Becoming Rain
Page 73
Because even he must see the irony in this.
“Do you realize how lucky you are?” the officer muses as he takes down Luke’s driver’s license, comparing it against the paperwork found in the glove compartment. “Most of these cars end up across the ocean.”
“It’s not luck,” Luke murmurs, that cocky smile back. His arm curls around my waist, pulling me against him with a relieved sigh. I fall into him because it’s three in the morning and I just really want to sleep.
“Still . . . Could have ended up driven into a wall in a high-speed chase instead of parked in a storage locker.”
“He’s right,” I say. “That would have really sucked, hey? You love this car.”
He peers down at me, a deep furrow in his brow. “Yeah, that would have.” I search his eyes for any recognition that he helps screw people over in the exact same way.
I’m sure I see it there.
“Do you have any idea who stole it?” Luke asks the officer.
“We’ll be collecting evidence on the site and car. You’ll get a call when you can come and pick it up,” the guy drones on. He obviously hates his job. I wonder if he signed up for this or if he did something stupid in a previous assignment to relegate him to police impound detail.
If I keep my own stupidity up, I might be taking over for him some day.
“Alright. Let’s grab a cab back to my place.” Luke pulls out his phone.
“Sure, but I’m going to head home. I have to get up early.”
He frowns. “For what?”
“I volunteer . . . at a soup kitchen once a week. Tomorrow’s my day.” Mental note—find a soup kitchen and start volunteering there once a week.
Nodding to himself, he admits, “Yeah, I guess it’s pretty late. I need to be at the garage in a few hours, in case Miller’s still out.” He leans in to kiss me softly. “Soon?”
I force a smile, hoping the casualness of his invitation doesn’t tip the team off that there has already been a first time. “Sure.”
Chapter 39
LUKE
“Did they tell you when they’ll be finished with the car?” Rust’s voice is groggy, like he just woke up, even though it’s after ten and he’s showered and shaved for the day and is standing in the garage’s office.
“A few days. I just ordered a replacement window. They said that’ll take a week to come in.”
He tosses the keys to his Cayenne to me. “Take mine until it’s back.”
“You sure? I can rent a car.”
He waves my concern away with a dismissive hand, his eyes roaming the white walls of the tiny space, where we’ve managed to cram two desks into enough space for one.
“Listen, if anyone asks, tell them your engine was giving you problems and you sent it to the dealer for repair.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because some jackass stole my nephew’s car and I want to find out who! I’m going to make a few very discreet calls to see if this is a local crew or something bigger. We don’t want anyone moving in on us. It puts more heat on the area.”
“Alright. Where are you going to be today? RTM?”
“No, I need to sort out a hiccup.” I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Some deliveries that haven’t made it to the warehouse yet. Not sure what the delays are.”
It’s almost funny: in one breath he’s condemning the people who stole my car; in the next, it’s business as usual. Am I the only one who’s been feeling more than an ounce of empathy for these people who we royally fuck over? I wonder, if Rust had been the one to walk out of a movie theater and see his car missing, whether he’d have second thoughts about what we’re involved in.
“How are you handling things around here?”
I nod slowly, looking over the neat piles of color-coordinated folders in front of me. Four days ago, facing the organized chaos that is Miller’s desk—a two-foot-tall stack of paperwork that combined invoices, customer orders, and a half dozen other forms that I have no clue what to do with—I would have answered Rust with a lot of bitching and moaning.
But I slowly figured my way through things, sorting paperwork, making calls. I actually feel like I have a handle on running this place. Of course, there’s still plenty I don’t know, but the place hasn’t come to a halt without Miller.
“It’s going pretty good, actually.” I get to talk to people, and I actually feel useful because I can usually diagnose what’s wrong with their car based on their complaints. Plus, the guys around here seem to like me more than Miller. That’s not to say I’d ever get rid of Miller, but still, I like feeling like I’m managing something.
Most of all, though, there isn’t that same anxiety I feel when I’m on the phone with Rodriguez or the other fence, Cage. The tension that stiffens my back every time I pass on another message for another car they need to steal. Another person I’m about to screw over.
Here, I’m actually solving people’s problems, not creating them.
He starts rubbing his chin in that very “I have an idea” Rust-like way. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
I laugh. “I saw you last Sunday night. It’s been stupid busy in here, with Miller gone and me figuring things out. I’ve been working late every night. Hell, last night was the first time I saw Rain since the weekend.”
