Chapter One
“EXCUSE ME, SIR?”
I can barely hear the voice—male, deep, a tiny bit irritated—over the clanking and grinding of the shop, but I grimace all the same. I know he’s talking to me, because there’s no one else around who could hear him. And yeah, I know that there’s nothing to indicate the gender of the work boots and coveralls sticking out from underneath the ancient Buick—the one that I happen to be working on—but still. The sexism gets me every time. Why assume that the mechanic is a dude?
I crane my neck and arch my back against the wheeled creeper beneath me just enough to see what I can of this would-be customer—his shoes. And they’re fancy shoes. Of course. Dark, polished leather, one foot tapping with impatience. Even the cuffs of his jeans look designer, somehow. Not that I’m an expert on fashion—as evidenced by my usual uniform of grease-stained canvas—but for whatever reason, I can just tell.
Rich asshole,I think. And I deal with enough of those.
“Sir?” the voice comes again, much more pointed and less polite now. “I don’t have all day.”
There’s no way this guy is a local, then. That’s definitely a Yankee voice, clipped and rushed sounding the way everyone north of the Mason-Dixon seems to have no time to waste. Folks in Sherwood County take their sweet time with everything.
And that, I decide, is what I’m going to do too.
Around me, the air is thick with the smell of motor oil and pulsing with the greatest hits of the 80s, 90s, and today pumping in from the prehistoric FM radio in the corner. I’m sweating like a beast here under Ms. Donovan’s Buick, and I know that rolling out from under it will bring a welcome rush of fresh (well, fresh-ish) air over my damp collarbone and the strands of hair sticking to my face where they’ve escaped my ponytail, but I force myself to resist the urge to pop out. Instead, I walk the heels of my off-brand Timberlands forward inch by inch, rolling the creeper out from under the car annoyingly, painfully slowly, until I’ve revealed exactly who I am.
Surprise, asshole. Your mechanic’s a girl.
“Yes?” I say, in my ever-so-sweet customer service voice. “Were you talking to me?”
No sooner do I say it than my breath catches in my chest.
I don’t know what I was expecting this dude to look like, but the guy towering above me wasn’t it. He’s not balding, beer-gutted, or wrinkled. Quite the opposite: he’s young, maybe a few years older than me, and, well...handsome. There’s no other word for it. The late-afternoon sun slants in perfectly from the open garage door to frame his head in a blazing corona of light, illuminating hair that’s so light it can’t be blonde—guess he’s prematurely gray?—and I can see that his face, even in shadow, has the firm jaw and high cheekbones of a fairy-tale prince. Broad shoulders fill out a button-down that’s practically tailored to fit him (and probably is), with the rolled-up sleeves revealing surprisingly muscled forearms. He looks...strong, for someone so prickly. Like he could pick me up and set me right on the hood of his car if he wanted to. The only thing ruining the picture is the scowl on his lips and the hard set of his deep blue eyes.
I swallow hard, shaking off my surprise. Get it together, Maren.
“I was,” he says. “You could actually hear me, then. Which means you were just choosing to be rude.”
I flush, glad that the smears of grease on my cheeks probably hide the pink that’s undoubtedly spreading across my skin. Thanks for nothing, Irish heritage. “Rude?” I say, doing my best to keep my voice sweet and steady. “I’m not the one interrupting someone in the middle of a job.”
Mr. Yankee throws a disdainful glance at Ms. Donovan’s Buick. “Yes, I’m sure that vehicle requires an expert touch.”
I tense inadvertently. Granted, he’s not wrong—this rustbucket is on its last legs, and has been for years now, so I’m basically the mechanic version of a hospice nurse at this point. Just keeping the old girl comfortable until she finally goes to the great scrap heap in the sky. But still.
