I nodded, taking the butter knife from the table, standing it up between my fingers. “Tell me about the process.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin and then signaled to the waitress. She came over right away, taking his plate, while another delivered him a slice of cake.
“Depends,” he said, after she’d gone. “Through the regular system?” He shrugged. “Could take a while. But if you need this from me—it depends on who’s asking.” I figured he’d say that. His hands might’ve been dirty, but he grew up an orphan, and he was a huge advocate for children.
“I’m asking,” I said.
His eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk, Kelly?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “No.”
“Do you need to be?”
“Not this minute.”
He stared at me and I stared at him. He finally sighed and nodded his head. “Tell me about the situation.”
We talked for another hour or so about things before I left. The same guy brought me my car, and after I drove off, my front tire started to make noise, so I pulled to the side of the road. The country club was in a private area, separated from the rest of the world by a thick wooded patch, off the beaten path. Not too much traffic coming in or out for me to worry about.
I started rolling up the sleeves to my shirt before I even stepped out, having a clue as to what was wrong.
Yeah, the motherfucker had a flat.
I popped the trunk, going for the jack, tire iron, and spare. My head was lowered while my hands dug around, searching for the end of the cover over the tire so I could pull it up.
I heard footsteps, and before I could turn, something heavy rattled my skull. It wasn’t enough to knock me out, but it did shake me some. Hands pushed me from behind, trying to force me into the trunk.
Bracing my knees against the bumper with one palm flat against the inside of the trunk so he couldn’t easily shove me inside, I snatched the tire iron. It was a fucking struggle trying to get to my feet. He shoved while I tried to stand. Warm blood ran from the back of my head where he had hit me with a pipe or something equal to it.
The tire iron ended up in my left hand, and swinging blindly over my right shoulder, I cracked him on the forehead with it. He stumbled back a bit, giving me just enough time to turn around and brace myself for his attack.
He came at me again a second later, blood running from the top of his head, down his nose, into his eyes. “You’re going to pay for that, motherfucker,” he said, swinging a wooden stick in his hand. It whistled as it swung through the air. I dodged it a second before it struck me in the face.
Whoever he was—I had no fucking clue—he wasn’t trying to kill me. He wanted to knock me out to get me in the trunk. I acted like I was going to fling the tire iron at his head, to give me time to grab for my gun, but he was too fast. The wooden stick came down with a whap! against my arm, sending a shock to my chest when I lifted my arm.
He must’ve trained using the stick. He swung it like a controlled weapon.
I danced with this guy, getting hit here and there, trying to use the tire iron to deflect his stick. My knuckles were busted from getting in the way too much. On one go, I met his stick in the air, and he pushed against me as I pushed against him. Suddenly, he let go, going back a step or two, and when he came back at me, I kicked him in the kneecap as his stick hit me in the ribs.
I lost my breath, but he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Even with him being down, I couldn’t get close to him again. I knew he was going to use that stick to hit at me if I did. It was like a constantly striking snake.
Taking a deep breath, breathing in air and then releasing fire after I did, I took out my gun and pointed it at him. “You have five seconds to tell me who you belong to.”
He wasn’t with Grady, and he definitely was not a Scarpone. They would’ve whacked me and then hacked me. Or buried me