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eleven
Delaney’s world was quiet for days. She didn’t hear from the police, ’33 didn’t miraculously reappear and, most notably, Wyatt didn’t come back. Delaney wasn’t sure why that gave her a gouged feeling in the pit of her stomach. She should be happy that the dog was safe at Sunny’s boyfriend’s place, getting trained. But Delaney had to admit she missed turning around and finding that goofy pit bull pawing at her storeroom door, begging for food or mooning at her motorcycles. She had bikes to work on, which was good, but even that was a solitary activity unless people came in the shop to buy stuff.
With the motorcycle stolen and Wyatt safely contained, Delaney hadn’t felt this alone since she found out Dad had died. Her mood was interrupted by a ding from her phone. A text message.
Que pasa, chingona.
Sal. Of the group, he was the second most likely, after Boom, to check on her daily. And to their credit, they had. One or the other of them, including Donnie and Zip, had checked up on her every single day since Dad’s death.
Hanging in there. Thanks.
Delaney had sent them all a group text right after Sean had left the apartment the other day. She didn’t want them finding out about ’33 from the police. She hated that she couldn’t see any of their faces, because in person she would’ve known right away if they were disappointed in her, but over text the responses had been limited to sympathy, outrage at the thief and requests for her to be extra careful. Delaney could picture all of their expressions, though. Boom would have a tight mouth hidden beneath his beard. Sal wore his heart on his sleeve, so he probably would’ve hugged her first. Donnie would do that thing with his eyebrows that made you think he was mad at you when he was really trying to figure something out and Zip would be unreadable.
Any news?
Not yet.
Just text if you need anything.
Done working for the day, Delaney settled with her laptop behind the front counter and posted a picture of Dad’s ’56 Ford pickup, parked out front of Triple M Classics, on his Facebook page.Still got this, was her caption. At least nobody outside his riding circle would know that Delaney had allowed Dad’s prized bike to be stolen, or to see that his crazy daughter talked to him on a social media site that he’d never used when he was alive, and clearly wasn’t going to access from heaven.
Well. Nobody but Lauren Bacall, anyway. Delaney had at first thought she was one of the many rotating girlfriends that Dad kept company with—all in the shadows when she was a little girl but sometimes at the shop or the house once Delaney was grown. They were down-to-earth, no-strings-attached types who pulled beers at night for a living and wanted a serious relationship about as much as Dad did. But an early visit to Bacall’s page showed nothing but the black-and-white picture of the film star, blond hair sculpted around her dreamy eyes and high cheekbones. There was no personal information or photos, and if she had other friends, they weren’t visible. Delaney was convinced Dad had accidentally added a bot account one day and had probably received tons of instant messages begging for money to save some foreign prince—all of which he probably never even saw.
Delaney watched the clouds gather in the sky outside the bay door. More rain was coming, so there probably wouldn’t be many more customers this evening. She would close up in an hour and hit the gym. Not only had she promised to be there for Tabitha, she was hoping Detective Callahan might show up. Though he would be off duty, she could sneak in a question or two about leads on the motorcycle.
And that’s it. There was no other reason Delaney wanted Callahan to show up at the gym. She certainly didn’t need to be knocked over again and she wasn’t in the mood for a foot race as she hadn’t been sleeping well since the bike got stolen and Wyatt got drafted to training camp.
Still. It couldn’t hurt to know a little bit more about the detective who was searching for Dad’s prized motorcycle. Delaney turned back to her computer and googled the county police department, hoping to find photos or biographies or anything that he might be in. The first link to come up was the department’s home page. She almost clicked on it, but just below that was a link to a YouTube video, something about a lip sync challenge. Delaney thought a second, then remembered that a couple of years ago this challenge was going around the internet: police departments lip-syncing to popular songs. Looked like Callahan’s department had taken part. Curious, Delaney clicked on it.
