“August,” the woman says, warning soft but tired.
August.
Good name. Old-fashioned. Too big for a little kid with sleep creases on his face and fear sitting in his eyes like a bruise.
The woman straightens, still blocking the open door with her body.
Protective.
Good.
I like that.
I respect a woman who puts herself between danger and her kid, even when the danger is six-foot-plus of tattooed biker standing in the wash of a Harley headlight after being assaulted by her panties.
“Flat tire?” I ask.
She looks at the shredded rubber like it personally betrayed her. “Obviously.”
Mouthy, then.
That does something inconvenient to my interest.
“You got a spare?”
“Yes.”
“Jack?”
She pauses.
I glance at the boxes scattered down Hell Road. “Let me guess. The jack is under half your worldly belongings, the spare is rusted to hell, and you’ve been crying because tonight’s been one long kick in the teeth.”
Her chin lifts. “I haven’t been crying.”
Her face is wet.
I look at her.
She looks at me.
Behind her, August whispers, “Mama cried.”
The woman closes her eyes.
I bite the inside of my cheek because laughing right now feels like the sort of thing that gets a man stabbed with a tire iron.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
Her eyes open. Guarded again. “Why?”
“Because I like to know who I’m rescuing before her panties try to murder me.”
“I didn’t ask you to rescue me.”
“No, but your drawers made contact. That feels like a formal introduction.”
She hates that.