“Well, you failed that one big time, and if I hadn’t had classes this afternoon, I would have nagged that hairy giganotosaurus a little more to pay his bill. And what’s he saying, that you owed him money? What’s between you and—”
“Kar, focus. Listen to me.”
The urgency in his voice made me stop.
“Kar,” he said quietly.
I waited.
“I…” His deep breath rattled in my ear. “I hit someone’s motorcycle.”
Chapter 6
Kara
“Wait. Back the hell up.” I smashed the phone against my ear. “Did I hear you say you hit someone’s motorcycle?”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before I heard Dylan’s quiet reply. “Yes.”
I gripped the phone hard and swallowed the panic threatening to climb up my chest. “Which one were you driving?”
This time the moment of silence was longer.
“Bertha,” he answered.
I snapped my eyes closed. Bertha was the ancient GMC truck rotting away in the garage’s lot for years.
Dylan had a weakness for classic trucks. He had begged my dad to let him drive the one we had in the lot—so he could show off to his friends—but it needed a lot of work done to it before it was even safe to drive. Hell, it needed a blessing from Jesus to make it safe to drive.
And, more importantly, it wasn’t insured.
I felt a headache trying to worm its way into the base of my neck. The idiot must have sneaked out with it.
“I’m going to kill you,” I hissed.
My dad was tapped out for cash from buying new equipment for the shop. Dylan was in high school, and Dad was still training him in the garage. I thought of the money I had worked so hard to save up sitting in my bank account.
All those times I had to wake up at four in the morning to do my shifts at the coffee shop. The backbreaking twelve-hour shifts at the personal care home and hospital. The odd jobs I had to take on the side, so I could add all that income to my savings.
It was supposed to pay for my tuition fee for next semester and buy off Andrew’s shares from the shop.
Now a huge chunk of it was going to pay for my brother’s stupidity.
I thought of the lecture my uncle pompously spouted at me every chance he got about me having a direction in life and finishing my studies. How could I when every time I took a step forward, something always slapped me in the face, reminding me it was all one big fat joke? Tears threatened to spill, but I held them off.
Steel, baby. I’m made of steel.
“Tell me what happened,” I said. “If you lie to me, I’ll cut off your dick, so help me God.”
“Okay, okay.” I could hear the whine in his voice, and the underlying fear in it.
Dylan was easily scared. Ever since we were kids, it was the trace of fear I heard in his voice, that same fear glittering in his eyes, that always, always got to me. And never failed to soften me up, raise my protective instincts.
It was one of my many weaknesses to want to protect him and bail him out of whatever trouble he was in or share that trouble with him.
Whenever Dylan had nightmares as a kid, he
would always call out for me. When he got bullied by the kids at school, he’d come home crying to me. Of course, I’d beat them up for him—and usually dragged Damon to be my sidekick.