Chapter 8 Lincoln
LINCOLN
WELL, YOU FUCKED THAT UP
The motor pool?
Worked on engines?
The fuck is that all about?
My temper burns hot, but the expression I plaster onto my face while Nova climbs into the driver’s seat tells her nothing is amiss. Not my fucking intel. Not the documents Aster sent over. Or, and possibly more likely, not that her own fucking brother lied to her about his time serving.
The motor pool, my ass.
“Starts smooth.” Nova strokes the steering wheel and grins when the dash lights up. While outside, Aaron Dixon folds his arms and pouts.
Because he lost the truck? Or the girl?
I think he thought they were both as good as his.
Dragging the sun visor down and checking the little mirror, Nova’s happiness dims at the reminder of a highway-sized bruise on the side of her face.
Without mentioning it, she snaps the visor up again and stretches her legs to measure the distance between her feet and the gas.
When it’s too far, she reaches down the side of her seat and adjusts it forward.
“Cup trays,” she murmurs, like the having, or not having, of them, will make or break a sale.
“There was a little ding on the front, near the headlight. Did you see that?”
Nope. I was looking at you. “Yep, but you can get it buffed out. Shouldn’t be too expensive.”
“It’s still in pretty good shape. I think it used to belong to Mr. Hollins.
Blake,” she clarifies, since it’s obvious I have no clue who that dude is.
“He runs the fishing store over by the lake. He’s nice and lives a quiet life.
Had a wife, but she died a few years back.
” Finishing with her seat and sitting tall to stare over the hood, she flicks the little dial from P to D—gone are the days of the old-fashioned gear shifts—until slowly, we’re rolling forward and exiting the lot, bouncing onto the public access road.
“He upgraded to a brand-new RAM last year. I’ve seen it around. ”
“That’s probably why this one smells of old fish.” I pinch my nostrils, only to laugh and catch her hand when she attempts to smack my thigh. “Ouch! Hitting is bad, Nova Nichols!”
“It does not stink!” Yanking free, she wraps her palm around the steering wheel and ambles toward the intersection, and when traffic is clear, she brings us across and pulls onto a long straight-away that’ll lead us to Main Street.
“You’re listening to the engine, right? You’ll be able to hear if something is amiss?
Ryan could do that.” She happily sighs, settling into her seat and resting her elbow on the doorframe.
“He could be twenty feet away and just listen, and he’d know what was wrong with any motor. ”
“Yeah?” I lean against my door and watch a beautiful woman feel happy for a few minutes.
Her long hair is clipped back with one of those claw things, slipping free of the teeth and draping across her bare shoulder.
She has freckles on her arms, but not on her face, which means she applies sunblock to the latter, but probably forgets the former.
She wears a dress today, just like she did the last two times I’ve seen her.
But unlike the black mourning dress from the day of the funeral, and the cream-and-black office attire from yesterday, she wears a flowy white sundress today.
Her thighs are on full display, and her muscular calves became a taunting siren when she leaned over the hood and tried to look knowledgeable about engines.
She wears wedge sandals of a light-brown that almost matches her hair, and a chain around her neck, though the charm on the end remains hidden beneath her dress, tucked safely between her breasts.
It’s for her to keep close, I guess. Not for fashion or for anyone else to see.
“Engines were like Ryan’s entire personality.
I’ve never had to service my own vehicle.
Which,” she exhales, less exuberant now.
“I realize was kind of shortsighted of him. He taught me how to throw a punch, swing a hammer, run five miles, and fix the washers in the faucets. But neglected to teach me how to maintain a car.”
“I suppose he expected to always do it for you.” I extend my arm and rest my hand on the back of her chair—a test maybe, though I’m not entirely sure who it’s for—and when a lock of her hair touches my fingers, I play with the silky softness, gentle enough not to alert her to my actions.
“Wait. He taught you how to throw a punch? Let’s circle back to that. ”
She snorts and drives away from Main Street, choosing the highway that passes right through town instead.
“He said it was important I know how to break a man’s jaw.
Just in case.” She shrugs, pulling her hair free of my fingers when I open them.
“He always had this darker bent, I suppose. The military showed him that life isn’t always roses and big smiles.
