Page 12 of The Renegade Billionaire
Except I’m not now, nor have I ever been, a Montgomery, regardless of my Montgomery DNA.
Grey: FYI, I just got a notification from Whisperloop.
My shoulders hitch up around my ears. The Whisperloop is Alistair’s baby. A so-called news site that reports, and I use that term loosely, all gossip all the time with little care about unveiling the actual truth.
He gets away with it by using tiny unreadable letters that sayallegedlythat no one ever sees or pays attention to. He does whatever’s necessary to grab clicks, regardless of who he hurts along the way.
It’s why Grey and I started full-time at Omni-Reyes in college. One exposé and I never looked at my father the same way again.
Me: What now?
Grey: Screenshot sent.
Grey: My guess is that Alistair’s planning his attack early.
I zoom in on the screenshot. The image says:Where have all the Montgomerys gone?
Me: Fuck. I don’t have the energy for this.
Grey: I’ll stay on top of it. You go buy a heap of metal and hope it makes it back to the inn.
He’ll never believe me if he doesn’t see it for himself, so I take a quick photo of my options and send it to him.
Chuckling, I thank my lucky stars for Greyson Reyes and pocket my phone, but I swear I hear the slimy excuse for a salesman clicking his tongue as if he were a second hand on a clock somewhere behind me.
I hurry through the next few rows and stop when I see a polished, but old, Chevy pickup with a large blue stripe down both sides. It’s something straight out of the old eighties movies I had to watch in my film and entertainment course in college.
And I love it.
Tearing the tag from the window, I walk back to Harry Terdsley. What a fucking name. He acts like a high school quarterback who’s still living in his past.
Am I judgmental? Yes. Am I wrong? Not generally.
“I’ll take this one,” I say, handing him the tag.
He stares at me as though I’m handing him a bag of dog shit, and am I imagining it, or are his lips already curling into a snarl?
“Why that one?” he asks. Everything in his tone is confrontational.
Shrugging my shoulders, I feign indifference. “It’s the one that caught my attention. Is there a problem?”
“No problem,” an older gentleman says as he shuffles around the building. “That truck belonged to his high school sweetheart’s grandfather. And this jackass ruined that relationship spectacularly, twice.”
“Dad!” Harry clenches his fists as he snarls at his father.
“It’s true,” his father says with an annoyed shrug. There’s no mistaking the disappointment in his features. “Come along, son. I’ll get you going on your paperwork.”
“But, Dad, I’m gonna buy that truck.”
The older man glares, yes, glares at his son. “With what? The money you’re borrowing from me every month? It’s over, Harry. I’m selling it.”
My gaze ping-pongs between the two men before me, then I dutifully follow the older Terdsley into the run-down building.
“It’s a good rig. It’ll last you a long time. And don’t pay no mind to Harry out there. He runs his mouth all over Georgia, but not here. I don’t run a dirty shop, and he knows it. If he wasn’t the only one his grandmama remembered, I’d’a pushed him outta here a long time ago.”
“Ah, well, I’m glad to hear the truck will last.”
The older man glances out the window with such sadness I feel bad for him. “Harry wasn’t always this way, ya know.” He chokes out a cough, obviously upset he let that slip. “How you payin’?”
