Page 11 of Indie

“He wanted money,” I shrugged, dropping my eyes, not wanting to see the reaction on his face.

“The money you earned last night?”

I nodded, keeping my eyes focussed on my feet.

“Jesus, Emmie. You need to go to the police.”

“No. I can’t. It won’t make him stop. And not now he’s in with Dekka’s gang. It’s like they’ve boosted his ego tenfold.”

“You can’t live like this, Emmie. You really can’t.”

“I know.”

I did. I really did. And at times, I’d run through my options.Allmy options.

“Look. Keep the doors locked from as soon as you can tonight, and if you need to take off early, just lock-up and go. And if you need me, ring me.”

It was kind to offer to get mixed up in my problems, but, a little taller than me, and somewhere in his sixties, I didn’t think he’d be much of a deterrent. I smiled anyway.

“Thanks, Ernie.”

He responded, his face full of kindness and his eyes full of pity.

The garage had bustled till around 9pm. People rushing from work to fill up cars for the next morning, mothers panic buying nappies after realising at the last minute there were none left for little Tommy to go to bed in. The evening rush quieted as quickly as it had begun, darkness engulfing the courtyard from the threat of winter creeping in. I checked the cameras inside and out. No one. Time to lock those doors.

Teetering, dangerously, I balanced on a box that sagged in the middle, threatening to lose its integrity and crumple to the ground. The lock slid in, and I stepped down, the box giving up just as I transferred my weight to the floor. And in front of me, a shape moved in the shadows, advancing at the doors. I didn’t recognise him at first. The forecourt lights illuminated his hair, the peppery grey, swept to the side. Yet, instead of the bike leathers, he wore blue jeans over thick-soled sandy boots and a grey hoodie, pulled snugly up to his neck.

“Hey, Emmie,” Indie half-shouted through the glass door barring his way. “Can I come in?”

I nodded wordlessly, turning the lock on the second door and sliding it back. I’d never seen him so casual. He’d always worn black jeans or leather trousers and the leather bike jacket. And I’d not heard the roar of his bike. Indie stepped inside, passing me and scanning the shop. The grey hoodie made him look wider, the sleeves clinging to the profile of his arms, and the denim jeans hugged his arse tight, not giving much as they travelled down his legs. Like my eyes. Shit.

I looked away, but already I could feel the flush on my cheeks, the hot tickle of embarrassment. He turned, his eyes pinning me for a moment, before softening into that rich brown.

“You need bread or something?” I croaked, my voice shattering the silence between us.

“Bread? Oh. No. Actually, it’s you I need.”

Blood rushed to my cheeks again, heat now prickling at my neck. Indie tipped his head, watching me, curiously, I was sure. His face stayed calm, the same tranquil expression I’d seen from him earlier, yet the longer I stared the more I thought there was a crinkle pulling at the corner of his eyes, a hint of amusement. And my skin flushed again.

“What do you need?”

“Your cameras.”

“Cameras?” I sounded like an echo.

“Yeah. Just need to look at last night. Don’t need a copy.”

“Why would you need to look at cameras?”

“My garage got done over last night. Men in a truck and a bike. Saw them passing here just before I stopped to fill up. Reckon your cameras will have caught the registration plates.”

He glanced around above him, as if searching for the cameras inside.

“Yeah. We can have a look. This way,” I tipped my head towards the back of the shop.

Indie waited, and so did I, wondering what he was waiting for.

He broke into a smile.