Maggie Lee (Book 10): The Hitwoman's Act of Contrition (7 page)

Not only was it wedged into the tire well, but the damn thing was heavier than I’d expected.

Cursing and muttering, I braced one foot on the back bumper and pulled as hard as I could, dislodging the tire from its storage place.  Which was great and all, except for the fact I then had to lift it over the well of the trunk.

I paused for a moment to catch my breath and regroup. I second-guessed my decision to change the tire.

“Don’t be a wuss,” I lectured myself, tightening my grasp on the tire and giving it a mighty heave, lifting it over the well.

Then unable to stop the momentum of the heavy moving object, I lost my balance.

I’m not sure if I screamed out of fear or frustration or pain as I tipped backward, the tire pushing me to the ground. I heard the horrible sound clawing its way out of my throat as I fell.

I lay there for a second, the air knocked out of me. I struggled to breathe with the heavy weight pressing down on my lungs.

Footsteps pounded toward me.

Feeling like I’d suffocate under the weight of the tire, I tried to shove it off, but I couldn’t move my arms to get any leverage. Panicking, I began to thrash, desperate to rid myself of it.

“Don’t move,” a soothing, velvety voice murmured. A warm hand touched my shoulder, stilling my frantic movements.

I squinted into the sun, trying to see the face of my rescuer.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Can’t breathe,” I gasped.

“I’m going to lift it off of you,” he instructed, “but I don’t want you to move when I do. Do you understand?”

I nodded, gritting my teeth against the pressure pressing down on me.

“On three.” My rescuer changed position, straddling me and bending to pick up the tire. “One.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, concentrating on not moving.

“Two.”

I held my breath.

“Three.”

And suddenly the weight was gone.

I exhaled and gasped for air in short, choppy breaths.

“Easy now.” My rescuer put aside the tire and squatted on my other side.

I opened my eyes. Now that I was no longer looking into the sun, I realized he was the human tank I’d run into earlier. “Thank you.”

I moved to get up, but he placed a firm hand on my sternum, pinning me just as effectively as the tire had. “You’re hurt.”

“No I’m not.”

He frowned. “You’re sticky.” He tilted his head to get a better look at me.

“I really don’t think—”

“Shhh.” He leaned closer and sniffed. “Sweet.”

Realizing what was sticky and sweet, I closed my eyes. “Gelatin.”

“What?”

“Gelatin. I’ve got gelatin on my shirt. Let me guess. It’s red?”

He took his hand off my chest and raised it toward his face so he could sniff it. He grinned. “Cherry.”

I struggled into a sitting position.

He inched closer, putting a supportive hand against my back. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“No.”

His dark eyes examined me intently. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, suddenly aware of the heat radiating from his hand on my back. Flustered by the contact, I leaned away under the guise of getting to my feet.

Hooking his hands beneath my elbows, he hauled me upward as he stood.

I swayed unsteadily and would have stumbled if he’d let go of me. But he didn’t. He just waited for me to get my feet under me, standing so close that once again his sea-like scent tickled my nose.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I am.”

Releasing my arms, he backed up a step. Far enough to give me some personal space, but close enough to grab me if I passed out.

I tried to ignore the way my stomach fluttered at his nearness. “Thanks for your help.”

“Rescuing damsels in distress is my specialty.” His eyes glinted mischievously and I was struck by the thought that he reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t put my finger on who it was. “Especially those who are covered in gelatin.”

Grimacing, I glanced down at my shirt, noticing for the first time it was stained. No wonder God had complained of being damp and getting a chill.

“You work here?” my rescuer asked.

“Just visiting.” I gestured at my ruined shirt. “It didn’t go so well.”

He nodded sympathetically.

“What about you?”

“Visitor also.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. My cousin was in a great mood.”

“That’s great. Well if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot to do.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, almost causing his shirt sleeves to burst, but he didn’t move out of the way. “Want some help?”

“No. That’s okay.” I bent and picked up the wrench.

