Twist the Knife (Lost Kings MC #24)

“Let’s do it.” I don’t want to do anything to damage Margot’s pristine yellow convertible, but she asked me to drive, so I get behind the wheel and fire it up.

The Thunderbird purrs beneath my hands as I ease it out of the garage and onto the road. Margot’s quiet at first. I’m concentrating on not fucking up her car, so I don’t have much to offer.

“Thank you for coming with me,” she finally says. “I know motorcycles are more your thing.”

“I like cars. Well, classic cars. Interesting cars. Not the generic shit boxes everyone drives.”

She titters with laughter. “That’s why I always wanted this car. Something different. And the yellow is so sunny and pretty.” Her voice drops. “Opposite of the hearse.”

A laugh pops out and I cover it with a cough. “Yeah, you could say that.”

I find my way to Main Street; only a portion of it is blocked off for the car show.

“Drive right up to the cones.” Margot leans forward and points. “They’ll let us in.”

I slow the car as I approach. Two old men with reflective vests and clipboards wave us closer. I roll down my window.

A worried frown creases the forehead of the guy who approaches us.

He ducks down to peer in the window. “Margot, is that you?”

“Hi, Fred!” She leans forward and waves.

“Hey there.” He stares at me like I’m holding Margot at gunpoint in her own car.

I rest one arm on the sill and leave the other on the steering wheel. “Evening.”

“Are you rolling in to show tonight, Margot?” he asks.

The fuck else does he think we brought the car for?

“Sure am.” She beams at him and reaches for her purse.

“That’ll be five dollars…” He looks at me expectantly as if he’s waiting for me to give my name.

I’d stashed cash in my pocket earlier and pull out the five just as Margot’s unzipping her wallet.

“I’ve got it, Jigsaw,” she mutters.

Ignoring her, I hand the money to Fred. He dips his chin and nods, the older generation’s version of “good boy,” I suppose.

He hands me a blue ticket with the number sixty-nine on it. My lips curl into a smirk. It must be the universe’s way of telling me that should be Margot’s first lesson.

“Thank you, sir. Anywhere in particular I should park?”

He points straight ahead. “Front of the diner might be a good spot. There’s no official areas designated, though.”

“All right.” I ease the car forward and crawl toward the diner, careful not to hit any of the folks walking in the middle of the street.

I back into a space next to a glistening seventies Ford F-100 pickup. The light blue metallic paint glitters under the late afternoon sun. “Now, that’s my kind of classic,” I say to Margot.

Her eyes widen and she does this little bounce thing in her seat that’s cute as hell. “I love this truck! Wait ’til you see the interior, it’s immaculate.”

Her enthusiasm is contagious. My usual scorn for events that require civilian interaction fades to a dull disdain as I step out of the car.

Margot sets the blue tag on the dashboard, then pulls a small mirror and brush out of her purse. She runs the brush through her hair and by the time she’s finished dabbing on some lipstick, I’m opening her door.

“Oh.” She stares up at me in surprise.