A lesson you learned, too, I imagine. So when he was home, he made it his mission to teach me these things.
Like, how to shoot, and the best way to use a knife.
I had to know where to aim to hurt, and where to aim to kill.
” She glances across, catching my curious expression.
“He taught me how to use tools around the house, and to have extra toolboxes, because a screwdriver has more than one purpose.”
Jesus fucking Christ. He was making her GI Jane, just in case.
And she doesn’t even realize it.
“A hammer to the face can tear a man’s jaw off,” she adds in a monotone, like she’s heard those words a million times. “He kept saying things like that. But honestly, if someone was in my home, I’m not sure grabbing a hammer would be my first thought.”
“No?” I look out at the open road and enjoy the cool breeze whipping through our open windows. “What would you do if you had an intruder?”
“Run away, probably. I’m a million times safer sprinting into the trees and finding somewhere to hide than I am staying behind and threatening a criminal with a hammer. I might mess up his face, but chances are, he’s gonna mess me up, too.”
“That’s actually the right answer.” I roll my bottom lip and meet her eyes. “For guys like me and Nichols, we stand and fight. We’re trained for it, and we’re big enough to defend our homes. But for people like you, and people like my sister—”
“You have a sister, too?”
“Yeah… Uh.” My stomach hollows out and leaves me damn near reeling.
But I swallow the ache and school my expression before I give myself away.
Before I admit, out loud, that I never intended to mention her.
“Scarlett,” I rasp. “If she had a home intruder, and trees surrounded her home like yours, then her job would be to run and hide. Let them have what they want. They’ll leave when they’re done, and you and Scar get to live.
You should already have your special treasures tucked away somewhere safe, so a burglar can toss your home and take the electronics and shit.
Unless they have days to search, they won’t find your special things.
” I take her hair between my fingertips again and rub the soft strands against my skin. “Did you do that already?”
“Did I…” She frowns, confused. “Do I have a treasure box tucked away?”
I drop my chin.
“Definitely. We have a few, actually. Another lesson in Ryan-Research.” Grinning, she drags her lip between her teeth and goes back to watching the road. “He was adamant that we split our resources, so if one cache is discovered, you still have three or four others to work with.”
Yeah. Kind of like five keys spread among five soldiers.
“Yours aren’t above the fridge, are they? Or under the bed?” Tell me your secrets, Nova. I’ll slide in tomorrow while you’re at work, and leave again before you get home. “Those would be the first places a criminal would look.”
Amused, she finds the buttons on her steering wheel and turns the radio a little louder. “Of course not. Ryan-Research is more thorough than that.”
Tell me!
“I like to think my hiding places are intuitive to anyone truly thinking about it. Like, there’s one box hidden in the shed out back.
It has a spare set of keys for the truck in it, as well as cash and credit cards, and things like that.
Which makes sense, right? If I have an intruder and need to leave, the smart thing to do would be to run toward my vehicle.
Ducking back inside the house for keys is how we die.
And that…” A forlorn expression rolls across her face.
“Reminds me, I need to swap the Chevy keys as soon as I sign the papers for this truck.”
“Smart.” One box in the shed. Noted. “What about inside? I know you have one in your bedroom. That’s where you need access to a weapon if someone comes in at night.”
She smirks, driving right past my rental outside town without mentioning it.
“If you were anyone else, Ryan would destroy me for telling you the boxes even exist. He was strict about this stuff. Like, if your life is on the line and you need these resources, gossiping about them is the first step to getting dead.” She slows the truck and indicates to turn, surprising the shit out of me when she pulls into her own driveway.
Taking me home already? So easily?
But she’s smarter than that. She merely uses her driveway to turn around again, and then, pulling back onto the road, she brings us up to fifty miles an hour quickly.
“I have a box hidden in my room. It’s part treasure, part protection.
It’s close enough that I can get to it in an emergency, but it has special things in it, too, like pictures and letters I want to keep nearby.
If I must leave the house with nothing, I consider the boxes hidden well enough that they’ll probably go undiscovered. ”
Another in her room. Weapons and family pictures. Noted.
“Anyway.” She nods toward my house as we pass. “How are the rats doing?”