Trouble in Hell (Hell Night 1)

“No. I think he just likes to be thorough. I’m not going to say no, because it gives me another opportunity to see Bubba.”

He grunts when I use the stand-in name for the baby. Like Dr. Trayce, he doesn’t care for it either.

“Has your car been fixed?”

I uncross my legs and sit up straighter in the chair. Reaching behind me, I rub my achy lower back. I can’t wait for the baby to get here just so I can have my body back.

“It’s being looked at right now,” I answer.

“Call me when you leave and every hour while you’re on the road.”

“That’s a little excessive, don’t you think? How about if I call you every three?”

“Every hour, Remi,” he repeats sternly.

Rolling my eyes, I snark, “Fine, Dad.”

His laugh is deep, and it reminds me of all the times we’d sit outside trying to outdo each other with corny jokes.

“Hey, what’s the difference between a snowman and a snowwoman?”

“What?”

“Snowballs,” I answer cheekily.

“You’re a dork,” he says while still laughing at my dumb joke.

“But you love me anyway.”

We talk for a few more minutes before hanging up. Because I’ve always been a bit nosy, I get up to see if Dr. Trayce is still here. When I reach the door, I peer out through the screen. At first, I don’t see them, but a movement out by the road shows them standing at the end of the driveway. Judging by their expressions and the tenseness in their bodies, their conversation is serious. They’re too far away for me to hear what they’re saying, but it leaves me curious.

I leave them to their privacy and go to the kitchen. Susan made beef stroganoff in the crockpot and the smell has been torturing me all day. I grab a bowl, scoop up some of the deliciousness, and take it to the table. Grabbing a piece of bread, I slather it with butter. There’s nothing better than dipping buttered bread into stroganoff sauce.

I moan when the beefy flavor hits my tongue. Bubba must enjoy it too, because he gives a swift punch to my ribs, and I wince with the force of it.

“Something in martial arts. That’s what I’ve decided you’ll be when you grow up,” I tell the baby with a pat to my stomach. “But maybe you can wait until you’re out of my womb before you start practicing.”

I giggle when I get a response by way of a gentle kick to my pelvic bone.

“WHAT IN THE HELL does Black Death mean?” I ask, exasperated, as the man in front of me wipes his grease-covered hands on a red rag that looks more dirty than clean.

He exhales a deep breath like answering my question is a hindrance. “It basically means your entire AC unit is shit. I don’t have all the parts on ha

nd, and it’ll take at least a week to get ‘em here. And—” He holds up his hand when I open my mouth. “—your rotors are shot, the brake pads are worn down to the bone, and you have a head gasket leak. How far did you say you had to go?”

I clench my jaw and grind out, “Twelve hours.”

He has the audacity to snort. “You’ll never make it. You might get an hour or two. You run that car until the head gasket blows, you’ll take out a shit ton of other stuff with it. When’s the last time you had your car serviced?”

I wrack my brain, looking for the answer, and come up blank. I had the oil changed before I left, but that was it. Stupid piece of crap car. Kian’s warned me several times I needed to replace it, even offered to help with the cost, but I refused to take money from him. I’m never going to hear the end of it. I’m actually surprised he didn’t grill me when I told him I was leaving.

“Fine.” I rub my forehead. “How much will it cost to have all of that fixed?”

He shoots out a number that almost has me staggering back. Holy hell. That’ll completely deplete my savings account, only leaving me enough to ride into Aurora on fumes. I can put the expense on my credit card, but I just paid it off and would hate to have that bill again.

“Can you do a split tender?”

He looks at me like I’m dumb or something. “What the fuck is that?”