Her Rough Mechanic - Jagger Cole
1
Annabelle
What a shithole, I think to myself when I step out of the police cruiser. The whole town looks flat, like it’s been stepped on. It’s also the same dingy sandy color as the miles and miles of desert surrounding it that I just drove through to get to this forgotten little armpit of a town.
“Right in there! Rowan’s the man to ask for. He’ll get you sorted, miss.” My chauffeur, Pat, who’s actually the local chief of police, smiles warmly and leans over the passenger seat. “I know it ain’t much, but Silvervales’s a nice little town. Mable’s Diner up the street a tick has the best goddamn chicken and waffles you ever did taste. If you’ll pardon my language.”
Wonderful. I’m trapped in an apocalypse-movie-set of a desert town with a broken-down car. And the big attraction is disgusting diner fried chicken and fucking waffles. I almost want to ask the chief if he’s aware of how long I’ve gone without carbs, but I skip it.
“This is the place?” I look back up at the grungy facade with the four open garage doors and the lettering cut out of metal above them that reads “Iron Horse Bikes.” Inside, the place is littered with tools and metal, with one car lifted up high with no wheels on it, and another next to it on the ground with the hood open. A couple of motorcycles are parked to one side. It’s dirty, it’s sketchy looking, and it brings a sour look to my face.
“Yep!” Chief Creesh pipes up again. “They’ll get you fixed up in no time. And while you wait, don’t forget to get a taste of those—”
“Chicken and waffles, yeah,” I mutter. I scowl and look back into the dingy garage.
“Atta girl! Well, if you need anything, you just come on down to the station.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “And thanks for the ride.”
It’s the one freaking lucky break I’ve gotten all day. When my car broke down on the stretch of highway about ten miles from here, the first person that happened to drive by was a cop, thank God. Looking around at this crummy little town, I realize just how easily it could have been some grubby townie named Bubba, or any other number of creeps that lives out here in the middle of fucking nowhere.
“Anytime, and you take care now. Welcome to Silverdale, Miss Chisholm.”
He drives away, kicking up dust and sand and making me cough as I frantically wave my hand away from my face. I look back at the garage, and I scowl. This whole trip has gone from bad to worst case scenario. That’s really saying something, seeing as I was on my way to fucking rehab.
Well, not really. Okay, yes, I’m actually supposed to be going to rehab right now, but not to actually do anything. I’m not a drug addict or anything, and I don’t mean that in a denial sort of way. I mean I’ve literally never taken drugs before. However, when your dad is a high-profile governor and running for a high-profile U.S. Senate seat, and pictures of you at a college party with cocaine on the table in front of you are about to go public, guess what happens? Yep, rehab. Preemptively, in anticipation of the pictures leaking, even if it’s just for show.
That’s life with my dad’s campaign. It’s all about “the optics,” as his PR person Jessica is always saying. Obviously, the optics of a nineteen-year-old daughter apparently spending her time at college doing coke and partying it up are not good at all. Publicly, the plan is to take the allegations face on, and the whole thing will be deemed a family matter that he’s going to throw himself into addressing. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never taken any drugs at all in my life. Denying the picture will just make it look worse. So, off to rehab in some crazy expensive place in the Hollywood Hills, for “the optics,” At least, that was the plan before my car kicked it on a deserted highway in the middle of Arizona.
I can hear rock music playing as I step into the disgusting and dirty garage. But the place is empty. I frown, my sour mood getting worse as I step over greasy car parts and look around the garage.
“Hello?” I scowl as I step around to the back of the raised-up car. Still no one. “Hello?” I yell a little louder. My temper is rising, and I’m already so