a snail’s pace, scanning the garage for any threat.
There’s a one-room office to the side, but other than that the place is bare except for the car, the girl, workbenches and the tools. “I thought you said there were two people.”
“There were, but one could have gone in the back. People do that you, you know? Normally leave one room for another. Plus you’re here to see a guy, remember? Isaiah Walker. We want him to be here, or have you forgotten?”
Haven’t forgotten. “Have you forgotten we were kidnapped?”
“I wish I could.”
So do I. “If I ask you to stay in the car, what are the odds of you following directions?”
“Exactly what you think the odds will be.”
Zero.
I turn off the ignition and Violet’s opening her door before I have a chance to place my fingers on the handle. The blonde checks out Violet’s car like Pigpen checks out the legs of my English teacher—like a dog in heat.
“Holy crap,” she says. “I’ve never worked on a Chevelle before, but you shouldn’t worry about that. Isaiah has worked on everything. Everything.” She overpronounces the word.
“But I saw you first and I let him work on the last car, so I get first dibs. Don’t let him convince you otherwise. He’ll try to steal this from me. I heard your baby when you pulled in.” She pets the hood of the car like it’s a bleeding puppy in need of medical care. “I’m betting spark plugs. Let me guess, the engine sputters while driving? Sometimes stops working or just won’t catch when you try to start it?”
Jesus, the girl’s a walking car encyclopedia. Violet and I share a look and she raises her eyebrows with a faint smile. Yeah, she doesn’t know what to think either.
“Yes,” Violet answers. “To all that. This is my car.”
I catch the way Violet’s voice cracked on my, but I’m proud she’s accepting that her father would have wanted her to feel like his car is now hers.
The blonde extends her hand to Violet. “I’m Rachel, and you are?”
Violet accepts it. “I’m Violet and this is my boyfriend, Chevy.”
I can’t help the smile. First time I’ve heard her call me that in months. Rachel beams. “I love that name.”
“Thanks.” The way this girl is talking, she’ll have the Chevelle turned upside down, inside out, then fixed before I can get a chance to ask about this Isaiah Walker. She mentioned him, but I’d like more than a mention. I need to meet him, talk to him.
“I’m here because of a recommendation,” I say.
Rachel tears her gaze away from the Chevelle and looks at me for the first time. She goes on the verge of death white. Even Violet moves toward her as she must believe the girl is going to pass out and crack her head on the concrete floor.
I throw my hands up in the air in a show of submission. “Are you okay?”
Rachel stumbles back as if I’m holding a gun and my heart picks up speed as I scan the room, then glance over my shoulder to see if someone is holding us up. There’s nothing. Rachel’s back hits a workbench and she places her hand over her chest as if that can help her catch her breath. “Who are you?”
With the way her gaze is locked on me, there’s no doubt she’s lost interest in the Chevelle and Violet. “My name is Chevy McKinley.”
“McKinley?” she repeats in a whisper.
A door farther back squeaks open and a large guy comes stalking in. He’s tattoos, earrings, and he tinkers with a car part in his hand. “I pulled this from one of the junk cars in the back. We’re going to have to mess with it first to get it to work. Hate having to buy a new part. Logan’s been short on money and—”
“Isaiah,” Rachel says, and his head snaps up at the shaky sound of her voice. He’s switched from relaxed to dangerous in less than a second. He now holds the car part in his hand as if he’d use it as a weapon.
He surveys the room just like I would, and when his eyes land on me, I know his stomach is dropping, his mind is stalling out and then it feels like something significant in the universe has died and we’re experiencing the aftermath of the pulsating quake. I know this from the way his eyes blink, from his stunned expression, and because it’s exactly how I’m feeling.
In front of me is dark hair shaved close to his head, eyes that are gray, a foreboding man of muscle and height, tattoos and earrings, but the important part is his face. Except for his eye color, this guy is a replica of my father. Spitting image of the pictures I’ve seen. Some of my mom sneaked into my genetics, but I’m a McKinley, and if this guy has looked into a mirror, he knows he’s staring back at a part of him.
Rachel slowly walks over to
Isaiah as if she’s scared to spook him. “He says he’s a McKinley.”
