Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Fifteens? No wonder they were so big.
“They’ll work for now. I want to watch you get this car off,” I said. “I’ve been dying to know how it’s done. I started watching a show on Hulu that follows The Hail Raisers—also known as Hail Auto Recovery—and they don’t really focus on the getting the car on the flatbed part. But they do have a lot of excitement when they repo cars. Did you know that they opened a few branches in Dallas recently? The owner’s name is…”
“Dante. Dante Hail,” Webber grunted as he lifted a lever on the chain, and the chain loosened.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a boom,” he grunted again when he followed suit with the second chain. “It’s a mechanism that forces the chain taut.”
I nodded and continued to watch him.
He didn’t talk anymore until the car was on the ground. “Now you saw, get in the cab.”
Seeing the seriousness in his eyes, I reluctantly got back into the truck.
Just as I did, a man came from the shadows and walked up to Webber.
I reached over and pressed a button that had a microphone on it and was gratified to hear that it was a radio of some sort that allow me to hear what was going on at the back of the truck.
“Well isn’t that fancy,” I said giddily.
“Mr. Webb,” the man said to Webber over the loud rumble of the tow truck’s motor. “Nice to see you again.”
Webber grunted and pulled out a card and handed it to the man in black.
I couldn’t see his face, but I did see a small tattoo on the inside of one of his fingers as he took the card.
“Who’s your guest?” the man asked.
“Ol’ lady,” he lied, even though his words sent a thrill through my blood, thick like molasses, coating everything it touched. “Brought the car in for you to see if you wanted to buy it. Let me know if it’s too much work?”
They moved behind the car completely, so I could no longer see them through the side mirror, making me strain hard to hear even though the speakers were perfectly fine.
I did keep a lookout at both mirrors, however, in case I needed to turn off the speaker in a hurry.
“It’s not too bad,” the man said. “I’ll handle it.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Why?” the man asked.
I frowned, wondering why he was asking why.
Why would you ask why you wanted to buy a car?
“Prospect that didn’t make it into the club. When he was asked to leave, he started threatening my family. Club members. Calling the cops on the parents for abuse. Pulled CPS in,” Webber continued. “There was more, but that’s the short story.”
“Unpleasant,” the man replied. “Will he be missed?”
Will he be missed?
What kind of question was that?
Or did he mean would the car be missed?
“No,” he answered. “Cops were already tired of dealing with him. CPS cases were closed already. It’s been a month. But Apollo started to follow his financials and his internet presence. Found out that he hired a guy.”
There was more said, but I saw them appear at the back of the truck and start moving toward the front of the truck, so I swiftly hit the mic switch again.
I then turned the radio on so it looked like I was reaching forward quickly on purpose.
I then got caught up in the song on the oldies station.
“MMMBop?”
“What the fuck?” I grumbled.
That wasn’t old enough to be on the oldies station!
At least not in my opinion.
It was a little before my time, but not enough that I thought it should make the jump from ’90s to oldies.
When the song ended, “I’ll Be” by Edwin McCain came on next, and I quickly changed the station again.
Not that I didn’t like that song either, but it made me want to cry.
Though, a lot of songs did that.
And they didn’t have to be sad to do it.
It was weird, but as soon as I heard the song, my tear glands started acting up. It was like the music had an effect on my brain that signaled my tear ducts to leak.
The door opened and I glanced over.
“What are you doing?” he asked as he glared at the radio.
“Pairing my phone with your Bluetooth so I can play my own music,” I lied.
His scowl darkened. “This isn’t your truck, Silver.”
I blinked at him. “So?”
He grumbled under his breath, reached for something underneath the seat, then closed the truck door again.
And to make myself not a liar, I went ahead and paired my phone up with his Bluetooth speaker.
It was surprisingly easy, and a modern commodity that I wished I had in my old Grand Am.
One day, I might very well get a new car that had Bluetooth capabilities.
A vehicle that I didn’t have to kick the dash on the passenger side to get it started up.