Read Online The Whole Truth (The Supercharged Files Book 1) by Jody Wallace - Free Book Online

Samantha didn’t seem the patient type. I hated to slip back
into the pumps, but I had no other shoes that would go with the slacks.
    I could live with sartorial
anguish...for now. I followed Samantha to the parking lot. The temperature had
cooled, and a light breeze blew my hair into my mouth. “If I’m going to stay
here, I’ll need my things,” I said.
    Samantha clicked a button on her
keychain and a hybrid parked outside the chiropractor’s office beeped. I slid
into the passenger’s side of the ungainly little car.
    “Make a list. We’ll send
someone.” She jetted onto the highway, weaving in and out of traffic.
    I didn’t like the idea of
somebody poking around my apartment, going through my underwear drawer. I
hadn’t exactly left the place in a guest-friendly state. “I’d rather do it
myself.”
    Except for the sound of her
manicured nails clicking on the steering wheel, she didn’t reply. Was that
because the answer was, “Sure, who cares?” or “Forget it, you’re a prisoner”?
    The neighborhood we traveled
through, mostly commercial, showed signs of wear and tear. Signs were missing
letters, and there were a number of establishments I associated with sketchier
areas—pawn shops, check cashing places. We passed an international grocer that
could have fit inside my favorite one in Chicago before Samantha pulled onto a
street beside it. She drove to a building with tinted windows that had to be a
restaurant because a menu was airbrushed on the glass in big red and yellow
letters.
    A sign, missing bulbs, proclaimed
we’d arrived at Merlin’s Bar and Eatery.
    A pack of Harley Davidsons had
glommed the spaces near the front door. The rest of the vehicles appeared to be
pickup trucks with large tires, junkers, and a few incongruously shiny sports
cars. Samantha eased into a space between the motorcycles and a red Ford dually
with a gun rack, dirt splattered up the sides like peacock tails.
    “Excellent. Front row spot.” She
turned off the ignition and tilted the rear view mirror to check her hair and
lipstick.
    The whiny strains of country
music wafted out the front door when it opened to emit two men wearing boots,
ball caps, and T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off.
    “This is a beer joint,” I
accused. I guess it was an in-joke to name a supra bar after a mythical—maybe
mythical—wizard.
    Samantha exited the car. “Just
because they serve beer doesn’t make it a joint. It’s a family establishment.”
    “Where’s their family?” I
gestured at the two dudes.
    Samantha smiled at me through her
open door before she slammed it. “Don’t be stuck up. I see John’s truck. He’s
probably holding us a table.”
    I got out and she pointed her
keychain at the hybrid, the cheery beep-beep of the automatic locks ridiculous
next to the beefy Harley that was almost bigger than her car. Sighing, I
followed her through the door, also tinted black, the tint peeling in spots.
    Inside, it still looked like a
beer joint. Glass lamps advertising various brews dangled above the booths. The
tables were scarred and scratched, the chairs mismatched. A waitress with large
hair, breasts and teeth greeted Samantha by name.
    “John’s back by the juke. This
one of your newbies?” She gave me a once over, and suddenly I knew why they called
it a once over. Once it was over, I felt sticky and used.
    What gives? “I’m Cleo.”
    “Sure you are. You got an aura
like a popsicle, girl. Order your dessert first, you’ll feel better.” Without
another word, the odd woman sped off between the tables to take an order.
    “Aura?” I queried as we made our
way to the back of the restaurant.
    “Aura,” Samantha agreed. “She
sees moods. I told you that you needed to relax.”
    John had a booth near the back,
and he waved when he saw us. Peanut shells crunched under our feet. Near the
music source, the crowd was louder. Several pool tables—in use—lined the back
wall along with a few pinball machines—not