“Do you realize how lucky you are?” the officer muses as he takes down Luke’s driver’s license, comparing it against the paperwork found in the glove compartment. “Most of these cars end up across the ocean.”
“It’s not luck,” Luke murmurs, that cocky smile back. His arm curls around my waist, pulling me against him with a relieved sigh. I fall into him because it’s three in the morning and I just really want to sleep.
“Still . . . Could have ended up driven into a wall in a high-speed chase instead of parked in a storage locker.”
“He’s right,” I say. “That would have really sucked, hey? You love this car.”
He peers down at me, a deep furrow in his brow. “Yeah, that would have.” I search his eyes for any recognition that he helps screw people over in the exact same way.
I’m sure I see it there.
“Do you have any idea who stole it?” Luke asks the officer.
“We’ll be collecting evidence on the site and car. You’ll get a call when you can come and pick it up,” the guy drones on. He obviously hates his job. I wonder if he signed up for this or if he did something stupid in a previous assignment to relegate him to police impound detail.
If I keep my own stupidity up, I might be taking over for him some day.
“Alright. Let’s grab a cab back to my place.” Luke pulls out his phone.
“Sure, but I’m going to head home. I have to get up early.”
He frowns. “For what?”
“I volunteer . . . at a soup kitchen once a week. Tomorrow’s my day.” Mental note—find a soup kitchen and start volunteering there once a week.
Nodding to himself, he admits, “Yeah, I guess it’s pretty late. I need to be at the garage in a few hours, in case Miller’s still out.” He leans in to kiss me softly. “Soon?”
I force a smile, hoping the casualness of his invitation doesn’t tip the team off that there has already been a first time. “Sure.”
Chapter 39
LUKE
“Did they tell you when they’ll be finished with the car?” Rust’s voice is groggy, like he just woke up, even though it’s after ten and he’s showered and shaved for the day and is standing in the garage’s office.
“A few days. I just ordered a replacement window. They said that’ll take a week to come in.”
He tosses the keys to his Cayenne to me. “Take mine until it’s back.”
“You sure? I can rent a car.”
He waves my concern away with a dismissive hand, his eyes roaming the white walls of the tiny space, where we’ve managed to cram two desks into enough space for one.
“Listen, if anyone asks, tell them your engine was giving you problems and you sent it to the dealer for repair.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because some jackass stole my nephew’s car and I want to find out who! I’m going to make a few very discreet calls to see if this is a local crew or something bigger. We don’t want anyone moving in on us. It puts more heat on the area.”
“Alright. Where are you going to be today? RTM?”
“No, I need to sort out a hiccup.” I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Some deliveries that haven’t made it to the warehouse yet. Not sure what the delays are.”
It’s almost funny: in one breath he’s condemning the people who stole my car; in the next, it’s business as usual. Am I the only one who’s been feeling more than an ounce of empathy for these people who we royally fuck over? I wonder, if Rust had been the one to walk out of a movie theater and see his car missing, whether he’d have second thoughts about what we’re involved in.
“How are you handling things around here?”
I nod slowly, looking over the neat piles of color-coordinated folders in front of me. Four days ago, facing the organized chaos that is Miller’s desk—a two-foot-tall stack of paperwork that combined invoices, customer orders, and a half dozen other forms that I have no clue what to do with—I would have answered Rust with a lot of bitching and moaning.
But I slowly figured my way through things, sorting paperwork, making calls. I actually feel like I have a handle on running this place. Of course, there’s still plenty I don’t know, but the place hasn’t come to a halt without Miller.
“It’s going pretty good, actually.” I get to talk to people, and I actually feel useful because I can usually diagnose what’s wrong with their car based on their complaints. Plus, the guys around here seem to like me more than Miller. That’s not to say I’d ever get rid of Miller, but still, I like feeling like I’m managing something.
Most of all, though, there isn’t that same anxiety I feel when I’m on the phone with Rodriguez or the other fence, Cage. The tension that stiffens my back every time I pass on another message for another car they need to steal. Another person I’m about to screw over.
Here, I’m actually solving people’s problems, not creating them.
He starts rubbing his chin in that very “I have an idea” Rust-like way. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
I laugh. “I saw you last Sunday night. It’s been stupid busy in here, with Miller gone and me figuring things out. I’ve been working late every night. Hell, last night was the first time I saw Rain since the weekend.”
