Read Online Dangerous Lies by Becca Fitzpatrick - Free Book Online Page B

much for small-town safety. I still didn’t have a cell phone, so I couldn’t report the bike stolen. Nor could I call Carmina to pick me up—she’d be furious, and would probably force me to walk as punishment. Any way I looked at it, I was going on foot. I’d give her the good news first—that I was Thunder Basin’s newest carhop. And hope it was enough to soothe over the loss of her bike. But it still didn’t answer how I was going to get to work tonight.
    Pinning my hair up, I crossed to the shady side of the street and started the long walk back. I’d only made it a few blocks when a banana-yellow vehicle rumbled up beside me. The passenger window was rolled down, and Chet Falconer grinned through it, tipping his tan Stetson at me.
    “Hot morning,” he observed.
    “What do you want?” I said, feigning annoyance, but the truth was, I couldn’t believe my luck. Maybe Chet was finished in town and I could bum a ride back to Carmina’s.
    “Did you walk to town? Quite a hike.”
    “Not all of us are lazy. Some of us like a little exercise and fresh air. What is this gas guzzler, anyway?” I asked, gesturing at his vehicle. I’d never seen anything like it. It looked like the love child of a jeep and a military truck.
    “1977 International Harvester Scout. They don’t make them anymore.”
    “Hazarding a guess . . . fifteen miles per gallon? You could give the environment a break and at least carpool. Find some lonely traveler who could use a ride . . .”
    His grin widened. “You angling for a lift?”
    “Just worried about the state of the world we’re leaving for our grandchildren.” For emphasis, I eyed his Scout doubtfully.
    “Get in, already.”
    I glanced farther down the sidewalk, bit my lip, and tried to look conflicted. “But it’s such a nice day.”
    Chet snorted. “It’s ninety degrees out. Get in before I change my mind.”
    I tugged on the door and hauled myself inside. “ Fine. You talked me into it.”
    The inside of Chet’s Scout smelled like an earthy mixture of leather polish, old books, and grass clippings. No artificial air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror, and I hadn’t caught a whiff of cologne. I hadn’t expected to. Chet wasn’t as fastidious about his looks as the boys I knew back home. He definitely wasn’t as meticulous as Reed, who ironed his jeans. When Reed came to pick me up, his stiff hair held the telltale sign of maximum-hold gel, his clothes were fresh from the cleaners, and he smelled as fragrant as a department store. He probably spent at least an hour getting ready. Detail. I’d always appreciated his attention to it. But in retrospect, it did make him seem a little . . . fussy.
    Chet hung his arm out the open window and put the Scout in gear. “Straight home?”
    It was too early for lunch, but I wasn’t ready to go back to Carmina’s. Not unless I wanted a stern talking to. Seriously, how many people stole a green beach cruiser circa 1965?
    “Know of any good bike stores in town?” I asked.
    “Used or new?”
    “Definitely used. I’m in the market for something pretty specific. A green beach cruiser with a basket between the handlebars. The paint has to be peeling. Scratches on the frame are vital. Oh, and it needs a wide padded seat. Think I can find one of those?”
    Chet whistled thoughtfully. “Sounds like there’s more to this story.”
    I tossed my hands up. “I lost Carmina’s bike. I rode it to town this morning for a job interview, which I totally rocked, by the way”—I paused my story to give him a high five—“and when I came out, it was gone. Stolen. First the Mustang, now the bike. I’m not having any luck. She’ll probably ground me. Having to stay at her place 24/7 is about the worst punishment I can think of.”
    “The Charlton Brothers,” Chet mused to himself.
    “What?”
    “Jimbo and Billy John Charlton took your bike. Don’t take it personally, they do it to everyone.”
    “Their names