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Clara’s heavy breathing from all of the excitement continues as she packs her shoes back into her duffle bag.
“Have you ever thought of offering elite dancing lessons to young adults? I think you would make a killing, especially with the university so close,” Clara calls over her shoulder to me as she zips the duffle bag and grabs her purse. “There are no studios like that around here, and the school only offers so much.”
“Bring me more information, and I am definitely willing to look into it. I have gone to a few here and there over the years.”
If Clara smiles any wider, I fear her cheeks are going to get stuck. I leave the classroom and hear her padded shoes following behind me. I reach into the filing cabinet behind my desk to give her the paperwork Tank helped me work up for future employees.
“I will be in touch, so for now, just fill all of this out and I will expect you here next Saturday at ten a.m. Okay?”
“I will be here! Thank you so much for this opportunity, Heather.”
“Call me Pebbles, Clara. All of my friends call me Pebbles.”
Clara giggles when she looks up at my hair, catching the reference. I guess the twist bun at the top of my head with a pencil sticking through it doesn’t really help against my Pebbles reputation.
16
TRIGGER
Boys
“What the fuck!” I roar, slamming my fist against the bent blue hood of the Bel Air.
Something compelled me to come downstairs at the early hour of six a.m., only to find the latest car I’ve restored to mint condition completely fucking trashed.
Three of the windows are bashed in, the front tires are completely slashed to hell, the hood looks like a baseball bat was taken to it multiple times, and the back windshield is laying in crumpled pieces of glass on the backseat.
I rip my phone out of my pocket, dialing Ghost.
“Someone better be dying,” his vocie grumbles through my speaker.
“Someone trashed the fucking Bel Air.”
“Come again?” Ghost asks, sounding a little more alert.
“I just came downstairs and the Bel Air looks like it just went through a fucking trash compacter.”
“Call Tiny. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Ghost hangs up without another word and, without thinking about it, my fingers find Tiny’s contact.
A woman’s giggle is audible in the background before Tiny’s gruff, “Hello.”
“I need you at the pawn shop. Someone wrecked the Bel Air.”
“I’m on my way,” he says. The woman in the background pouts before he hangs up the phone.
I take pictures from every angle I can while I wait for them to show up, then I head inside to look through camera footage.
Ghost’s bike is the first to rumble down the long, predawn street.
As soon as he backs into the spot out front next to the damaged car, Tiny flies by, pulling into the parking lot off to the side.
“What the fuck, man!” Ghost shakes his head, walking around the car to assess the damage. “You got beef with anyone I don’t know about?”
My eyebrows draw down in anger. “Not that I fucking know of.”
“Who the hell did you piss off?” Tiny chuckles, whistling while shaking his head as he too checks out all the damage.
