the sun began
to warm the earth and he watched lazy swirls of it roll away when
he passed through New Waterford’s quiet downtown. A small cat
scooted across the road, just past the bakery, and he braked
slightly, swearing under his breath as he swerved to avoid it.
Someone walked along the sidewalk, he could
just make out a shape in the heavy mist but he continued on, waving
at Ed Cronkwright—out early towing someone no doubt. A few minutes
later he pulled up in front of his shop.
Always interested in mechanics and design,
he’d disappointed his father years earlier when he’d declined an
opportunity to join the family veterinarian practice—he liked
animals but sure as hell wasn’t interested in fixing them. Instead,
he’d studied engineering at a local college and opened his shop six
months after graduation.
Specializing in bikes and cars, he’d quickly
gained a reputation as a man of detail with a keen eye for design.
He’d started out with one employee—himself –and now, nearly ten
years after inception, Logan’s business had taken off with revenue
tripling over the past five years. He’d expanded, buying property
outside of town, and built an impressive new shop with additional
units that he rented out. The revenue from that alone was enough to
get by.
Logan now boasted clients from all over the
United States as well as Canada and Mexico. His waiting list for
custom bikes and specialty cars was nearly eighteen months and the
bike he’d been working on for two weeks was a custom chopper for
some Hollywood talent agent. It was one of the most daring designs
he’d attempted.
He pulled into the parking lot and let his
foot off the gas. It definitely was nothing like the hunk of junk
that sat in front of his shop’s bay door.
Logan let his truck idle and frowned as he
stared at the sad looking import. The car was a red Honda accord,
with four flat tires and from what he could tell, a lot of damage
to both the side panels and the trunk. Most likely it had been
keyed.
“Shit,” he murmured, glancing toward Gord’s
Garage and thinking of Ed Cronkwright. He must have had more to
drink than he should have last night because he obviously had towed
the car to the wrong business.
Logan grabbed his cell phone and was about to
dial Ed when his eyes narrowed. He tossed the cell onto the seat,
stepped out of his truck, and strode toward the car. The scratches
weren’t terrible. They could easily be dealt with. It was the words
and the sudden realization of their meaning that pissed him off
even more than he already was.
Son of a bitch.
‘[i] Ho [i]’ adorned the trunk.
He walked around the car and gazed down at
the hood. ‘[i] Pussy [i].’
Logan’s mouth thinned and he whipped his head
around, gazing back to where he’d come from. Ed had been alone but
that figure he’d seen…
He jogged back to his still running truck and
peeled out of the parking lot. Less than two minutes later he
turned onto Duncan Street and as he slowed to a crawl, spied none
other than Billie-Joe Barker, trudging along the sidewalk, with her
hockey bag and two sticks in her hands.
Automatically, his gaze swung to that sweet
butt—he was a guy after all, and couldn’t help it—and he realized
she was wearing the same clothes she’d worn the night before.
Immediately his eyes narrowed. Had she spent
the night with Gallagher? What the hell was going on?
Logan pulled just ahead of her and hopped out
of his truck. She’d already walked a few miles from his shop and he
knew she still had a ways to go, with the bag it would be heavy
going.
“Hey,” she said haltingly, her eyes huge in a
face that was something else. She really was striking.
“Hey,” he answered back. “I see someone did a
number on your car last night.”
She nodded, but didn’t answer and he thought
that maybe her eyes were real shiny, like they were filled with
tears.
Shit. Not again. He wasn’t real good with
tears. Just ask Sabrina.
“You
to warm the earth and he watched lazy swirls of it roll away when
he passed through New Waterford’s quiet downtown. A small cat
scooted across the road, just past the bakery, and he braked
slightly, swearing under his breath as he swerved to avoid it.
Someone walked along the sidewalk, he could
just make out a shape in the heavy mist but he continued on, waving
at Ed Cronkwright—out early towing someone no doubt. A few minutes
later he pulled up in front of his shop.
Always interested in mechanics and design,
he’d disappointed his father years earlier when he’d declined an
opportunity to join the family veterinarian practice—he liked
animals but sure as hell wasn’t interested in fixing them. Instead,
he’d studied engineering at a local college and opened his shop six
months after graduation.
Specializing in bikes and cars, he’d quickly
gained a reputation as a man of detail with a keen eye for design.
He’d started out with one employee—himself –and now, nearly ten
years after inception, Logan’s business had taken off with revenue
tripling over the past five years. He’d expanded, buying property
outside of town, and built an impressive new shop with additional
units that he rented out. The revenue from that alone was enough to
get by.
Logan now boasted clients from all over the
United States as well as Canada and Mexico. His waiting list for
custom bikes and specialty cars was nearly eighteen months and the
bike he’d been working on for two weeks was a custom chopper for
some Hollywood talent agent. It was one of the most daring designs
he’d attempted.
He pulled into the parking lot and let his
foot off the gas. It definitely was nothing like the hunk of junk
that sat in front of his shop’s bay door.
Logan let his truck idle and frowned as he
stared at the sad looking import. The car was a red Honda accord,
with four flat tires and from what he could tell, a lot of damage
to both the side panels and the trunk. Most likely it had been
keyed.
“Shit,” he murmured, glancing toward Gord’s
Garage and thinking of Ed Cronkwright. He must have had more to
drink than he should have last night because he obviously had towed
the car to the wrong business.
Logan grabbed his cell phone and was about to
dial Ed when his eyes narrowed. He tossed the cell onto the seat,
stepped out of his truck, and strode toward the car. The scratches
weren’t terrible. They could easily be dealt with. It was the words
and the sudden realization of their meaning that pissed him off
even more than he already was.
Son of a bitch.
‘[i] Ho [i]’ adorned the trunk.
He walked around the car and gazed down at
the hood. ‘[i] Pussy [i].’
Logan’s mouth thinned and he whipped his head
around, gazing back to where he’d come from. Ed had been alone but
that figure he’d seen…
He jogged back to his still running truck and
peeled out of the parking lot. Less than two minutes later he
turned onto Duncan Street and as he slowed to a crawl, spied none
other than Billie-Joe Barker, trudging along the sidewalk, with her
hockey bag and two sticks in her hands.
Automatically, his gaze swung to that sweet
butt—he was a guy after all, and couldn’t help it—and he realized
she was wearing the same clothes she’d worn the night before.
Immediately his eyes narrowed. Had she spent
the night with Gallagher? What the hell was going on?
Logan pulled just ahead of her and hopped out
of his truck. She’d already walked a few miles from his shop and he
knew she still had a ways to go, with the bag it would be heavy
going.
“Hey,” she said haltingly, her eyes huge in a
face that was something else. She really was striking.
“Hey,” he answered back. “I see someone did a
number on your car last night.”
She nodded, but didn’t answer and he thought
that maybe her eyes were real shiny, like they were filled with
tears.
Shit. Not again. He wasn’t real good with
tears. Just ask Sabrina.
“You
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