I go out the exit just as the entrance door swings open, and a group of guys walks in. Perfect timing, as planned. They’re a blur of red and black. Letter jackets, names and awards stitched on the back, shouting greetings at the workers, banging trays along the serving line. They jostle against one another, and there’s no hostility in it, but my ever-present unease stills simmers under the surface.
I walk out the front door and head toward the parking lot, prepared to walk the three miles to the garage to check on my car. I need the time and cool, fresh air, to think about how I’m going to pay for getting my car fixed. I have eight-hundred dollars in my bank account, which is all that’s left from my summer job. Everything on a classic car like the Mustang is expensive, always costing more than is strictly necessary for the piece of junk it is. I know once the mechanic gets under the roof, he’ll find even more problems. A smart person would sell it for scraps and buy something reliable and dependable. But there’s no way I can do it.
Halfway there, the deep rumble of a muffler echoes off the pavement. I turn and see a burst of shiny bright blue as it streaks past, the leaves on the street and my hair blowing from the gust of wind it creates. I catch sight of the license plate before it vanishes down the road.
JAS-MIN.
By the time I see the glowing diner sign up ahead, I’m thinking I may have a plan. If the repairs cost more than what I have, maybe they’ll let me put it on a payment plan. I can get a job after school and pay in increments. It’s not like I’ll need it much since I’m living on campus. They can hold onto it until I can pay in full.
I take a deep breath and cross the street, walking up to the garage. Even though it’s Sunday, one bay is open, and the sound of fast, hard music carries into the parking lot. Merle, the manager, told me he’d be here by ten and it’s only 9:30. I consider the fact he’s here already to be a stroke of rare luck and head through the open door.
The Mustang is up on one of the lifts, but the first person I see is bent over the hood of a different car—the blue Ford. Jas-min.
He must hear my footsteps because he emits a hard sigh and says, “Not open yet.” In a lower mutter he probably doesn’t expect me to hear, he adds, “So fuck off.”
His jeans are faded, pale blue, frayed at the cuffs that hang over the tops of his black Converse. I don’t know who this guy is, but it’s definitely not sixty-year-old Merle, in his army green jumpsuit. I see his hand reach into the toolbox, knuckles red, streaked in grease. My hair-trigger fight or flight response tickles at my sore neck and I take a step back, deciding to wait outside. I need some air, anyway.
My foot catches on something, and the sound of metal clanging to the ground bursts through the garage. The mechanic tenses, and then jolts up, taking care not to hit his head on the roof of the hood. It’s his hair that I see first; fine, almost white, pushed messily above his forehead. But it’s his eyes that squeeze all the air from my lungs. They’re intense, piercing, and horrifyingly familiar. Even if I hadn’t already met him once, I’d still know those eyes anywhere.
They’re the impending promise of chaos.
Nothing makes him less terrifying, not even the surprised part of his lips. My hand goes to my jaw and I will my feet to move. That’s the problem with my body. It never cooperates anymore.
His fault, my brain hisses.
“Damn, girl, you startled me,” he says, running his greasy hand down his thigh. “You’re looking for Merle, right? He doesn’t usually get in until a little later on Sunday. But I guess…” I don’t miss the way his eyes rove over my body, nor the way his demeanor has grown suddenly friendly. “Maybe I can help.”
“No,” I say, voice flat and hard, hand curling around the knife in my bag. “I think I’ve had enough of what you call help.”
His eyebrow lifts, accentuating the scar slicing down toward his eye. His gaze sweeps from my head to my toes once more, and every hair on my