Page 24 of Castaway Whirlwind
Layla waves a few papers in the air by way of greeting.
Since today is Davis’s day off, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
He holds up a plastic grocery bag, then sets it on the desk in front of Layla. “You left your book at our house last time you babysat. We figured you’d want it back.”
Layla looks in the bag, then shoves it under the desk quickly. “Thanks. You could have, um, texted me to come pick it up?” She says it like a question, glancing at me, then widening her eyes at Davis.
That gets my attention.
He shrugs his shoulders, his grin wider now when he says, “Goldie read it. Twice. Says it’s her new favorite. Mine, too.” He winks, then tips his hat again and is gone seconds later.
I turn on Layla. “What book?”
She waves me off without looking up. “Get out of here, and let me do my job.”
I stand there for a minute longer, waiting. Layla taps on a country playlist on her phone, raising the volume to the highest level. I sigh and drop my arms, giving up for now, then head out into the warehouse. For an hour, I wait and watch the office window for signs of Layla standing from the desk, ready to leave once she’s finished organizing.
I jump out of my skin when Elliott appears beside me. My older brother’s bigger than even Wyatt, yet he moves like a silent predator. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, that’sfor damn sure.
Elliott grunts, “We got a problem.”
I follow him past the loading docks to the employee parking area, angry voices growing louder as we get closer to the edge of the lot. Several of my employees are slamming car doors, pissed off.
One of Steven’s old friends, Trace, is fisting his hands in his shaggy, golden blond hair, staring at his once-lifted metallic-teal wrapped truck—the kind that people fancy up with expensive rims, custom grills, and an obnoxious number of LED lights to post on social media.Thirst traps, or so I’m told.
“They were brand fucking new!” Trace yells, stricken. His tires were a thing of beauty, though they probably saw more pavement than dirt, and my guess is they set him back a grand or two.
“Five vehicles hit so far.” Elliott sets his hands on his hips. “Including mine and yours.” He nods to his 1980s third-generation brown Ford Bronco parked next to my dually, every single tire slashed.
“Dagnabbit.” I pat my empty pockets, cursing again that I left my phone in the office.
“Already called Gibson,” Elliott says, leaning against his tailgate. He built his Bronco from the ground up after buying it from a junkyard a few years ago—the kind our dad once drove—and he looks ready to put someone six feet under as more employees come over to check their vehicles.
While we’re waiting for the cops to show up, I jog back to the office to get my phone, needing to call my insurance company since this happened on company property. Layla screams and springs upright when I open and close the side door too hard.
“Shi-oot, darlin’. I’m sorry I scared you.”
She places a hand over her heart, breathing hard after she turns off the music. “It’s ok. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
I was hoping she would, which is why I bought a nice wicker basket and propped it in the corner behind the desk, stuffed with a throw pillow and two fuzzy fleece blankets. It pleases me to see she has one draped across her lap when I walk around the desk to grab my phone from the top right drawer.
My office door flies open with a bang while I’m on hold with my insurance company, and Trace stomps inside, his eyes red as if he’s holding back tears. I’d probably be the same if I put half my paycheck into my truck.
He stops short when he sees Layla, throws his hands up, and slaps them against his thighs. “Fucking spectacular! Now it makes total sense!”
Layla leans back in her chair, putting more distance between them.
“Hey! You watch your mouth and lower your voice around her,” I demand.
Trace sneers but lowers his voice a fraction. “You gotta be shitting me.”
“I’m tellin’ you right now, shut your mouth.” I take a step to the side, ready to shut his mouth for him if he doesn’t stop.
“What happened?” Layla’s voice has me stalling.
Trace’s bottom lip wobbles. “Your fucking ex, Steven.”
Voice rising an octave, she asks, “What did he do?”
