Page 7 of Wild Card (Foster Bro Code #2)

Axel

I perched on the corner of Holden’s desk in Forrester Bros Auto Shop, joining Holden, Bailey, and Matteo for lunch. Sugar and Loki took up prime begging spots by my feet.

“So, where’s Gray?” I asked, watching as Matteo unloaded Zacos from a greasy bag.

Holden snagged one and started unwrapping it. “He’s having lunch in town with Emory.”

“Oh, is Em working at the bank today?”

“Yeah.” Bailey snickered from the flimsy folding chair he’d claimed. “Gray couldn’t even go a few hours without seeing him.”

Until a few weeks ago, Emory was the vice president of Gold Community Bank, a family business where his dad, grandpa, and cousin also worked. He’d recently gone down to part-time so he could apprentice with Fox at the tattoo parlor, which was much more suited to his artistic skills.

“Probably just an excuse to eat at Jerkers,” Matteo said. “Those milkshakes are addictive.”

“Well, their loss,” I said. “I’ll take Zacos any day.”

“Same here.” Matteo grabbed two paper-wrapped Zacos with a big V scribbled on the outside to label them as veggie.

I unwrapped one marked with an S and bit into a mouthful of greasy sausage, cheese, and peppers. Matteo didn’t know what he was missing.

“You have any trouble while you were out on that tow job?” Holden asked him.

Since hiring Matteo, I’d had to make a lot fewer runs, which was nice. When it got slow enough at the shop, he even came by the junkyard and helped me strip and catalog parts.

“No, it was pretty straightforward.” Matteo took a seat beside Bailey. “They wanted to use the shop in town for repairs, though. I tried to sell them on coming here, but…”

“It happens,” Bailey said.

Holden sighed. “It happens too damn much.”

I snagged a Zaco, unease shivering through me. “Are things slowing down too much?”

There was a single car in the shop awaiting final repairs.

Last week, Bailey had at least two jobs.

Gray had one bike come in. Was that really all?

Matteo had joined me out at the junkyard on Wednesday and Friday, but I hadn’t considered that it might be because there wasn’t enough work to go around.

Holden shrugged. “It’s par for the course. It takes time to rebuild our reputation.”

I winced. Shit. Getting tossed into jail a couple of months ago for that bar fight probably hadn’t helped. And before that, our dad’s drunken spiral and disorderly arrests had done us no favors.

Holden had renamed the business to Forrester Bros to remove an association with our foster dad. We’d decided the Forrester name was too well-known to ditch, but maybe we’d have been better off starting over from scratch.

Too late now. The new sign was already painted.

Bailey took a bite of his Zaco, cheese stretching from the folded dough shell to his lips. Loki yipped, reminding me that he wanted some of that goodness.

I pinched a piece of sausage from mine and fed it to him, then did the same for Sugar.

“No Banshee today?” Holden asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.

“Nah, we’re working on her separation anxiety. She’s getting underfoot when I try to work, so I figure small breaks will help her build trust that I’ll come back.”

“Makes sense,” Holden said. “It’s not so different from how we handled you back in the day.”

Oh, I remembered. My foster mom got me into therapy, and trust exercises were Dr. Shepherd’s favorite strategy.

I’d hated it, mainly because it made me confront all the ways my parents had fucked me up.

It helped, though. Each week, month, and year that my family continued to be a steady presence in my life, I believed a little more that they wouldn’t abandon me.

At least, until my foster mom died and Gray got run off by the old man. That’s when I learned I could never really keep the people I loved, not forever. It was better to accept that truth before they inevitably left me.

“Were you pretty young when you got fostered here?” Matteo asked, looking curious.

“I was ten,” I said. “I was the last one to get here.”

“I would have thought Bailey came last,” Matteo said.

Bailey swallowed his bite of Zaco. “Well, I’m the youngest, but I got here when I was three. I don’t remember it, but apparently, I got fostered a few months before Axel.”

“And what happened—” Matteo started.

I cleared my throat, ready for a subject change. “Do you think since Matteo’s eating veggie Zacos, that makes them a salad?”

Holden recognized my pivot for what it was and jumped in, probably no more eager than me to visit memory lane. “It makes them veggie pizza.”

“No, no. It makes them salad tacos ,” Bailey said.

“But they’re made of pizza,” Holden insisted.

“And shaped like tacos! ” Bailey shot back just as emphatically. “What do you think, Matteo?”

Matteo looked like a deer caught in the headlines. “Uh, well, the name is more like tacos than pizza, I guess…”

“Yes!” Bailey crowed. “Matteo agrees with me!”

Holden scowled at me. “Now look what you started.”

“You’re just cranky because you’re losing the debate. But that shit Matteo is eating is not pizza or tacos,” I said to rile them further. “It’s all veggies and, therefore, salad.”

Matteo laughed. “Whatever it is, it’s delicious.”

Loki barked in agreement, reminding me to toss him another bite, the beggar. Sugar looked at me with soulful eyes until I did the same for her.

The debate raged on for a few more minutes—until the rev of a motor and squealing tires caught our attention. I leaned sideways to look out of the open garage bay. A red car fishtailed as it took a fast turn back onto the highway.

