Chapter Forty-Nine #2
MADDIE: Don’t talk to me. I’m in mourning. I’m also about to call the cops and report a vicious crime. I’m pretty sure I know whose handiwork it is.
Several replies come in, but I decide not to entertain them just yet. Instead, I read over Baxter’s message, and I have to swallow back the tears that ridiculously threaten to fall.
BAXTER: Bring it here when you’re done reporting it.
“Don’t touch it, Zee,” Henley calls softly, and I look up just as Zelda lowers her hand. I don’t even know when she got close enough to the car to touch, but she snarls at the writing before crossing her arms over her chest.
AJ joins her, eyeing the crudely written word, and mutters, “Call the cops, Mads.”
So I do, forcing myself to breathe through the phone call to the police, giving them my report and answering questions mechanically while AJ paces nearby like an angry Doberman ready to tear the throat out of whoever vandalized my baby.
When the female officer finally asks, “Do you have reason to suspect anyone?” I pause before tightly muttering, “That depends. Can you tell me if Toby Moore was released on bail? He was arrested last week for assaulting me, but I didn’t hear anything after his arrest.”
The kind woman on the other end of the call hums under her breath before she tells me, “It looks like he was released on bail. It looks like he was released the very same night he was arrested.”
Freezing, I look over at my girls, all of whom have stopped to look back at me with varying degrees of shock and anger. Clearing my throat as I rub a subconscious hand across my chest, I ask, “You’re telling me Toby is currently walking around as a free man?”
I don’t actually hear the officer’s response, the ringing in my ears growing louder.
I don’t know why I’m so shocked, because I already had a feeling I knew who the culprit was.
The only person I’ve actually pissed off enough to ruin my pride and joy is that useless fuckstick.
Yet hearing that he was released on bail and has been freely roaming the streets for the past week and a half makes me want to start screaming into a fucking traffic cone and carry a brick in my purse for the foreseeable future.
By the time everything is documented and the report has been made, I’m exhausted.
I’m fully drained, fed up, and over the entire situation with Tobe the Chode.
If I could snuff out the existence of a man without repercussions, I would choose Toby Moore.
He’s been nothing but a thorn in my side for months on end now, disturbing my peace in a way only a troubled ex can, and I’m about sick of it.
A sadness clings to me while I send evidence of the vandalism, and the officer I spoke to promises to send someone to check the cameras around the mall and nearby streets, assuring me they’ll do all they can to find the culprit.
It feels stupid to be so sad about a car, but I can’t help it.
The car mattered to me, and Toby knew as much, which is probably why he screwed it up with ugly red paint.
The girls, bless their unhinged hearts, all offer to kill him more than once as they help me shove my bags into the Jeep.
I decline the offers, wanting to wring the bastard’s neck myself, and I promise to treat them to dinner another time.
With an understanding only my best friends can provide, they each give me a tight hug and force me to promise to call later.
The moment I agree, they leave, and I climb into my car and simply sit there for a long moment, pondering, not for the first time, how things escalated to this point.
With a sigh, I drive straight to Zone Out, the drive taking forty-five minutes. All those minutes involve receiving stares, several people snapping photos or videos of my car as I drive past. It’s a genuine miracle I manage to ignore them all, heading straight for Bax without losing my mind.
The second I pull into the garage, one of Bax’s mechanics notices the side of my Jeep and swears loudly enough that it echoes through the large building. And honestly? It’s such a valid reaction. It’s the only reaction this type of crime deserves.
Bax appears not a moment later, climbing from beneath another car and wiping his hands on a rag tucked in the pocket of his black overalls, the arms tied around his hips and leaving him in a tight white shirt that is stained with several dark streaks.
As he’s removing the grease from his hands, Baxter’s ocean-blue eyes land on me, then my Jeep, and then back to me.
Only to do a double take at the paint on the car, and then all warmth bleeds from his face.
The warmth that appeared a second before turns ice-cold, and I bite my lip when he asks, “What happened, Sunshine?”
I shrug weakly as I climb out of the car, explaining everything in short, clipped sentences, and I immediately lose my battle with my emotions when Bax looks at me with that fierce protectiveness, his expression filled with fury and worry.
My lip wobbles threateningly, and I blink rapidly as I whisper, “Oh no. I really am going to cry over a car. What the fuck?”
“Sunshine.” Bax crosses the garage in seconds, and I’m bundled in his embrace before the first tear can fall. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s nothing I can’t fix. Don’t cry.”
“He vandalized my baby,” I mumble, voice and soul full of misery.
Baxter’s face tightens dangerously as he peers down at me, and he promises, “I’ll fix it.”
“I know,” I mumble, feeling a deep well of appreciation for the man.
“You won’t even be able to tell it happened when I’m done, okay?” he assures, and it almost makes me want to cry that little bit harder.
Bax notices, and he takes my hand and says, “Come here, Sunshine.”
Before I can do or say anything, he guides me toward his office at the back of the garage, away from the mechanics and noise and sadness sitting heavily on my chest.
As soon as the door closes behind us, I collapse dramatically onto the maroon-colored couch that feels comfier than it looks and sigh, “Is it weird to mourn a car?”
Bax accidentally snorts, and I give him a pained look that has him wiping the sudden burst of amusement from his face.
He takes a seat beside me and, without hesitation, pulls me sideways into his lap, which I find even comfier than the couch.
His arms wrap around me snugly, offering safety and warmth, and I drop my cheek to his shoulder as I mumble, “I loved that car.”
“It’s not destroyed, Sunshine. You still have it,” he points out, rubbing a hand up and down my back.
I sigh as I melt against him. “It holds emotional damage now.”
Baxter smiles faintly against my head before the jackass mutters, “It’s perfectly suited to its owner now, right?”
A laugh slips out despite myself, and I feel that smile he’s wearing grow into a grin before he presses a kiss to my head. Then, with an earnest promise, he says, “I’m serious, Sunshine. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”
Putting my entire faith and trust in the man, knowing it won’t be misplaced, I lean back and cup his face.
I offer him a pathetic excuse for a smile before leaning in and pressing an appreciative kiss to his lips.
When I pull back, Baxter’s eyes are full of emotion, and he bundles me up and hugs me tight for a long moment while I spend the next hour feeling sorry for myself.