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He needed to find a mechanic.
He glanced around before pulling out his phone and searching for nearby mechanics. Didn’t look as if he was far away from the center of town, but it was just about dark. The quick Google search on his phone showed him most shops were already closed for the evening, but one remained open. He dialed the displayed number and leaned against the vehicle, phone to his ear. His stomach made his hunger known. He hadn’t eaten anything since he’d stopped to fill up at that Georgia gas station and that felt as if it’d been ages ago.
The phone rang and rang and he made a sound of frustration, hanging up and checking how far away the place was from his location. Five miles. Fuck. Would the vehicle make it that far?
Only one way to find out. He got back into the Audi just as his phone rang. He blew out a breath when he saw it was his boss calling. Russell was the only one who knew what was going on. He answered. “Russ.”
“Arrived yet?”
Vince rubbed his forehead. “Not yet, got some car issues so I had to stop in Alabama. I’m actually driving to a mechanic shop now.”
Russ made a sympathetic sound. “Shit. Okay, make sure you keep me in the loop.”
“Will do.” He ended the call and tried calling the mechanic shop again, but still no answer. Damn it. He alternated between staring at the temperature gauge and the hood as he drove. It was difficult doing that and paying attention to the directions on his phone since he didn’t know where in the hell he was, but finally, he pulled into a long unpaved driveway that led him to the back of a building almost hidden from the road.
He narrowed his eyes as he parked and got out. Didn’t look like there was anyone inside. Was it already closed? Just his fucking luck. Still, he walked up to the door. One touch and it swung open.
Thank God!
He pushed the door open, a bell tinkling above his head as he stepped through. “Hey, I’ve been calling—” An unmistakable pop sounded and he yelped as searing heat ripped through his shoulder. His body jerked backward and he crashed to the floor.
He’d been shot? What the fuck?
3
Scotty couldn’t breathe. His feet left the floor as the hand around his throat got tighter and tighter. Blood rushed in his ears, loud, but not loud enough because he still heard himself scream. How he managed that with a fucking vise around his throat, he didn’t know.
The sound of the gun going off echoed in his ears still, muffled by his scream. The owner of the mechanic shop didn’t look like it, but it was clear his slender form hid a strength that could crush Scotty. He tasted the panic in the back of his throat, heart thumping furiously as he tried to speak. Furious brown eyes snapped from Scotty’s to the body on the floor.
Was the person dead? Had Scotty killed him? Bile filled his mouth at the thought. No, no. Please. Tears flooded his eyes, the memories from before rushing in. He had to get out of there. He had to get money so he could buy what he needed to drown it out.
But he’d shot someone and that person’s blood was even now darkening the floor underneath his unmoving body. The shop owner—African American, probably in his mid-thirties—spoke, but all Scotty saw was his lips moving; he couldn’t hear shit over the racing of his pulse.
No.
This couldn’t happen, not to him. Not again. His vision darkened, his body went limp, and he found himself on the floor, on his knees, body bent over as he dry-heaved. His stomach cramped. All that blood. The fear came rushing back, the helplessness. Then the aftermath. Don telling him it hadn’t happened. Calling him a liar, giving him that first bump of coke to shut him up.
Tears flowed down his cheeks. The sob in his throat cut off abruptly when the shop owner fisted his hair and yanked his head back. Scotty couldn’t make out his features through the tears.
“Get the fuck up.”
He cringed at the barely concealed rage. He’d fucked up. He’d known it the moment he’d pulled the gun he’d stolen from Don and pointed it at the mechanic. The shop owner hadn’t been afraid or cowed. He hadn’t cared that Scotty pointed a loaded gun at him. In fact, he’d walked toward Scotty, taunting him to pull the trigger. He had, but he’d shot the wrong man.
An innocent man.
“I said up!” The shop owner kicked Scotty then grabbed his t-shirt, yanking him to his feet.
When Scotty faced him on unsteady legs, he found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun. He threw his hands up with a yelp. “I’m sorry.” Shit. The tears just kept flowing. Don was right. He was a fuckup. Look at what he’d done. “I’m sorry. Please.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Save that apology. I'll let you know when I want you to beg for mercy.” He handled the gun as if it was an extension of him, whereas the weapon had felt clumsy and wrong in Scotty’s grip. “Close the door.” The owner motioned with a jerk of his head. “Lock it.”
Scotty gaped at him. “We—we need to call 911.”
“We don’t need to do shit.” A jerk of the gun. “You need to lock the door, then get back here before I lose my patience and fulfill your death wish by shooting you where you stand.”
He would do it, Scotty didn’t doubt it. Something in the man’s leather-brown eyes, in his stance, in the way the gun never wavered, in the growl of his accent that Scotty couldn’t quite place. New York, maybe? He would shoot Scotty. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Don would be happy. Scotty wouldn’t be a problem for him anymore. He could say see, I told you, the kid was a mess. You can’t trust a junkie. Just like his mother.
No one believed Scotty. Because who would take his word over Don’s?
