Page 7 of The Last Grift
Of course, someonewaswatching him. He was at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, for fuck’s sake.
He twisted the car’s gas cap open, grabbed the hose, and jammed the nozzle inside. Glancing down, he realized his fingers were clamped around the handle, tight enough that his knuckles were white. His jaw was also clenched, so hard that his teeth hurt. He actively tried to relax.
Gabe was pissed off at himself, at Peter, and at those stupid-ass blond dude-bros they’d pulled a con on. But right or wrong, a hefty chunk of Gabriel’s ire was directed at the universe in general.
Never let your guard down, Chance. I’ve told you that hundreds of times.
Great, more advice from the grave.
The beauty of a successful con was that the marks never realized they’d been duped until it was too late. As Heidi had explained over and over, a talented con artist knew when to quietly pack up and depart, leaving no one the wiser. Both Peter and Gabriel had chosen to ignore the memo and stayed too long.
You have to know when to walk away, Chance.
Gabriel shook his head. He needed to stop obsessing about what had brought him to this point and figure out what he was going to do about it. There was no time to sit around and contemplate the current shitty state of his life. Or acquire an earworm likeThe Gambler.
“Fucking rookie move.”
The pump handle popped with a violent jerk, an exclamationpoint to his thoughts. Setting the nozzle back on the hook with a clank, he headed inside the station to pay.
“Wow, somebody has no impulse control,”he muttered under his breath. Gabriel wanted to squint against the visual barrage of goods greeting him. The interior of the tiny store had so much crap for sale that he felt claustrophobic.
Gray cinder-block walls were barely visible behind the mishmash of items on display. From off-brand candy and energy drinks to neon hair ties and knock-off Zippo lighters illustrated with impossibly large-breasted naked women in silhouette. A sign announced that night crawlers were for sale in a cooler beside the front counter and another pointed to a stash of luridly colored flies and lures. Meanwhile, a dispirited display of snack-size potato chips and beef jerky sat almost directly on top of an electronic card reader.
“Nice ride. Looks like a sleeper. Is that a 2016? I’m supposed to make you pay first, but I like your car, so I let it slide,” the man behind the counter said with unbridled enthusiasm. He was a stocky guy and hardly had any space to move back there.
Gabe’s gaze was drawn to the impossible-to-ignore ragged slash that ran down the left side of the guy’s face. As he stepped forward, wallet out and in hand, he noted that the eyebrow-to-chin injury had healed poorly; the scar drew the corner of the man’s eye downward, ruining the symmetry of his face.
Knife? Bottle?
“Thanks, it’s reliable,” Gabriel responded in what he hoped was a noncommittal tone. He was trapped between wanting to be done with the exchange and on his way and wanting to drag the conversation out as long as possible. In only a few miles, he might have a better idea about what his mother had gotten himinto this time and that sounded promising and horrible in equal measures.
“2016, for sure.” The guy sounded thrilled as he again peered out the window at Gabe’s car. There was no name badge affixed to his oil-stained coveralls—at least, Gabriel hoped it was oil and not blood. Maybe hot chocolate?
“Yeah, I guess it is,” he agreed, “but I’m not planning on getting rid of it anytime soon.” He regretted driving a vehicle that somehow attracted the attention of a car geek, but it’s not like he’d known that was the case. Car knowledge had never been a skill of his; luckily, the Honda was still safely registered to his dead mother.
And it would stay that way for as long as possible.
“Well, if you change your mind, I’m always on the lookout for cars like that one. Me and some of my buddies could hop it up into a rally car. Not a real rally car, but, you know.” He laughed. “Massive engine, cool paint job. It could be bang.”
Bang? Rally car?
Gabriel eyed the man; the eagerness wafting Gabe’s way almost got him to smile. Mentally, he moved the guy’s estimated age back to early thirties at the most. It was the scar that made him look older. “Yeah, probably not this car. You live around here, then?”
“Not far,” the cashier replied. “You local too? I haven’t seen you around before, but most folks I used to know have moved away.”
Gabriel got the impression the guy was lonely and bored. But maybe he just liked to meet new people? He could relate.
“Not many jobs for somebody like me,” McChatty continued. “I’m supposed to feel lucky the station’s owner was willing to hire me and pay minimum wage.” Leaning across the counter, he whispered, “I was in jail for a couple of months, almost ninety days.”
Eyeing the angry-looking scar again, Gabriel was sure he was telling the truth—who would lie about being in jail? It must have been hell for someone like him, with his air of naiveté.
“I guess it’s good that you have a job.” Gabriel couldn’t think of anything else to say. Yay for getting out of jail? Was there a card for that? He was starting to feel edgy again. He needed to get moving.
“I suppose.” McChatty tapped the counter with a meaty finger, the broken nail encrusted with the kind of filth that comes from working on engines. “But I’m always on the lookout for extra work.”
His expression turned wistful, as if he was hoping Gabriel would be his new best friend and happen to have that extra work he needed. Gabriel wasn’t even friendly neighbor material, but the air of desperation and eagerness that clung to him had Gabriel feeling oddly protective of this complete fucking stranger.
Quit stalling, Chance.