When he still didn’t move, I glanced up at him. He bit his lower lip, considering me.

“But thanks anyway for the offer,” I added, hoping that would get him to move along. “I’ve got this.”

“Like you had the tire?”

“That was just a poor execution of my plan,” I bluffed.

He raised his eyebrows. “You
planned
on getting a flat tire?”

I shook my head. “I
plan
on changing it.”

“By all means.” He waved his hand, indicating I should go ahead, but instead of moving away, he leaned back against my car to watch the show.

Tightening my grip on the wrench, I crouched down and lined it up with a lug nut.

“Most people don’t have real jacks in their car anymore,” my rescuer mentioned conversationally.

I turned the wrench but nothing happened.

My audience continued talking.  “They have these pump things. Seal the leak, let the pump do its job, and you’re done in ten minutes.”

I turned the wrench harder. Still nothing.

“Then again,” the annoying man continued, “most people keep doughnut tires as their spare, not a full-size one like you’ve got. They fit in the trunk better.”

I leaned all of my body weight into the wrench, but it didn’t budge. Defeated, I sank to my knees and glared at the obstinate piece of metal.

“Are you one of those women who can’t or won’t accept the help of a man?”

“No.” I lined the wrench up with a different lug nut.

“You sure about that?” His pointed tone made it clear that my actions belied my words.

“I just like being self-sufficient,” I muttered, trying to turn the wrench to no avail.

“I can appreciate that. Nothing wrong with a strong, independent woman who knows her mind.”

I tried the body weight trick, but that didn’t work.

“Nothing wrong with accepting help, either,” he continued matter-of-factly.

I gave up my struggle and put the wrench down on the ground beside me. “But I don’t know you.”

Pushing off the car, he stepped toward me, his hand outstretched. “I’m Angel.”

The devilish glint in his eye seemed at odds with his introduction and I eyed his offered hand.

“And you are?” he prompted.

“Maggie,” I said grudgingly, slipping my hand into his.

His handshake was quick and firm. “Nice to meet you, Maggie. Can I help you change your tire?”

As he spoke, he pulled me to my feet. The moment I was standing, he released me.

“I’d appreciate the help, but I don’t know that you’ll do any better than I did.”

He laughed, a cocky sound that sent ripples of awareness through me.

Brushing past me, he placed it under the car and began pumping the mechanism to raise the vehicle.

“I can do that,” I offered.

He looked up and winked at me. “I’ve got this.”

Amused that he’d thrown my words back at me, I grinned, raised my hands in surrender, and took a step back to let him work.

“You should get one of those kits.”

“What kits?”

“The ones for a flat tire. You wouldn’t have had to wrestle with these things.”

His rippling muscles made short work of lifting the car. Grabbing the wrench, he attacked the first lug nut I had. He gave the wrench a hard twist and then smiled up at me victoriously. “That wasn’t so hard.”

I found myself smiling back, though I wasn’t sure if it was because I was relieved the tire could be changed or because his grin was infectious.

“How’d you end up with a shirt full of gelatin?” he asked as he lazily spun the wrench.

“I’m a messy eater,” I quipped. It was easier than admitting that my own mother had thrown it at me.

He sighed. “You could just say you don’t want to talk about it.” He removed a lug nut and started on another.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but before I got the chance, he asked, “You always keep so much stuff in your trunk?” He waved his hand in the direction of my junk spread out in the next parking space.

“I like to be prepared.” I plucked at my sticky shirt, holding it away from my body, hoping it wouldn’t dry and stick to my skin.

“For the Apocalypse?” he joked.

“In the event of an emergency,” I countered. “Like a flat tire. I have the tools and a tire. I just should have gotten to the gym and built some muscles in preparation.”

He looked up from his work, allowing his eyes to leisurely roam over me. “You don’t go to the gym?”

“No time,” I muttered apologetically, figuring that a man who looked like him probably
lived
at the gym.

“Ahh,” he murmured, “the excuse of the modern world.”

