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“No,” I said to the dashboard. “Don’t do this to me. I’m poor.”

The car made a whining sound as if mocking my financial situation.

I grabbed my phone and called my best friend.

Calvin answered on the second ring. “If this is for emotional support, I charge by the hour.”

“My car is being dramatic. It’s making sounds like it’s dying.” Why did it seem like for every step forward, I was knocked back two? Maybe I was being the dramatic one, but I seriously doubted it. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought my father had cursed me.

He had, only he’d used profanity instead of a hex.

There was a pause, then, “What kind of sound?”

“A bad one.”

“Niles,” Calvin said in exasperation.

“It’s clunky.” I had to think hard about the actual sound the engine had made. “Maybe grindy. A little murdery.”

He laughed softly, and the noise steadied me. Calvin never treated me like a spectacle. He treated me like me. That was rarer than it should’ve been. “Can you drive it?”

“Probably. Briefly. Toward doom.”

“Drive to Deluca’s garage.”

I leaned back against the seat and stared through the windshield. Sun hit the building across from mine and bounced right into my face. “Is that where Riot works?”

“Yes. They’ll look at it.”

“And by they, do we mean people who accept cash, debit, or dramatic sighing?” I had the last one in spades.

“We means mechanics.”

“Cruel.”

He made another quiet laugh. I could picture his face doing that soft little smile he got when I was being difficult on purpose. “Just go. Tell them Calvin sent you.”

“Have I mentioned I love you more than most blood relatives?” That wasn’t hyperbole. Calvin had been the only person in my life who had accepted me unconditionally, even when I dressed like a corrupted fairy. His words, not mine.

“You have,” Calvin replied with fondness in his tone. “Drive safe, my weaponized flamingo.”

After I hung up, I sat there for another few seconds and did the math, which I already knew I hated. My bank account was an insult. My father still paying my rent kept me from total disaster, but pride didn’t buy brake pads or mysterious engine parts. Pride barely bought coffee.

The engine made that sound again when I started the car, and dread crept in hard and fast.

The drive to Deluca’s was a stress event. Every noise felt louder. Every stoplight felt personal. By the time I pulled into the lot, my entire body was clenched.

The shop was busy. Three bay doors stood open. Somewhere inside, metal clanged. An air tool screamed. Cars lined one side of the lot in different stages of distress. Men moved in and out of the garage with purpose, shirts darkened with sweat, hands stained with grease. The place smelled like heat, oil, rubber, and money I didn’t have.

I parked near the front and shut off the engine. Silence settled for all of two seconds before another burst of machinery kicked up from inside.

Maybe if I stayed in the car long enough, the problem would heal itself. That wasn’t a mature thought, but it was comforting for one full moment.

Grabbing my sunglasses, I got out and tried to look like someone who could absolutely afford surprise repairs. The boots helped. So did the glasses. The tiny skirt didn’t exactly whisper “responsible vehicle owner,” but I’d committed to the bit.

A man stepped out from one of the bays, wiping his hands on a rag, and I nearly drooled on myself. He was exactly my type. Muscular and employed.

Shoulder-length wavy dark hair my fingers could get lost in. Tanned skin. Striking blue eyes. Grease on one forearm I wanted to rub clean with my body. Broad shoulders under a dark work shirt with the sleeves pushed toward his elbows. He glanced up, found me standing by my car in all my bad decisions, and just kept walking over like seeing a guy in a skirt was an everyday thing.