Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
His puny chest pushes out with pride. “Two months.”
“Drive carefully, okay?”
Poor, confused thing frowns. “Yeah, okay.” He trudges back to his car, constantly looking back at me, probably thinking I’m all kinds of weird. “See ya,” he calls, opening his car door, just as another car goes sailing past, moving out onto the other side of the road to clear us.
My frown follows it down the road before it takes a curve and I lose sight of it.
“Fuck me,” the kid blurts. “Did you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw it,” I murmur, a chill enveloping me.
“I’ll have a DB9 one day,” he says, confident.
“That was a DBS,” I call back, still staring at the road.
“How do you know?”
“Because it was mine.” I blink and pull my phone out, seeing a few missed calls from John. Fuck.
I don’t get the chance to call him back. He pulls up in his Range Rover behind the kid, and my apprehension is instant. “That was my car, wasn’t it?” I say.
One sharp nod, and I just stare at him, because I don’t know what else to do. “Who the fuck would steal my car?” I ask. “And how the hell did they get in and out of The Manor?”
“I don’t know,” John admits. “We need to call the police.”
“Fuck that,” I snort, putting my helmet on again, hearing John yelling at me. Distraction. Another opportunity to alleviate some of this pressure. I get on my bike and skid off, hearing Jake in my head warning me again. Unfortunately for him and John, I’m not feeling very receptive to advice today.
I yank at the throttle, hardly slowing for corners, dipping in low for them, my knees heating they’re so close to brushing the road. “Where the fuck are you?” Every bend I take, I brace myself for my Aston to appear in the distance. It never does, and before I know it, I’m back in the city with too many turns in the road and options for the driver of my DBS to take.
I reluctantly call it quits when my bike yells it’s in need of some fuel. Defeated and pissed off, I pull into a petrol station and fill her up, calling John as I do. “Not fucking cool, Jesse,” he spits, angry.
“It’s an Aston Martin, John. They should be impossible to steal.”
“They’re also one of the most stolen cars because they’re one of the most desirable. Where the fuck are you?”
“The Shell station, Marylebone.”
“Meet me at Lusso.” He leaves no room for refusal, hanging up.
I sigh, watching every car passing as I fill the fuel tank on my bike. No Astons. Not one.
Trepidation settles deep in my gut.
Who the fuck was driving my car?
24
I pull into the car park at Lusso and park, setting my helmet on the ground and perching on the seat of my bike, looking up at the face of the building. I need to call the police, the insurance company. I don’t know where I’ll find any of my documents. I breathe in some patience and call the Aston dealership, who put me through to their customer call center. I tell them my car’s been stolen, they ask me if I have a crime reference. “I don’t have a crime reference yet,” I grate. “I just need you to tell me where my car is.”
“Okay, let me see what we can find out,” the lady says, sounding happy and passive. Both are inappropriate. “Can I take the vehicle registration?”
I inhale my patience and answer every question thrown at me, my responses getting shorter and sharper with each one I give. I don’t have fucking time for this. “Last known location is Grantly Lane, in Surrey Hills.”
I breathe out, starting to lose it. “That’s my business address. What time?”
“An hour ago, sir.”
“Well, it ain’t there now.”
“Oh?”
Fuck, I haven’t got time for this shit. I hang up, squeezing my mobile in my hand, thinking. I unclench my hand then dial before I can second guess myself. “I need to speak to the practice manager.”
“I’m afraid she’s busy right now. Can I take a name and number and I’ll have her call you back?”
“You told me that already and she hasn’t called me back.”
“Let me take your details again.”
I take in air. Breathe. “Jesse Ward,” I say, this time giving her my real name, thanking her for her help despite my ready-to-burst frustration.
John pulls up, slipping out of his Range Rover with two coffees. “Who was that?” he asks.
“A surgery in Aberdeen.”
He passes me the caffeine. I could do with something stronger. “Why are you calling a surgery in Aberdeen?”
I don’t hold back. I’m out of strength. “Because that’s where Lauren’s dad works or worked.”
The falter in his expression is telling. “Is this something to do with you seeing her?” he asks, so normally. Sarah. Did she tell him? “Yes.” John answers my silent question, and I scrub a hand down my face. It was probably part of Sarah’s justification process, her reasons for needing to save me from my fate with Ava. Ava’s making me crazy. No. My past is making me crazy.