Page 145 of This Woman Forever
“How old are you, Bran?”
“Seventeen.”
Seventeen? Fuck, it feels like yesterday but also like an eternity ago. I look him up and down. He’s just a boy. His whole life ahead of him. “New driver?” I ask.
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.”