“Judd Mathers, hit the road. Surfside ain’t yours to sell.”
It was rough and slightly off-rhythm and not particularly poetic, but it was loud. The chant grew louder with every second as more people took it up. Several people were recording as the chant turned into a bit of a song.
Judd’s hands curled at his sides. I watched him decide what he was going to do. Cost versus benefit. Risk versus reward. He looked at the crowd. He looked at the phones. And then he looked at me. I looked back at him and said nothing.
Whatever conclusion he reached, it wasn’t in his favor and he knew it. The redness in his face shifted from fury to humiliation, which in my experience was the more dangerous of the two. Humiliation, unlike fury, tended to make men small.
He pointed at me across the distance between us. His finger shook slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just turned around, walked back to the car, and got in. The crowd parted just enough to let the vehicle pull out of the lot. Someone slapped the back panel as it went by. The horn gave one last short blast.
Summer’s hand loosened on my forearm. I turned to look at her. “You okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine.” She looked at my car. “Your car is not fine.”
I looked at the car. The paint was already starting to set in the afternoon heat.
“No.” I laughed. “It’s not. I guess I’ll be fixing the gouge. Maybe I’ll leave it until everyone’s done fucking with my car.” I pulled out my phone and took a few pictures. “I need to call my attorney.”
When he answered, I could tell I was on speaker phone. I could hear him shuffling papers in the background. “Colt, what can I do for you?”
I told him what happened.
“How many witnesses?” he asked.
“Thirty, minimum. Lots of videos.”
“Good.” The shuffling stopped. “Don’t touch the car. Don’t wash it. Don’t move it if you can help it. I want photos of everything before it dries any further. Multiple angles. And I want a written account from you tonight while it’s fresh.”
“I’ll send the pictures,” I said.
“This is going to be very useful to us,” he said. “He’s building a case against you for tortious interference and harassment and meanwhile he’s throwing paint on your car. He’s rattled, Colt. Rattled people make mistakes. This is a mistake.”
“I know.” I ended the call and looked at the bags in our hands. For now, it would be a good bag holder. I took her bags, pushed the unlock button on the key fob, and put the bags in the trunk.
She was looking at me. “Done?”
“Yep, let’s finish our shopping spree. I want to know where you got that hot little number.”
“I’m not going back in there with you.”
“Fine, I’ll go by myself. I have plenty of ideas about what I like.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m thinking red,” I said. “Maybe something with ties. I like the idea of unwrapping you. What are your feelings about leather?”
“Sticky.”
I laughed. “Agreed. Lace?”
“I could do lace.”
“Red. Black. Maybe green.”
“I only have one body,” she said.
“We’re going to have lots of time. An outfit a day.”
“Alright, let’s do this,” she said.