Page 73 of Protecting Peyton

My phone rang. It was March again, and I was in no mood to have another discussion about kissing. It was going to be bad enough having the question hanging over us at the dinner I’d agreed to without being hounded this afternoon.

Today was so much better than yesterday, and I didn’t want to ruin it.

CHAPTER 17

Peyton

I didn’t know muchabout the various areas of Los Angeles, but the farther inland my Uber went, the worse the neighborhoods looked.

In Boston, I’d had a short list of neighborhoods I wouldn’t venture into and a longer list if it was dark. As the blocks went by, this section of the city was looking more and more like it belonged on that first list.

My driver slowed in front of a house that had seen better days on a street where the residents didn’t mind parking on the dried-up lawns, or putting their cars up on blocks out front, although I didn’t see any work being done.

She pulled to the curb. “Are you sure this is it?” she asked. Her tone questioned my sanity for wanting to get out in a neighborhood like this.

I checked the number on the house. “It’s the address I was given.” Looking up and down the street, I joined her in questioning my sanity when I noted the bars on all the windows. This neighborhood was not one I’d be returning to. But I desperately needed my bike. “Could you maybe hold on for a second? I’ll ring the bell and see if this is the right place.”

“If you’re quick about it. Wave if this is it, and I’m out of here.”

After climbing out, I closed the car’s door and hoped she would actually stay long enough for me if this wasn’t the lady who’d found my bike.

What if I’d written down the wrong address? This was the wrong partof town to be left alone in. I made it to the door and checked over my shoulder.

My ride was still idling on the street.

Pressing the button, I didn’t hear anything inside, no chime, no movement. With my heart in my throat, I pulled open the heavy metal gate to knock on the wooden door. That’s when I heard movement inside.

An older woman with a mass of longish gray hair opened the door. A cigarette hung in her lips. The faint sound of a television came from the darkened house.

“I’m here about the bike,” I said as assertively as I could.

She looked behind me to the left and right. “The pink one?”

How did an old lady like this end up with my bike?At least I was at the right house. “Yes.”

“You come alone?” She opened the door to come out, squinting against the sunlight.

“Uh-huh.” I stepped back and waved to my Uber driver, who left in a hurry.

She looked up and down the street before holding out her hand. “Money?” She counted the bills after I gave them to her.

“My bike?” I asked.

“You Peyton Smith?” she asked with a puff of acrid smoke.

“Yes.”

“It’s around back.” She pointed past the decrepit garage door.

I walked with her that way.

Reaching the corner, she took the cigarette out of her mouth and smiled through yellowed teeth. “She’s all yours, boys,” she yelled. “You owe me a hundred bucks.”

The gate of the side fence opened, and dread took my breath away.

The two men from the first night came out.

“The man wants to talk to you,” Shorty said with an evil laugh. At least he didn’t have a knife out.