Late in the afternoon, I arrive at MacKenzie Freight’s headquarters in Dominguez Hills. Too paranoid to drive the Audi, I left it at home. Chevelle had asked how hen one got there, and I told her I hired a service to ship my Audi home. Still up tae high doh, I slam the door to my Chevy when one of the truckers shakes his head.
“Leith, you’re the flashy MacKenzie. Still, don’t you go disrespecting the classic.”
I lift my middle finger as the trucker laughs and start for the loading dock. I’m back peddling when I notice the sight of my da instead of Brody.
He’s parallel to the ground and sliding from beneath a few gadgets.
Da glances up at me. “Well, ye’re walking about like this is a dreich day.”
“Nae,” I reply, adding a smile since it’s too late to retreat. “Just thinking is all.”
“Tell me about it, son.” He wipes his soiled hands on the back of his jeans and proceeds to get up.
Da stands at my height, looking me straight in the eye. Bloody feckin’ great. Our last conversation comes to mind—his admiration for my hustle—or lack thereof. I disregard his question with one of my own. “Where’s Brody?”
He places his hand on my shoulder. “No matter how old ye are, Leith, Ye’re my bairn. I was braggin’ on ye the other day. But if I’m too auld to understand—”
I cut him off, feeling worse than a ned after a silly infraction. “It’s not that, Da.”
“Then I’ll tell ye something. There’s a difference between smarts and wisdom. May not have much of the former when it comes to ye and Cam.” He continues to grumble about my brathair, who I assume hasn’t been home since his suspension.
Dammit, Cam. He’d texted me yesterday saying he’d be back on Monday to watch the girls. The nugget had the audacity to ask how long he should get suspended this time, or if I prefer, he gets expelled until all my troubles were sorted out.
When I responded that his services weren’t blooded needed, he stopped replying.
With the auld lad still gabbing off, I cut in. “Da—”
“Nae, all I’m tryin’ to say is, whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye!”
At Da’s statement about what will be will be, I feel bad for not bringing my issue to him ages ago. He’s always said I can come to him for anything. But we’re in two different fields. We were. My issues should revolve around programming and deciphering code, not murder and mayhem.
“Da . . . I . . .”
“Awright, ya wee bawbag!”
We turn around to see Brody wearing a light blue plastic suit, tied up with duct tape at his ankles and wrists. He’s in full-on rampage gear—gloves, paper slippers, and a cap on his head—finished off by goggles over his eyes.
The brute clips my shoulder hard, a not-so-subtle warning to shut my geggie. “Ye’re late, Leith.”
As my brows pinch together in confusion, there’s a flash in Brody’s eyes. Silently, he turns away from Da and me, heading into the cinderblock building.
With nothing left to say to my da, I follow after him. Shite, I’m a pure mess for not coming clean about the weasel blackmailing me.
I glance Brody up and down. The eejit looks like a walking feckin’ condom. Though he’s in a dirty business, only a wee bit of blood sprinkles his sleeves.
When we all lived in the old apartment, and Da still depended on Erika’s father, Ewan McFarland, for the dirtiest, lowest paying assignments, we were dirt poor. We only had our names and the Devil streak in our blood to get a job done. Da’s form of bonding, turning us laddies into lads, included dismemberment. We had a brilliant time watching and learning which bones were the easiest to break.
Brody opens the door to the office. I stifle a sneeze. Layers of dust are on desks and leather-bound books.
“Why not tell me ye were busy, Brody?” I ask as he moves the tin desk aside to reveal a staircase leading down into a basement.
“Texted ya.”
“When, Brody?” I remove my phone as I hustle down the cement steps. There’s one lightbulb dangling above the eight-by-eight room.
“Eh, a minute ago.” Brody stands before a table slab, strewn with body parts. I count at least three femurs. He picks up a hacksaw from a cart of goodies. “Listen, Da’s a bit sour about me sending Knox to Boston. Ye know the arse barely passed the test