“For your information, it does,” I fire back. “Ms. Donovan works third shift at the hospital and needs this car to get to work, so I’ve got to get it fixed by six.” And get it out of here so John doesn’t see me working on it, I add silently. Ms. Donovan’s a kind older lady who calls me “sugar” and would never ask for charity, but I’ve heard her fretting over her taxes enough to know that she couldn’t afford the full repair bill. I’m sneaking in the work when I’m unsupervised in the shop, and when she comes in to pick it up, I’ll claim it started right back up again—no charge.
I just have to make sure I’m not caught committing time theft. Even though I’d argue stealing from my scumbag legal guardian is a victimless crime, or close enough.
Still, the reminder of the ticking clock gets me back in gear. Sooner this guy’s in and out, the sooner I can wrap things up. “What can I help you with?” I ask him impatiently.
He smirks. “I don’t suppose you have experience with foreign models, do you”—he glances down at my name patch, conveniently embroidered right over my left boob—“Ralph.”
“It’s Maren,” I say, strangely embarrassed that I don’t have my own uniform.
“Maren.” I both hate and love the way my name sounds in the sharp growl of his accent. But there’s no way I’m giving him the satisfaction.
“Foreign models?” I ask. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
He tsks his tongue. “You should know better than to lie, little greasemonkey.”
“I’m not lying,” I shoot back, hands on my hips. “Now, can I help you, or do you need to leave, sir?” I lace the last word with an extra-zingy dose of Southern charm.
Mr. Yankee just smiles, bringing a pair of sunglasses to his lips and biting one of its arms. “That depends.” He nods toward the street. “I’ve got a 2007 Porsche 911 GT2 parked around the corner. I’m the only one who’s ever owned it and it’s my pride and joy, so I won’t let just anyone muck around with it. The boost is dropping and I’m thinking of upgrading to K16s. That something you think you can install if I supply the parts?”
He talks so fast I almost miss the details—almost. “Sorry—what did you say you had?”
“I said I have a 2007 Porsche 911 GT2,” he says, drawing out each syllable like he’s having fun with me, a smile on his face that could almost be called flirtatious.
I’m not having it. “No, you don’t.”
His eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”
“I said, no, you don’t.” I fold my arms. “Porsche only produced 300 of the 911 GT2 for the U.S. market.”
Mr. Yankee opens his mouth, but I keep going.
“And they only produced them between 2002 and 2005. There’s no such thing as a 2007 911 GT2. And,” I add, “even if there were, K16s wouldn’t be an upgrade. You’d be lucky to hit 1.2 on a long pull with those.”
There’s a long moment of silence. I try not to look too triumphant, but come on. This guy has no fucking idea who he’s messing with.
“Well, aren’t you sharp.” A grin teases at his lips—one that’s more condescending than amused. “You really know your cars.”
I flick a glance at the sheet-covered vehicle in the corner, my heart skipping a beat. “You could say I’m an enthusiast.”
His gaze tracks mine, just briefly noting the hidden car—my hidden car—before returning to burn into my face.
“You got me. It’s a 2004, not a 2007. And it just needs the fluids flushed. Boost is fine. And it sounds like I can trust you with it after all, little greasemonkey.”
Warmth spreads over my chest and throat—I’m literally getting hot under the collar. “It’s Maren, not greasemonkey. And you can—”
“Girl!” barks a voice from the office, and my spine stiffens. “Where’re you at?”
The sound of that voice is like a cattle prod to the back, snapping me to attention. I set my jaw and square my shoulders before I answer. “I’m in the shop, Uncle John,” I call back.
John isn’t my uncle, or any blood relation, for that matter, but that’s what I have to call him. It’s creepy, and I loathe it. But I know better than to disobey what he wants.
The cigarette burns on my inner arm are proof of that. A lesson well-learned.
“Be right there.”
I clench my fist hard enough to put dents in my palm as I turn back to Mr. Yankee. I hate sounding so meek and compliant in front of anyone else, let alone a guy like this. But when I meet his eyes again, the smirk and scowl and attitude is gone. Instead, there’s a hard, quiet fury behind his eyes—and I don’t think it’s directed at me.
