Page 58 of Hard Check
He pulled the caliper pins. They came free with effort, grooved and pitted. He cleaned them with emery cloth and inspected the bores, and he was still thinking about Leo’s mouth on his neck when Ethan’s boots appeared at the edge of the bay.
“Dawson. You’ve been staring at that caliper for two minutes.”
“Pins are shot. Need to order replacements.”
“Okay. You need a minute to think about that, or are you going to call NAPA?”
Dawson set the caliper on the bench and wiped his hands.
“I’ll call,” Dawson said.
“You’ve been weird this week.”
“I haven’t been weird.”
“You torqued the Hendersons’ lug nuts to spec, then pulled them and torqued them again.”
Dawson opened his mouth and closed it. He had no defense for that.
“Not judging, but if something’s going on you need to tell us before you fuck up someone’s car,” Ethan said. He bit into his sandwich and walked back toward the front counter, and the last thing Dawson heard before the door swung shut was a low, tuneless whistle that sounded a lot like amusement.
The Penalty Boxwas loud for a Thursday. A cluster of guys from the paper mill had taken over the pool table, and the TV above the bar was running Packers highlights that half the town had already dissected over lunch. Dawson claimed his usual stool and Wes set a beer in front of him without being asked. Gunnar was at the far end, his eyes on the mill guys like he was counting how many rounds until he’d have to cut them off.
Dawson pulled his book from his jacket pocket. He’d been carrying the same paperback for two weeks and hadn’t turned more than thirty pages. Every time he opened it, his brain wandered, and the detective in chapter nine had been standing in the same doorway since last Tuesday.
The front door swung open and Jonesy came in first, loud, one hand already raised to claim the big booth. Riggs followed, then Russ, then Novo, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Carter and Tate filtered in behind them, and behind Carter, laughing at something Jonesy had said on the sidewalk, was Leo.
Dawson’s hand stopped on the page.
Leo had color in his face from the cold, his hair was pushed back, and he wore a dark jacket open over a white T-shirt that Dawson’s eyes caught on before he could redirect them. He slid into the booth, and his gaze swept the room and found Dawson,staying for exactly long enough. The corner of his mouth moved. Not a grin. Smaller than that. Then he turned back to Jonesy, and it was gone.
Dawson looked down at his book. The detective was still in the doorway. He read the same paragraph three times and absorbed none of it.
Leo was telling a story at the booth, both hands flailing, and Russ was cracking up. Even Novo broke into a grin. Carter shook his head and said something Dawson couldn’t hear. Leo fired back, and the whole table erupted. Dawson watched it from the corner of his eye, his beer getting warm in his hand.
Then Leo laughed. Not the loud one. The one that caught him off guard, his head tipping back, his hand coming up to cover his mouth like he hadn’t meant to let it out.
Dawson set his beer down because his grip had gone white on the glass.
Leo caught his eye again twenty minutes later, when the booth had thinned out and Riggs had gone to the bar for another round. This time, Leo held the look. Then he pulled out his phone.
Dawson’s pocket buzzed.
Leo
Meet me outside.
He waited a minute or two after Leo disappeared before sliding off his stool so it wouldn’t look suspicious. He left a ten on the bar and tipped his chin at Wes, who raised a hand. Then he stepped through the front door.
Leo was leaning against the side of the building, hands in his jacket pockets, breath visible in the air. The streetlight caught the line of his jaw and the white of his T-shirt underneath. Dawson stopped a few feet away because if he got closer, he’d do something anyone walking past could see.
“Hey,” Leo said.
“Hey yourself. What’s up?”
“You were distracting me.”
“I wasn’t doing anything other than reading my book.”
