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What the fuck? Where is it?
For a second, I can’t breathe. My heart pounds in my ears as my nerves spike with a nasty jitter.
“Where the fuck is my Jeep,” I snarl to myself, whipping around to look in the rows I’ve passed.
People call my name, trying to get my attention. Their words go in and out of my ear at the edge of my perception. The only thing I can focus on is killing the asswipe that stole my Jeep.
Rushing over to the spot I know I parked in, all I find where a white fucking 1990 Jeep should be is a square of paper. I rub my fingers together as I glare at the note. With a grumble, I retrieve it. I unfold it, accidentally tearing an edge with the force of my actions.
A smiley face drawn in black marker stares up at me.
My stomach twists, followed by a rising surge of outrage. It heats my skin as it builds. The paper shakes like a leaf in my clenched grip.
When I find out who did this, I’m going to kill them. They’re dead. This douchebag’s life is officially over as soon as I find them.
No one fucks with me or my Jeep.
I restored it piece by piece last year. The pride that blooms in my chest when I drive it around isn’t because I have a sweet ride—it’s because I rebuilt the classic myself. My sweat and blood went into it. Other than Lancelot, it’s the most important thing I own. Someone knew that and knew exactly how to cut me deepest.
A few guffaws echo around me and my glare snaps up. They’re asking for my fist in their face. Maybe they know or saw something. After I punch them for laughing, I’ll beat answers out of them.
It’ll feel good to burn off the angry energ
y surging through my body by punching the shit out of something. Better a face than a brick wall.
I snarl as I turn around and spot a couple of stoners toking up on the hood of a car. They give me lazy smiles and hold up lopsided peace signs.
“Did you see the Jeep that was parked here?” I hardly recognize my voice as I stalk up to them.
“Hell yeah, man. Sweet ass ride,” one says, his eyelids drooping.
“Did you see where it went,” I force out through my teeth, enunciating harshly.
The other stoner shrugs and scratches the beanie swallowing his head.
“It was like magic, dude. One second it was there and the next it was rolling away.”
My head cocks and I blink. As I form a fist, my knuckles crack. I grab the closer one by the lapel of his school jacket, the fabric bunching as I yank him closer.
“Details. Now.” I do nothing to stop the crazed stretch of my mouth that makes the stoner’s eyes widen. “Talk fast.”
“I don’t know, man! It was hilarious though.”
The wheezing amusement breaks off into choked coughs when I give him a rough shake.
“If you don’t want me to smash your face, you’re going to tell me where the fuck my Jeep went!”
“Chill, man,” says the other stoner. He scrambles to pull out a phone and tosses it to me. “Look. See, it’s sick, right?”
I catch the phone one-handed, earning a drawn out ooh from their appreciation of my dexterity.
Before I look at the phone, Devlin and Bishop jog up to me. They’re in their practice jerseys and soccer cleats.
“Lucas,” Devlin snaps. “You need to get to the football field now.”
I don’t have the patience to parse the pinched expression on his face. Bishop looks antsy, which is weird for him. With a feral growl, I release the stoner and follow my friends.
I toss a look at my empty parking space.
