Page 4 of Captive of Outlaws

“I’m not lying,” I shoot back, hands on my hips. “Now, can I help you, or do you need to leave,sir?” I lace the last word with an extra-zingy dose of Southern charm.

Mr. Yankee just smiles, bringing a pair of sunglasses to his lips and biting one of its arms. “That depends.” He nods toward the street. “I’ve got a 2007 Porsche 911 GT2 parked around the corner. I’m the only one who’s ever owned it and it’s my pride and joy, so I won’t let just anyone muck aroundwith it. The boost is dropping and I’m thinking of upgrading to K16s. That something you think you can install if I supply the parts?”

He talks so fast I almost miss the details—almost. “Sorry—what did you say you had?”

“I said I have a 2007 Porsche 911 GT2,” he says, drawing out each syllable like he’s having fun with me, a smile on his face that could almost be called flirtatious.

I’m not having it. “No, you don’t.”

His eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”

“I said, no, you don’t.” I fold my arms. “Porsche only produced 300 of the 911 GT2 for the U.S. market.”

Mr. Yankee opens his mouth, but I keep going.

“And they only produced them between 2002 and 2005. There’s no such thing as a 2007 911 GT2.And,” I add, “even if there were, K16s wouldn’t be an upgrade. You’d be lucky to hit 1.2 on a long pull with those.”

There’s a long moment of silence. I try not to look too triumphant, but come on. This guy has no fucking idea who he’s messing with.

“Well, aren’t you sharp.” A grin teases at his lips—one that’s more condescending than amused. “You really know your cars.”

I flick a glance at the sheet-covered vehicle in the corner, my heart skipping a beat. “You could say I’m an enthusiast.”

His gaze tracks mine, just briefly noting the hidden car—myhidden car—before returning to burn into my face.

“You got me. It’s a 2004, not a 2007. And it just needs the fluids flushed. Boost is fine. And it sounds like I can trust you with it after all, little greasemonkey.”

Warmth spreads over my chest and throat—I’m literallygetting hot under the collar. “It’s Maren, notgreasemonkey. And you can—”

“Girl!” barks a voice from the office, and my spine stiffens. “Where’re you at?”

The sound of that voice is like a cattle prod to the back, snapping me to attention. I set my jaw and square my shoulders before I answer. “I’m in the shop, Uncle John,” I call back.

John isn’t my uncle, or any blood relation, for that matter, but that’s what I have to call him. It’s creepy, and I loathe it. But I know better than to disobey what he wants.

The cigarette burns on my inner arm are proof of that. A lesson well-learned.

“Be right there.”

I clench my fist hard enough to put dents in my palm as I turn back to Mr. Yankee. I hate sounding so meek and compliant in front of anyone else, let alone a guy like this. But when I meet his eyes again, the smirk and scowl and attitude is gone. Instead, there’s a hard, quiet fury behind his eyes—and I don’t think it’s directed at me.

“I’m fine,” I say, unprompted, then curse myself for being such an idiot. I drag my wrist across my grimy forehead, wishing I had water for my suddenly dry throat. “It’s just...it’s hot in—”

“Who is that?” Mr. Yankee interrupts, jerking his head towards the office.

“My uncle,” I lie. “He runs the place.” Well, owns it, anyway. And that’s only because old man MacAllister was so far behind on bills that he had to sell the property after fifty proud years of being the best mechanic in town.

As if on cue, John appears in the doorway of the office,fanning himself with a stack of mail. He’s the consummate Southern gentleman, right down to the three-piece suit and the light glisten of sweat across his brow. If you ask him, he’s salt-of-the-earth, a bootstrapping businessman who knows the value of a hard day’s work. But I know his involvement with the garage, and all the other businesses in town he owns, starts and ends with his name on the ownership papers.

I jump to attention, my stupid rabbit heart pounding in my throat. “Sorry,” I say, like a reflex. “I’m just—”

“Clear out,” John drawls. “Sheriff’s coming for a little sit-down and I need privacy.”

If he noticed Ms. Donovan’s car, he didn’t let on. Maybe, just maybe, I’m going to stay out of trouble this time.

Absently, I rub a hand over the cigarette burn on the inside of my arm.

Let’s hope, anyway.

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