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Releasing a long breath, I turn to face her.
“The truth?”
She rolls her eyes and nods. “If you’re capable of it, sure.”
Ignoring that jab, I run my fingers along the length of the pry bar I’m holding.
“I can’t stand being at that house. Especially when they’re all there. I prefer it here where it’s quiet… Well, I mean besides the music and loud tools and a few guys cussing when they’re fighting an engine. But still, quiet.”
Brinley stares at me for a few uncomfortable seconds, as if making up her mind about me. “You’re more at home here.”
I don’t enjoy the way she’s attempting to psychoanalyze me, so I turn my attention back to the car. “I’m at home in a lot of places.”
“Like?”
Another breath leaks out of me.
“Like street races and car shows. On a bike when there’s a long stretch of road and no traffic. When my dick is buried so far in a girl’s—”
“I’ve heard enough,” she says, cutting me off.
My lips twitch at that, and I shrug. “You wanted the truth.”
A few seconds of blessed silence and then, “That still doesn’t answer why I’m here.”
I glance at her from over my shoulder.
“Well, if you would have let me finish that last part…”
Her eyes narrow just like I thought they would. I’m beginning to love her angry glare just a little too much.
Crossing the room to a table, I drop the pry bar on the top, turn then lean against it. My fingers curl over the edge of the table from where I stare across at Brinley.
“Because I’m babysitting you.”
Her bottom jaw drops at that, then she closes her mouth and flashes me a look of disbelief. “Why do I need babysitting?”
A bark of laughter escapes my chest. “Because you don’t play well with the other kids, and nobody wants you in their sandbox. So I’m stuck with you.”
“Must suck for you,” she muses.
“It does.”
Grabbing a few more tools I need, I walk back to her car and prepare to strip off the old and worn CV boot.
“What are you doing to my car?” She doesn’t give me time to answer before, “Let me guess, you’re permanently destroying it so you can sell it for parts.”
Seriously, though. She’s watched way too much television.
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. As if this car is worth stripping for parts. The most I’d get is about twenty bucks for the scrap metal and a weird look from the junk guy when I claim any of this is valuable.
Without bothering to look at her, I ask, “By any chance does your car make a loud scraping sound when you turn a corner? Maybe a weird clicking or vibration?”
She’s quiet, and I know the answer before she has to admit it. Allowing her to process whatever crap is running through her head, I keep at what I’m doing without pressing her to say something.
It only takes about three minutes for her to finally respond. “Maybe.”
The boot is torn, so I strip it off, grease dripping all over my hands from the effort.
