together by dirt, rust, hope, and a prayer. The paint is completely gone in places, and lot of the ornamental details are gone. It’s a complete junker—a total piece of shit. A beater. A lemon.
A challenge.
Breathing doesn’t help, but that does. I look at the body and let my brain start racking up a list. Plenty could probably be salvaged, with a shitload of work. But that’s not even to speak of whatever’s going on under the hood. And the interior, which is probably grotty, too.
Now that my adrenaline has waned, I look back over at the tool bench, biting back a groan. Fucking hell, Merle is going to kill me. He already barely tolerates me coming here in the first place. I’d charmed the old man—as much as the crusty, old bastard can even be charmed—into letting me rent a bay to work on Jasmine whenever I want. There’s a particular kind of affinity that runs through gear-heads, a common thread. Merle must have sensed it in me the first time I came in here with Jasmine. It’s best in the mornings and at night, when it’s quiet and there aren’t any customers here. Those are my times. That’s why I was so annoyed at a customer just walking up when I still had twenty minutes of blissful peace left.
Having something to do with my hands helps. A project to focus on. A physical, tangible objective. The only issue is that I’ve put so much work into my Jasmine that she’s in top shape. More and more, I’ve been snagging wayward tasks from Merle, desperate to keep myself occupied for just a little longer. This place has been my only goddamn saving grace these last few shitty months.
And now she’s a part of it.
That realization is depressing as hell and sparks the rage still smoldering in my chest. Without thinking, I give into the impulse to pick up one last wrench and throw it as hard as possible across the room. It hits the exit light over the door and the plastic casing cracks, shattering to the ground.
“What in the ass-licking hell is going on here?”
My eyes drop down to where Merle is standing in his green coveralls, eyebrows ominously low, coffee in one hand, paper bag in the other. The broken sign flickers a frantic ‘EX’ over his head.
I thrust a hand in my hair. “Fuck.”
The only thing worse than this hot thing burning in my chest is the shame—the dark cloud of remorse—that always follows an outburst like this.
It leaves me feeling sick and vaguely scared of myself in that way I used to be when coming out of a fight, slamming rudely back to reality with cut-up knuckles and bloody faces. It’s why I started picking them. Hard to feel ashamed about beating the shit out of someone who deserves it. Even harder to feel scared about hurting someone when they signed on, knowing full well the consequences.
“Boy, I don’t know what brought on this tantrum,” he nods to the broom leaning against the wall, “but you have until noon to unfuck yourself and get it back together. Understand?”
Fuck you, old man. Screw this. Go to hell. I swallow it all back. If Merle kicks me out of here, what will I have? No fighting, no work outs, no cars? I’ll go fucking guano. “Yes, sir,” I grind out. “Sorry, sir.”
I walk over and grab the broom, stepping over the tools scattered all over the floor. Merle steps out of my way and heads into his office, muttering about me the whole way.
Before starting, I take one last look at the Mustang and wonder exactly what it is about this girl, her mere presence, that apparently brings out the worst in me. I know one thing for sure—if I’m going for self-preservation, the only thing I can do is stay the hell away from her.
I hang the last tool on the peg board just as the clock over the office door rolls to noon. Merle has spent the last hour checking out the Mustang. Jotting notes on a clipboard and shaking his head. It’s pretty obvious that whatever needs to be done to the car, it’s extensive. Unsurprisingly. I don’t know much about the girl, but she’s from the Briar Cliffs. She drives a car like this because she has to, not because she wants to.