Page 30 of Bad Wolf

A heavyset older man with a handlebar mustache, wearing clean royal blue overalls, gets out of the car, patting the roof as he does. A lady in a minivan pulls up behind him.

She smiles kindly at me as she rounds the vehicle to sit in the passenger side and waves to the man, who raises his hand in recognition.

“Are you Wren Lindley?” he asks, giving me a quick once over like a drill sergeant might when checking his soldier’s uniform. I wonder what he thinks when he sees my scuffed up converse, skinny jeans, black tee, and leather jacket—which is way too big, but is my most treasured possession.

With a confident nod, I root around in my bag. “I am. C—Knox said you’d need to see some ID?”

“I do, that’s right,” he says with a curt nod. “Never done anything like this in an alley before. Lotta car to just be handed over next to a strip club,” he frowns.

You’d think I’d be annoyed by that statement, but I’m not. I think this is absolutely nuts as well. I don’t even correct him that this is, in fact, a burlesque club.

I just smile, passing him my Floridian driver’s license, which he inspects thoroughly, jotting down a few details in the thick notepad he’s holding. I’m pleased for Knox that this man is doing such a thorough handover.

“I’ve been told that the monetary transactions have been completed and all I’ve got to do is sign to accept responsibility for the car?” I ask him.

Responsibility for something I could never afford in a million years.

He nods. “She’s filled up, as per our agreement.”

I roll my eyes, knowing Casey is behind the full tank of gas, and continue as the gentleman takes a slow walk around the car.

“I’ve taken photos from all angles, you should do the same. I can wait while you do so.”

I stare at him unblinking. He thinks I’m going to just whip out an iPhone-whatever-version-we’re-on now and take a few snaps on my three-lens camera? I don’t think so.

What I do though, is methodically check every inch of the body. Running my hands over the paintwork, glass, and tires.

As I do, it scares me shitless, because there is nothing wrong with this car. No fly splatters or rock chips, scuffs, or scratches. Not even a speck of dirt. I am royally fucked.

This car is in pristine condition.

“You’ve looked after her well,” I say, mustering up a confidence I do not feel.

He simply nods as one side of his mouth tips up, his mustache twitching as he does.

“What color is this?” I wonder aloud.

“Destroyer Grey.”Whoo boy, Knox really went for it.

“Mr. Madden said I should show you a few things before you drive it. Hop in the front and I’ll take you through some of the specs. Do you want to put your case in the trunk?”

“Yeah, I only need my bag up front. Thanks.”

He presses a button on the key fob and the trunk opens. I lay my old ratty suitcase down flat, along with my trusty vanity case, and then try to close it as carefully as possible.

Bernie, whose name is embroidered on his chest, stands with the car door open, waiting for me to jump in.

It’s time I put this town in my rearview mirror.

He chuckles when I gingerly slide onto the plastic the seats are wrapped in and shows me where the seat adjuster is for my short legs. Then, he starts ‘er up.

The car roars and whirs as the engine comes to life, and I cover my face with my hands. This is so fucking scary.

How am I even going to back it out of here?

Once set, he tells me to strap in.

Not buckle up—Strap. In. Because it’s a three-part harness.

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