“Who the hell…” I muttered.

There was no reason for a car to be on our road unless it was coming to the shop, the junkyard, or our house. They were all connected by a single access point off the highway.

“Huh,” Bailey said, head craned to look out the doorway. “Maybe they got lost?”

Something about that red car struck me as familiar. “Maybe.” I balled up my Zaco wrappers and shoved them into the bag. “Or maybe they wanted to go by the junkyard. I better get back before Banshee loses her shit.”

I whistled for Loki and Sugar to follow me. They reluctantly gave up their begging post as Holden, Bailey, and Matteo finished eating.

Normally, I just walked over to the shop, but today, I’d driven my junkyard clunker, a puke-green El Camino with rust accents, so I could haul over the parts Bailey wanted.

It had come to the junkyard as a piece of junk, but Bailey had helped me get her running enough to give me a set of wheels that weren’t attached to a tow truck.

I opened the passenger door, and Sugar and Loki jumped inside, then I got behind the wheel and reversed out of the auto shop parking lot. Halfway down the rutted road to the junkyard, I spotted Taz running as fast as his little feet would carry him.

I slammed the brakes and opened the car door. “Taz!”

He darted under the car—Jesus, that was not a safe habit—and popped out by my feet, barking up a storm. I scooped him up with one hand and got back into the driver’s seat. “What are you doing out here?”

He whined and licked my hand.

I had a bad feeling about this. I remembered closing the gate.

Banshee would have followed me right out if I hadn’t.

Was it possible the latch broke, or had Taz found some other way out?

He was small enough he could squeeze through a gap in the fence somewhere, but he’d never been interested in escaping.

I put the car in drive and continued down the road. The gate was closed.

Well, damn, maybe he had escaped, then, the little turd.

I parked and hopped out to open the gate, prepared for Banshee to barrel into my arms, but there was no sign of her. I whistled sharply, and Oreo came trotting out from behind the RV. But there was no white fluff of fur beside her.

“Banshee!” I called. “Where are you, girl?”

The dogs barked from inside the car, wanting to join the search. I jogged over to open the door and ushered them all into the junkyard.

I closed the gate behind me and called out for Banshee again. As if Sugar understood what I was about, she gave a deep, commanding woof.

Oreo trotted over and dropped to the ground, rolling over to show her belly. Taz went skittering off into the piles of junk. I used to worry about him, but Chihuahuas were bred to go into small spaces, and it was in his nature. I’d soon learned to let him explore.

I did a sweep of the junkyard, checking by the food and water bowls, then heading over to the cat colony in case they’d caught Banshee’s interest. I called her name until my throat was hoarse, but I already knew—even while I checked every spot the dogs liked to hide or play—that she wasn’t here.

And if the gate was closed, how did she and Taz get out?

That red car flashed up in my memory. The one that had taken the turn onto the highway so fast it had fishtailed outside the auto shop. The one that had seemed familiar.

“Son of a bitch,” I growled, suddenly knowing why I’d recognized the car.

Banshee’s previous owners, Rusty and Candy, had dumped her out of a car just like that one.

I turned and ran toward the exit. The dogs raced after me, but I slipped out of the gate and closed them inside. This time, I took the time to lock it—which I should have fucking done when I went over to the shop.

I was only gone a few minutes, but it was a few minutes too long. Luckily, I knew where that Rusty fucker lived.

The dogs barked, whined, and howled their displeasure as I left them behind.

“Sorry, guys, but you can’t come this time.”

I hopped into the driver’s seat and did a three-point turn to get myself headed toward the highway. Once there, I took a left, heading out of town.

I punched the accelerator, pushing the car up to seventy miles per hour, hands tight on the wheel. Rusty better hope Banshee was okay, or I was likely to squeeze them around his throat next.

“Motherfucker,” I growled, so worked up I almost missed the turn into the sorry trailer park Rusty called home. I drove until I spotted his red Pontiac parked in front of a single-wide riddled with hail dents.

It was tempting to bang on his door and kick his ass when he answered. But getting Banshee back was the most important thing.

I circled the trailer park, getting a look at the property from all angles, then parked behind Rusty’s place. There was a six-foot wooden privacy fence, and inside it, I could hear a woman’s voice and the familiar whimpers of a troubled Banshee.

My pulse spiked, and my plan to wait and sneak Banshee out went to hell. Her distressed cries twisted my heart, and I yanked open the gate.

“Banshee!” I called.

Candy whirled toward me, eyes wide, as Banshee raced toward the gate.

“Wait! That’s our dog?—”

“Not anymore, she’s not,” I snarled, crouching down to catch Banshee as she barreled into my arms. She wasn’t a small dog, but I managed to heft her up.

“Rusty!” Candy yelled. “That junkyard dude is stealing the dog!”

Time for a quick exit.

I kicked the gate shut behind me and hurried to the driver’s door of the El Camino. I put Banshee down to open it, and she jumped right in, as eager to go home as me. Probably more.

Rusty came running out. “Stop, asshole! That dog ain’t yours!”

I ducked my head out the open window as I gunned the engine, taking off in a spray of gravel.

“Finders keepers, asshole!”