The opening beats, snapping fingers and call to “open up the champagne!” let Delaney know instantly that Callahan’s department had chosen to do “My House” by Flo Rida. A large man in uniform popped out of an office and strutted down a hallway, lip-syncing and gesturing with a huge smile plastered on his face. Other people joined him, including someone in a McGruff the Crime Dog costume, an assortment of men and women having fun singing, tossing papers, riding atop rolling carts, disappearing into rooms. This went on for about thirty seconds of the song before the officer sank into an elevator and the silver doors slid shut. Delaney almost closed out the video but then, nobody closes out a video when doors slide shut because doors sliding shut means a surprise was going to pop out next.
The elevator doors opened again and Delaney choked on her water. Out popped Detective Callahan, dressed in a white collared shirt, navy vest and slacks, handcuffs attached at his side and badge on a chain around his neck. He strutted down the hall, singing his heart out, his face looking mean and his arms going in broad, bold gestures.
Delaney sputtered a laugh, her palms covering her nose and mouth just as Callahan’s partner, Castillo, fell in beside him. She was dressed just as smartly in navy and white, but she was much more in her element than Callahan, her curvy body popping and working the beat effortlessly. Castillo had obviously been waiting for this moment all her life, and when the time came, she shined. They joined a few more people in uniforms and danced and sang their way outside to the front of the police station, cars and trucks parked on the lawn, people in various forms of gear all around as the camera panned away, up into the sky, high above the building as the song faded out.
“Oh. My. God.” Delaney had a hard time wiping the smile off her face, the first smile she’d had in days. “What did I just see?” she said aloud, to the empty shop. Clearly, she’d just witnessed hard-ass Detective Callahan lip-syncing and dancing for all the world to see. She wasn’t sure what to do with that. Who would agree to such a thing? Other than Castillo, who clearly needed her own music video. But all those other guys? They were on the internet forever, making fools of themselves.
For some reason, Callahan’s words from the other day popped in her head.Cat quick and tiger tough. That’s what he’d said upon seeing the OSSA in the shop downstairs, demonstrating that Callahan both knew a thing or two about motorcycles and that he had a quick wit. Delaney laughed softly and wiped up the mess she’d made with her water, the smile never leaving her face as she went upstairs to change into her gym clothes.
She’d wanted to run into Detective Callahan before she saw the video. Now it was almost compulsive. Obviously the detective couldn’t have known, when he took part in this video years ago, that a heartbroken woman who needed a cheap, quick laugh would click on the link and get just the dose of humor she needed. But it sure felt like it. For some dumb reason, Detective Callahan’s goofy “My House” rendition felt personal.
Like he’d sang that song just for her.
Humphrey the Beagle, Master of the Gym, was curled up on his bed in the corner when Delaney arrived. She squatted down and spent some time letting him sniff her knuckles before she stroked his ears. He had scars all over his face, but they were old and well healed. “Been through a battle or two, eh, boy?”
“The stories he could tell.”
Delaney looked over her shoulder and saw Red approaching, her hair up in a ponytail and a big smile on her face. Now that Delaney knew that she and Sunny were sisters she found herself doing a mental comparison of similarities. Their eyes were a definite, both sharing a striking blue. The difference in their hair was like if someone added ten drops of red to Sunny’s blond, mixed it up in one of those paint spinners at the hardware store and gave the result to Red. Personality wise, both women were friendly and approachable but Red seemed like she kept more to herself, Sunny the more extroverted of the two. “Doesn’t seem like they’d be happy stories,” Delaney said. “Except maybe the one where he met you and Rhett.”
“My sister, Sunny, rescued him initially. Snagged him from a puppy mill. But his heart belongs to Rhett. I still can’t get over how he lets you pet his ears like that.”
“No kidding?” Delaney gave them a few more strokes for good measure before she stood up. “Not much for the human touch, Humphrey?”
“Humans haven’t been Humphrey’s best friend.” Red frowned. “But he took to Rhett instantly. Everybody in here can coo at him or let him sniff them but they’ve all learned if they reach for him, he’s probably going to flinch.”
“Reminds me of someone.” There went that feeling again, sadness that Wyatt hadn’t been by, when Delaney should be happy he was safe, either at Sunny’s or her boyfriend’s, and not stuck in the middle of the woods during a thunderstorm.
“Oh, really? And here I was going to ask you if I could check out your ASISs.” Red folded her arms over her chest and grinned.
