Page 66 of SEAL'S Baby Surprise
I grind my teeth. I knew I should have followed up on the attempted sale of the gems. “Did she try to sell something?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, she did,” Austin says. “The pawn shop wouldn’t take her pearls because she couldn’t prove they were hers. Said her brother bought them for her.”
“Yes, I did. And they cost me a pretty penny, too, let me tell you. She won’t wear mined diamonds or natural pearls because she says they exploit the environment and the people. She makes me crazy,” I add the last because I’m not sure whether to laugh, cry, or plant a facer right in the middle of Austin’s ugly mug.
I’d like to do all three, but it probably wouldn’t help anything.
“That sounds like Lee,” he says. “She makes me crazy a lot of the time.”
“And you got her pregnant!” I yell. “What the hell kind of friend are you?”
“One with benefits,” he grins at me. Which makes me want to stop the car, yank him out, and beat the ever-loving daylights out of my best friend. “Where did the trucker nearly run over her?”
After a few more exchanges with Junk Wagon, we get the address of the service station close to where he nearly ran over the woman. By now, it is a little after seven in the evening, and the sun is going down fast.
“I just got that bike for her a week ago, and the first thing she did was wipe out on it,” Austin says grimly. “It’s got no license, no headlights, and only one speed. We need to find her.”
I’m with that program. I can beat the stuffing out of Austin later. I pull up at the station, and Austin strides into it like he’s storming the place.
I unfold myself from the driver’s seat, and hobble after him. My back likes to kink up after I’ve been driving a while.
To my surprise, he pulls out a Polaroid picture, and addresses the attendant civilly. He says, “My girlfriend and I had a fight. She took off on a single-speed bike. My dog is with her, but she’s just learning to ride, and I’m worried about her. Have you seen her?”
“Why should I tell you if I have?” the attendant asks. I have to give the kid credit. He’s a scrawny drink of water, built like a beanpole.
Austin is built like a tank and could probably break him in half with his pinky. The Austin I used to know would have reached across the desk and grabbed the kid by his shirt front and demanded to be told where Rylie went.
Instead, he surprised me. “Because” he says, “she left me this.” And he shows the kid the note. “She had a bike wreck just a day or two ago. She’s been sick, and I’m pretty sure she had a concussion, but she wouldn’t go to the doctor. I think she’s in some kind of trouble, and she’s about as clueless as a baby bird learning to fly.”
“How do I know that you didn’t beat her up, and the bike wreck is just an excuse?” the kid asks.
“I didn’t and it isn’t,” Austin says tiredly. “But I don’t know any way to prove that.”
“I’m her brother,” I say, stepping into the store. “Rylie ran away from her wedding dress fitting three months ago. I’ve been looking for her ever since.”
“Rylie?” the kid says. “Dress shop Rylie? But doesn’t she have long pink hair?”
“Had,” Austin corrects him. “She cut it off with my sewing shears, and I had to give her a GI Jane cut.”
“Either of you dudes got ID?” the kid asks.
I seriously have to give the youngster credit. Austin isn’t trying to act threatening, but he’s five-nine and two ax handles across the shoulder.
Even though he looks worried as hell, and more broken and scared than intimidating, he’s got muscles on his muscles. But there is that kid asking for ID.
Austin pulls out his wallet and hands over his driver’s license. The kid looks at it, looks at Austin. “Vet, eh? I’m not sure that’s real comforting. You could have snapped, and now you’re trying to cover up.”
Austin scrubs a hand over his face and looks at me. “Help me out here. Lee could have been mugged and sold to some human trafficker by now.”
“Not too likely,” I say, “Unless they bait their trap with abused kittens or babies. Son,” I address the youth behind the counter, “If Austin was going to snap, he’d have yanked you over that counter by now. But I think I have a solution for all of us. Where’s the Family Clinic?”
“Up on Fourth,” the kid says. “Late as it is, she’s probably in the PG hostel. That’s where they’ve been putting kids down on their luck, people who start treatment of various sorts and run out of money, and the out-of-staters who drive in for help. I sent her down the bike lane at . . .” he glances at the clock, “around 4:30 this afternoon. It isn’t the best, but if she went that way, at least she wasn’t playing chicken with semis.”
“Come on, Austin. We can go to the clinic, and if she’s not there, we can start working our way back.”
“Thanks, kid,” Austin says. “You’re all right.”
The boy nods, but he still looks worried. My guess is that he’s seen some bad things and wild stories pass through his store.