“I’m fine,” I say, unprompted, then curse myself for being such an idiot. I drag my wrist across my grimy forehead, wishing I had water for my suddenly dry throat. “It’s just...it’s hot in—”
“Who is that?” Mr. Yankee interrupts, jerking his head towards the office.
“My uncle,” I lie. “He runs the place.” Well, owns it, anyway. And that’s only because old man MacAllister was so far behind on bills that he had to sell the property after fifty proud years of being the best mechanic in town.
As if on cue, John appears in the doorway of the office, fanning himself with a stack of mail. He’s the consummate Southern gentleman, right down to the three-piece suit and the light glisten of sweat across his brow. If you ask him, he’s salt-of-the-earth, a bootstrapping businessman who knows the value of a hard day’s work. But I know his involvement with the garage, and all the other businesses in town he owns, starts and ends with his name on the ownership papers.
I jump to attention, my stupid rabbit heart pounding in my throat. “Sorry,” I say, like a reflex. “I’m just—”
“Clear out,” John drawls. “Sheriff’s coming for a little sit-down and I need privacy.”
If he noticed Ms. Donovan’s car, he didn’t let on. Maybe, just maybe, I’m going to stay out of trouble this time.
Absently, I rub a hand over the cigarette burn on the inside of my arm.
Let’s hope, anyway.
My racing pulse calms, just barely, as he shuts the door to the office, and I come back to earth just in time to turn back to my would-be customer...
But he’s gone. No trace of him or his car.
“Freaking...figures,” I all but spit, balling my fists once again. Literal tire-kicker. Rich boy who thought he could bully the poor little service girl with grit in her ponytail and an engine-grease manicure. And now I’ll have to hustle to make up for lost time if I want to finish Ms. Donovan’s Buick before she gets here...let alone before the sheriff arrives.
Inadvertently, I shudder. John and Sheriff Wheatley have been friends for as long as I’ve been alive and longer. Classic good ol’ boys who drink bourbon and scratch each other’s backs, always getting together to talk “business” of one kind or another. I’m no lawyer, but you don’t have to know the law to see that this Sheriff’s about as crooked as a country road. You’d have to be if you hang around John like that. And it’s clearly paid off: in the years I’ve lived in Sherwood County, the sheriff’s never faced a single opponent, winning reelection every time he’s up—and the fat government paycheck that goes with it.
Even if I weren’t a broke orphan with no option but to stick it out until my twenty-first birthday, I’d hate his fucking guts. No one deserves to get rich off of people like Ms. Donovan and old man MacAllister. Especially if they’re making people like John rich while they do it.
This day’s quickly going from bad to worse. I swear under my breath and stare at the Buick, then at the office door. Then, briefly, at the sheet-covered car in the corner.
Besides my college fund, it’s the only valuable thing I own. The Mustang—my Mustang. Dad’s Mustang. Busted and rusted and barely in a condition to drive. But it’s mine, and I’d fight to the death for it.
“Well, if it isn’t the loveliest mechanic in all of Sherwood County.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I hear that voice. It’s unmistakably Sheriff Wheatley’s. And if there’s any voice I like hearing less than John’s, it’s his.
I do a slow, considered pivot on my heel and force a non-threatening smile onto my face. Better not to make waves with him. Even though there’s nothing I’d like more than to haul back and punch him in the face.
“Sheriff,” I say, nodding, in my best approximation of a sweet Southern belle. Just leave me the hell alone and go meet with John so that I can get on with my day, I pray silently.
The sheriff is an imposing figure. He’s decked out in his full khaki, radio strapped to his shoulder, hat on, which he quickly doffs seeing me because I’m such a lady, and mirrored sunglasses. All that’s missing is a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, and he’d be living the full local law enforcement cliche.
Unlike John, he’s in pretty decent shape, but it’s not from chasing after bad guys, and more from vain hours in his home gym, pumping iron and muttering to himself about what a badass he is, like a complete psychopath. His sandy-blond mustache ruffles as he smiles at me, revealing teeth bleached free of the yellow tobacco stains that should be there given his frequent cigarillos.