“Some of us have responsibilities,” I snapped.

He cocked his head and rubbed his thumb across his chin before responding. His voice, when he finally did speak, was pitched so low I could barely hear him.  “What kind of responsibilities do you have, Maggie?”

I tensed, not wanting to discuss my business with a stranger. I looked away, but could feel his gaze lingering on me.

“The kind that covers you with cherry gelatin?” he pushed.

I tilted my chin defiantly, signaling I wouldn’t be continuing the conversation.

I snuck a glance in his direction, guessing from the clanking metal-against-metal sound that he’d returned his attention back to the car, spinning the wrench faster than before.

He tossed the damaged tire away and stood up. He met my gaze steadily.

“I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t have anything to do besides work out,” I apologized.

“Yes you did.”

“Well I shouldn’t have said it.”

He shrugged. “I made the crack about excuses first.” He bent to pick up the spare tire.

“It wasn’t totally unjustified,” I admitted. “Back before I had so much on my mind, I used to say I didn’t have time to work out and that was just an excuse. Now I get my workout when my dog walks me.”

He grinned, whether at my admission or joke, I wasn’t sure. “What kind of dog do you have?” Squatting down, he put the spare tire on the car.

“A Doberman pinscher.”

He glanced at me as he grabbed the lug nuts and wrench. “Wouldn’t have figured you for that kind of dog.”

Relieved that the tension between us was gone, I played along. “What would you imagine me having?”

“I’d have figured you for an unknown breed shelter mutt.”

“She
is
rescued.” I neglected to mention that I’d rescued her from her former owner, a nasty assassin who went by the name Gary the Gun.

“
That
I believe.” Tightening the last of the lug nuts, he stood up. “There you go. As good as new.” He picked up the damaged tire and tossed it into the trunk effortlessly.

“I feel like I should do something to thank you.”

“No need.”

I frowned as he maneuvered the tire into its well along with the tools.

“What?” he asked, without bothering to look at me.

“I’m not in the habit of taking handouts.”

He shook his head. “Maybe you need to practice accepting favors.”

“But—” I protested.

He sighed. “Just pay it forward.”

“How?”

“When the opportunity presents itself, you’ll know.” He picked up the case of water and slid it into the trunk.

“You don’t have to do that.” I rushed forward and grabbed some of my spare clothes and thrust them into the car.

“You want to change?”

“What?”

“Your shirt. You might scare your husband or whoever going home to with a giant red stain on your chest.”

“Not married,” I replied automatically. “But you’re right, my aunts might freak out.”

He grinned and I realized he’d been fishing for that nugget of information.

“You live with your aunts?” he teased.

I scowled, but remained silent. It wasn’t like I was going to confide that my apartment had been blown up.

“Seriously though…” He gestured toward my chest. “You really should change out of that.”

I knew he was right, but I really didn’t want to go back into the building to do it.

As though he knew the source of my hesitation he offered. “Do it here. I’ll stand guard.”

I shook my head.

“There’s nothing but woods in that direction. Face that way. If you stand between me and the car, no one will see you.”

I took in his muscular frame and had to admit that he would be a good human shield. Still, I shook my head.

“I’ll keep my back turned and my eyes shut,” he promised.

I grabbed a clean shirt out of the car. “You promise not to look?”

“Scout’s honor.”

I motioned for him to turn around.

He did, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Your eyes are closed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Spinning so my back was to him, I quickly peeled off the sticky shirt and dropped it on the ground. “My mother threw it at me,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“My mother threw the gelatin at me.” I pulled the fresh shirt down over my head.

“Does she do that often?”

Jamming my arms through the sleeves, I considered his question. “Not in quite a while, actually. She won’t even remember it the next time I see her.”

“Must make it hard.”

“What?”

“The whole forgive and forget thing.”

I glanced at God on the dashboard of my car to see if he was listening to the conversation, but he seemed oblivious as he soaked up some rays.

I bent to pick up the box of emergency food from the ground. “You can open your eyes now.”