I glare at him.
The old phone on the wall rings. That ancient landline, mounted near the office door, has been there since before I arrived. Rainer heads into the office.
“Rainer’s Auto,” he says into the receiver, voice all business mode now. “Where are you?”
His gaze flicks toward me through the office window.
Mine narrows.
He writes something down on a scrap of paper, then hangs up and steps back out into the workshop, already reaching for his jacket on the hook.
“Breakdown off Kent. Woman with two kids in the car, transmission gone.” He picks up the tow truck keys and heads toward the roller door. “I’ll be back.”
A minute later, the tow truck engine turns over outside. He pulls out of the lot, swings onto the street, and the sound fades down the block until the workshop swallows it.
I stand there with the wrench in my hand, the radio doing its thing in the background, and I go back to the Mustang and try to think about the engine.
I get four minutes of productive work done before I hear footsteps at the roller door.
I slowly straighten up.
Griff ducks under the roller door and straightens inside the workshop. Shitty leather jacket. Dark hoodie underneath. A cut near his temple that wasn’t there the last time I saw him. Bloodshot eyes that suggest either a rough night or a rough life—knowing Griff it’s probably both. That permanent twitch in his jaw that makes him seem one bad comment away from biting through his own teeth.
In his right hand is his Zippo. He opens it, then shuts it and does it again.
The sound crawls straight up my spine.
I remember that sound from when we were kids. Bunks too close together. Air too stale. Him on the other side of the dark, flicking that lighter the way people do when they need to feel like they have control over at least one small thing. I used to lie awake, listening to it.
His eyes find me and a smile creeps across his face. Crooked teeth at first, then a smug smirk.
Rainer’s truck is barely off the street and he is already in here. That means he’s been outside eyeing the workshop.
“Rivera,” he says.
I set the wrench down.
He moves a few more steps into the workshop, looking at the Mustang the way he looks at everything, assessing rather than admiring.
“Ricky is losing patience,” he says.
“I don’t owe Ricky anything.”
“Ricky sees it differently.” The Zippo flicks open, the flame catches for half a second, then snaps shut again in that rhythm he has always had—that restless, twitchy habit of a man who needs his hands doing something. “He had money on that fight. Lost a lot of it.”
“Not my problem.”
“You had a fight booked. Bets were placed. Money was moved.”
“Still not my problem.”
“You don’t get to walk away from men like Ricky,” Griff says. “You know that.”
A thought comes to me as I wonder if Griff is running his own private shake-down, squeezing me before anyone else gets the chance. Maybe Ricky has no idea I am even out yet and Griff is playing both sides. Either way, dealing with Ricky directly is the only way to find out where I actually stand, instead of letting this prick keep standing between us, collecting whatever he can.
“Tell Ricky to come see me if he has a problem,” I say. “Now get the fuck out.”
I know it is stupid to invite Ricky to the workshop. The last thing I want is that man standing in Rainer’s space, but if Ricky shows up himself, at least I know it’s real. At least I know this isn’t just Griff running his own show and using Ricky’s name like a weapon he borrowed without permission.