“How’s business today?” he asks.
“Fine.” Single-word answers are best, I’ve found. I can’t refuse to answer or I’ll get chided for being rude. But if I give too much detail, I’m just inviting more conversation, and that’s the last thing I want with the sheriff, as with everything in Sherwood County. I just want to get out of here as quickly and seamlessly as possible.
But no such luck. The sheriff takes a sauntering step closer to me, languidly running a fingertip over the hood of Ms. Donovan’s car as he does. “You know,” he says, “I’ve always been impressed that someone with your”—he lowers his voice a little—“condition was able to handle such physically and mentally demanding work.” It’s not really a compliment, but he wants me to think it is.
“I do what I can,” I say. Besides, having seizures on occasion doesn’t affect my intelligence or even my ability to do physical work, I add silently. I’ve had the spells ever since right after my parents died, and the worst effects that I’ve noticed are just blanks in my memory after I come to again. Not something I would choose for myself, but certainly not the worst disability. And at least John has allowed me to maintain some sort of treatment. I see a neurologist in town to make sure that I’m healthy. I’m far from a fainting damsel in distress.
The only hang-up is, of course, that I can’t get a driver’s license. You’re banned from driving if you’ve had a seizure within six months—state law—and for whatever reason, it feels like the clock always resets just when I’m ready. Of course, I know how to drive—automatic and stick—and I’d pass the test with flying colors. Hell, I can probably parallel park better than the instructors at the DMV. But rules are rules, and there’s no way around bending them, especially when your guardian is in cahoots with the sheriff.
“You’re so fortunate,” the sheriff goes on, “that your uncle allows you to work.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. First the Yankee asshole, now this. Why doesn’t anyone think I’m capable of doing my job? Cars aren’t even that complicated. Once you learn the rules, everything literally snaps together. Sometimes there’s the mystery of diagnosing what’s wrong: what’s making that weird clanking sound or grinding noise. But even so, there’s a limited number of things that can go wrong. Half the time all you have to do is plug the damn thing in to get the codes, and the diagnosis is obvious. Maybe if I were a nuclear physicist or something, I’d be impressed with myself, but to me, cars are just another thing to piece back together and learn from. Then again, for the sheriff and his walnut-sized brain, maybe that is too complicated.
“That I am,” I say, pitching my voice just a tad higher with the hopes that he’ll go away. “Lucky indeed. I think John’s—Uncle John’s—in his office if you’re looking for him,” I add, hoping he’ll leave.
The sheriff takes a long, slow stare at me from my grease-splotched boots to my wild ponytail. And I feel like I’m just another fugitive on the run, something that he thinks he can chase and trap and crow over in victory.
“I am,” he says with no measure of hurry in his voice. “But he’ll wait for me. Everyone will wait for me if I ask.”
He chuckles to himself. I don’t.
At that very moment, John strides out from the office, spreading his arms and beaming. “About time you got here.”
“Just shooting the breeze with lovely Maren here.” The sheriff nods courteously at me, and I once again give him the pasted-on smile.
“Come on in,” John says. “The ice is cold and the bourbon’s waiting.” He slaps the sheriff’s back as they walk into the office together and close the door. I breathe a sigh of relief as soon as I hear the click of the latch. Just a quick write-up of the day’s invoices, and I can be out of here. Home—well, John’s house—is a quick bike ride away, and with any luck he’ll have other “business” to attend to for the rest of the night and leave me in relative peace.
I’m shuffling around through the endless stack of scribbled notes and crumpled invoices from Jimmy, our faithful if old-school parts supplier, that the other guys have left on the work desk when I catch a snatch of conversation from the office.
I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping—like I give a shit what they ever have to talk about—but this time I know it’s about me.
“August 31st.” It’s John’s voice like he’s answering a question. What question, specifically, I didn’t hear. But I know what August 31st is — my birthday. My twenty-first birthday. The day I age into my college fund from my parents. The day I would circle in red on the pinup calendar in the shop if it wouldn’t be a dead giveaway for my plans to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as I can.
