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Wordlessly, her eyes shining with suspicion, she lets me take it and enters the mostly empty car bay. One car wreck still rests, rusty and falling apart, in one corner, leftover from the past.
Light filters through the high-placed windows, rivers of gold pouring into the bay, spotlighting the one project, the one love I have in my life.
My Harley.
A jumble of rusty pipes and worn plastic. It’s an old one, a Nineties Sturgis machine that I bought with the money I’d saved from small extra jobs I did at the shop when I had the time—it was a given that Dad wouldn’t give me a single penny for the long hours I spent working for him.
This is the only thing I really own. It’s so broken down and trashed that the guy who sold it to me couldn’t believe his good luck, that some stupid boy would pay actual money for it.
For this bike that’s broken down and worthless, like me.
“So this is the bike,” she says, her voice quiet, and I can’t tell whether she’s amused or bored or in awe.
“That’s the one. Been working on it for years, on and off, whenever I get the time. I thought I’d have it all fixed and ready by now.” I walk around the bike to stroke the handles, then the old saddle I still haven’t managed to swap for a new one. “Some things got in the way.”
Things like murder attempts by my own dad, and discovering my mom’s bones. Uncovering a side door to my past I’m still not ready to walk through.
“You spend a lot of time here.”
I nod. Here, or on the roof, getting shitfaced. I slept here last week, but it was a one-off thing. Just like at the house, there are too many ghosts in here—of the other mechanics, of Dad, of myself, echoes of yelling, and cursing, and anger, and resentment.
For the longest time, I thought I’d end up a mechanic, like Dad. Work in this garage, maybe inherit it someday. I’d be in charge of this pla
ce, of the other mechanics. I’d be fair to them, I’d decided early on. I wouldn’t yell at them like dad did. I’d be different.
Yet somehow, I’m not.
Shaking off that thought, schooling my face into a blank mask, I prop the plastic bag by the bike, sit on the ripped seat and fold my arms over my chest. “I grew up in here, more than at that house. And now you know more about me than any other girl in town.”
Her brows go up, and the flush on her cheeks deepens. She’s so damn pretty it chokes me up, and then what I said sinks in.
Fuck, why did I open my big mouth? To cover it up, I grin at her widely, all teeth and attitude and pat my lap. “Come, sit on papa’s lap.”
“No, thanks. Why don’t you go find all those other girls, see if they’re interested.”
Annoyed at me.
As she should be, after the way I talked to her last time I saw her. Relieved, I let my grin fade—but the next moment she’s grabbing her plastic bag and turning her back on me, heading out.
Whoa, wait a minute. “Luna.” I almost fall on my face getting off the bike, the low-level dizziness that’s been plaguing me for the better part of the past two weeks doing a number on me. I press a hand to my burning ribs. “Don’t go yet.”
I don’t expect her to listen to me, to give a damn, so I’m startled to look up and find her right there, the anger gone from her eyes.
“What is it? You sound...bad.”
Bad? I sound terrible, I look worse, and I almost laugh at how fucked-up this is. “I’ll live.”
I thought I was okay today. After all, I’ve been going to work for the past couple of days and didn’t fall on my face or drop a ton of bricks on anyone.
Win.
Not that I had a choice. Headman threatened to let me go if I didn’t show up. He also demanded a doctor’s slip, and lacking that, he said he’d cut my wages.
“You’ll live? What does that mean?” That cute frown again. I fight the urge to smooth my thumb between her slender brows. “Why were you at the drugstore the other day? Are you okay?”
I shrug. “Were you worried?”
“No...?” Her voice lilts at the end, like a question, like she’s unsure.
