Dickie pulls his gun up to a shooting position, tucking his chin against the butt. “Where I’m from, when a girl falls on her bike, you run over to help her. Only assholes stay back. Are you an asshole, boy?”
Wyatt, who shot his hands in the air as soon as Dickie shoved the gun in his face, stares down the barrel. He swallows, but still has the gall to look almost unaffected, like he doesn’t care if he lives or dies. Like staring down the length of that gun could be salvation for him instead of tragedy.
Dickie doesn’t even give Wyatt a chance to respond. Not that he was going to anyway. “You know this asshole, Dakota?”
I pull myself to my feet, brushing my shorts off along with the small stones embedded in my knee. “Unfortunately, yes.” I glance down at my bike. It’s completely fucked now. The tire is bent. There’s no just pumping air into it again to save it. I could legit cry. Between the fall, my shoulder, the bike, and not knowing what the hell Wyatt’s true aim was, the ground underneath me doesn’t seem as stable as it was before. I’m having my own personal earthquake. “Go away, Wyatt,” I say, voice steady. I stand up straight, crossing my arms in front of myself. “You better leave before Dickie here gets trigger happy. His hands aren’t as steady as they were. It might even be an accident.”
“Or not,” Dickie says.
For the first time since yesterday morning, I feel powerful. Wyatt shakes his head, a sneer curling his lip. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”
“Fuck. Off.”
“I suggest you do as she says, boy.”
Wyatt mosies around the front of the truck before heaving himself inside. He glares at the two of us as the truck inches forward. I almost can’t believe my eyes. A gun pulled on him, and he still acts like he has the upper hand. Just what in the world is fucking wrong with this kid? With all of them?
Dickie whistles as soon as Wyatt’s vehicle is out of sight. “Kid’s got balls. I’ll give him that.”
I take a step, testing my weight on the knee that slid over the dirt and gravel. It’s sore but I don’t think I did anything catastrophic to it.
Dickie looks me over. “You best come inside now. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Once we’re inside and Dickie puts his shotgun back in its resting place on the wall above his workbench, I tell him what happened. I don’t mention that I’m unsure if Wyatt was trying to hit me or not, but it really doesn’t matter. He should’ve known I would freak out at him trailing me like that.
My stomach twists. Getting involved with Lance Jacobs and his little errand boys, is a terrible idea. Is it possible Wyatt was trying to hit me? My mind rejects the thought now that I’m not in the middle of it. Though, Lance was going to hit me yesterday. I’m sure of it. He would’ve if Stone hadn’t stopped him, which tells me he, at least, might be okay with physical violence.
Dickie smacks his hand down on the stool next to his bench. I pull myself onto it as he hobbles over to the archaic First Aid Kit on top of the refrigerator. It’s grease stained, and he has to blow the dust off before setting it down in front of me. This is not making me feel all that safe, but I trust Dickie.
His still nimble fingers open the box and rummage through what he has. He takes an alcohol pad and swipes it down my scuffs and scrapes. Next, he puts a sterile pad over the wound on my shoulder before applying some tape to hold it there. I glance over to find the tape and pad littered with smudges but I’m fairly certain the scrapes and the other side of the pad are free from dirt.
He packs up his kit. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, why don’t you tell me why it looked like you were paler than Casper out there?”
I bite my lip. Dickie arches a brow at me when I don’t immediately answer. I don’t know how much to tell my dad’s friend because I don’t want him to be worried. Dickie has enough problems of his own, and I really don’t want to become one more. “It’s about the treasure,” I finally say, trying to choose my words