“Plenty of time,” comes the sheriff’s voice. “I can have a judge sign and deliver this thing by the end of the week.”
A chill runs down my skin, sending sweat beading cold at the small of my back. Have a judge sign what?
“Excellent,” comes John’s voice. “Knew I could count on you to make the whole process smooth.”
The sheriff chuckles. There’s a clink as he takes a pull of what must be his bourbon. “Well, we can’t leave things like this to amateurs,” he says. “That’s an awful lot of money for a girl to be left with. Especially one who’s not, you know, mentally all there.”
Now it’s John’s turn to chuckle. My stomach goes to absolute ice.
They’re talking about me. Me, my money, and my so-called lack of mental capacity, which is bullshit. Yeah, I might have the occasional fainting spell. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be in charge of my own life.
“It’s for her own good,” John chimes in. “I’m just looking after her best interests—after everyone’s best interest. Wouldn’t want her getting tangled up in the same kind of, ah, business that took away her mommy and daddy.”
“No, sir,” agrees the sheriff. “No sir, you would not.” He laughs, a rich, masculine sound that nevertheless turns my stomach.
There’s the scrape of a chair on the floor, and footsteps.
“Best be going,” says the sheriff. “Got to make my rounds tonight. You know how it is, keep the streets clear of riffraff.” They both chuckle again, and I startle like I’ve been shocked with a jumper cable.
In three giant steps, I’m back across the shop floor, and by the time the door swings open to the office, I’m fiddling around with socket wrenches, pretending to be busy and trying to calm my breathing.
“Always a pleasure, Sheriff,” John says in a slightly louder voice, like he’s doing it for my benefit.
“Likewise,” the sheriff says. I turn just in time to see them shake hands.
“Miss,” the sheriff says, tipping the brim of his hat. “Don’t get into any trouble, now. Lots of unsavory folks out there in the forest, you know. Good to stay safe and sound right here.”
“Sure,” I say. God, please, just leave.
“I’m keeping an eye on you.” He smirks, like it’s supposed to be funny instead of chilling, and strides out, the heels of his boots clicking ominously on the concrete floor.
John sees me and frowns. “What’s gotten into you?” he demands. “You look like you’ve seen a damn ghost.”
I snap to standing straight. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a long day of work. You know how it is.”
He doesn’t, of course. He wouldn’t know a long day of work if it smacked him upside the head.
But John just smiles. “That’s what we like to hear. A hard-working girl.” He jingles his keys. “I’ll close up here. Got a few things to finish and then an important meeting in town later on.”
Meeting? More like slamming booze at the Fox Hunt Club, I think—because yes, Sherwood County is that old-school that actual foxhunting is still considered a respectable gentleman’s pastime. But “Sure,” is all I say. My voice sounds hollow, like it’s coming from somewhere outside of me.
There’s a pounding need in my chest to investigate, to ask, to find out what they’re up to. Do I even dare? I clutch the socket wrench in my fingers.
“Everything good with the sheriff?”
“Hmm?” John glances up from the papers in his hands, which he tucks swiftly under his arm when he catches me staring at them. “Oh, yes. Right as rain,” he says. “Right as rain.”
My gaze lingers on the stack of papers, and it becomes clear. I need to get my hands on those. I need to see what he’s up to. If my future is in danger—if my freedom is in danger—then I sure as hell want to know, and fast.
I don’t know what he’s up to, but it can’t be good.
John clears his throat. “Well, don’t linger now,” he says. “I’m not paying anyone overtime.” He chuckles at his own joke, and with that, he turns and disappears back into his office.
I speed through the rest of my closing routine, leaving Ms. Donovan’s keys hanging on a peg for her to pick up on the way to work—no charge. My pulse is pounding in my temples, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Because to think I assumed the most complicated thing in my day would be dealing with Mr. Yankee and his stupid Porsche.
No. Now I’m going to have to break and enter.