Flash Point (A Mason Sharpe Thriller Book 5) by Logan Ryles

Author:Logan Ryles [Ryles, Logan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkubator Books
Published: 2023-12-09T16:00:00+00:00

28

I detoured to a Walmart on my way back to Tampa, perusing the men’s clothing section for a fresh change of clothes. My jeans were spattered with dry blood from my bar fight at Club Bolita, and my shirt smelled badly. I added deodorant and a toothbrush to my basket and used the store bathroom to change and freshen up.

Brand new jeans, a long-sleeve button-down shirt in royal blue, and a clean undershirt—all for less than fifty bucks. I rolled the sleeves of the button-down up to my elbows and ran damp fingers through my hair. I needed a haircut, but I told myself I looked rugged more than homeless.

It was a convincing enough lie for a Walmart bathroom. I trashed my old clothes and returned to the bike.

I took my time cruising into downtown Tampa. The auto exchange was held at the convention center, which sat barely two blocks from Ava’s modeling agency. It was a big building, flat-topped, with a lot of concrete and potted plants stretching out in front of the entrance. I found parking in a nearby garage and took my time approaching the main entrance. It was now late afternoon, and already a crowd was gathered to press inside. A lot of old guys with gray or balding heads, many dressed in T-shirts printed with depictions of various muscle cars. It was ten bucks to gain entry, and I exchanged cash for a wrist band. Then I stepped inside the welcome relief of commercial-grade air conditioning and listened to the clamor of excited voices echoing off a high ceiling.

It took me all of three seconds to understand the link between a modeling agency and a car auction. Ava’s models were everywhere—generally dressed in tight, low-cut tank tops and shorty shorts, flexing tan legs and flashing sunbeam smiles. They stood next to polished vintage cars, posing for pictures with old guys and handing out fliers that described the car’s attributes and starting bid.

Not every car featured a Queen City model, but the most popular ones certainly did. The bald and graying heads clustered around them like bees to honey, and the fliers dispensed by the dozens. There was a lot of laughing at bad jokes. A lot of practiced poses for cell phone selfies. A lot of arms draping a little too low around narrow waists.

Unbelievable.

I drifted through the crowd for the better part of the hour, hands in my pockets, not engaging with anybody. Looking out for Sophie. I found her near the rear of the expansive convention room, giggling and flirting with a pot-bellied biker dude whose braided beard reached almost to his belt buckle. Behind her glistened a 1970 Buick GSX, painted bumblebee yellow, with twin black stripes and glistening rally wheels.

It was a beautiful car, but the guy with the braided beard seemed preoccupied with real estate south of Sophie’s collar bone. He held a foaming light beer in a plastic cup, and eagerly accepted a flier for the car as Sophie bubbled along, pretending to ignore his ogling.

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