Read No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) for Free Online Page B

shirtsleeve up his arm. His skin was warm to the touch, his bicep bulging beneath my hand, and I flushed as a current of electricity shot straight down my arm and veered off south of the border. I guess I kept my hand on his arm a little too long, because Bobby stared down at me, a slow, seductive smile playing about the corners of his mouth.
    “Y’know, we could skip dinner, if you have something else in mind you’d rather do.”
    I yanked my hand away. “
Shut up.
I was just checking to see if your new tattoo was infected. You can never be too careful about these things.”
    Bobby stayed until after dinner. It was nice to have company, especially company that packs a .38 and is willing to use it to protect me. For all my yelling about being able to take care of myself, it was a relief to not have to for once. He offered to spend the night, but, tempting as the offer was, I told him it wasn’t necessary. I was not ready to let Robert Anthony DiCarlo just waltz back into my life. Not yet.
    I woke up on the couch on Saturday morning, having fallen asleep watching reruns of Miami Vice. That Sonny Crocket sure was a hottie. My usual bout of anxiety was forming in the pit of my stomach, so I decided to stuff it down beneath a hardy breakfast.
    The only thing in the house to eat was a cold, leftover salmon croquet and some dog kibble, so I pulled on some jeans and my dad’s old pea coat, filled Adrian’s bowl, chopped up the croquet for Rocky and headed for Melrose Diner.
    I was driving my dad’s 1987 burgundy Buick Le Sabre. The car had only slightly more pickup than one of the pretzel wagons around town, but it beat walking. When my parents moved to Florida, they threw it in with the deal on the house. I figured I could sell it and buy a houseplant with the profit.
    I passed Snake’s garage on the way there and since it was open, I swung a u-turn into the lot. Paul’s car was up on the lift. I was a little worried that Paul would drive past and see it hanging up there, so I thought I’d ask Snake to throw a sheet over the Mercedes when it wasn’t being worked on.
    Snake was in the back office, eating a Dunkin’ Doughnut and drinking out of a large Styrofoam cup. He raised his tattooed head when he saw me and belched loudly by way of greeting. My stomach growled, and I scanned the room to see if there were any more doughnuts floating around. I finally spotted the empty, crumpled up bag in the trashcan next to his desk. Swallowing my disappointment I asked how the car was coming along.
    “This don’t make no sense, doll.” He shook his head and lit a cigarette. I tried not to think about the possible ramifications of lit cigarettes and open tanks of gasoline and asked, “What’s wrong?”
    Snake stubbed out his cigarette as quickly as he’d lit it. “Paulie brought this car in not two months ago for a tune up. I worked on it personally. The brakes were fine, I’d swear by it.”
    “So now they’re not. Can you fix them?”
    Snake cut me a look. It screamed, “I can’t believe you’re so stupid.”
    “The brakes wouldn’t just all of a sudden give out like that. Not without help.”
    I was a little slow on the uptake, what with being faint from hunger and all, but then his words registered in my brain and my stomach did a one-eighty. “You mean —” I squeaked.
    “Looks to me like your brake line was cut.”

Chapter Three
     
    S omeone’s out to get Paul!
I thought hopefully. After all, it was
his
car’s brakes that had been tampered with. Even as I reasoned this out, I knew it wasn’t true—or very nice. And the truth is I’d rather take a bullet than let anything happen to my brother. But my defense mechanisms are really strong and I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the idea that somebody was trying to kill me—again.
    I left Snake’s and drove around for an hour, alternating between deep sweats and icy chills, my inner thermostat carrying the brunt of my fear. Maybe Snake was