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Heather
“I’m not sure that’s the problem.”
I wasn’t going to take his bait.
If my brothers were the ones fixing this man’s cruddy bike, he wouldn’t have questioned what they told them. Of course, they were six and a half feet tall and strapped with muscles and attitude, and I… was only five feet and four inches of scrappy aggravation.
“Look, I’m not paying you to tell me I lay too hard on the gear shift, and that’s why it falls off, is there someone else who can take a look at this?” He was raising his voice to intimidate me, but I didn’t have it. Rolling my eyes, I wiped my greasy hands off onto the towel on my shoulder.
“Your bike is fine. Your gear shift and the bolt that holds it on are good, but if you keep laying on it like that, the gear shift is going to keep slipping off. This is a forty-year-old bike. Unless you want to fully replace the gear shift - which would set you back more than your bike is worth - pay attention to how much pressure you’re putting on it.”
He withered a little in disgust.
“You can’t talk to me like this. You need the customers; you can’t just treat me like shit.”
“Give me the sixty for the work, and then get out of my shop. I don’t want you back here.”
He said something else, but I didn’t have time to roll my eyes before noticing someone behind him that made my blood run cold.
That sandy blond hair and those dark eyes – I recognized them.
He was exactly who I thought he was, right? Who else could that be? My stomach turned in knots, and I could feel my mind tracing back to those premonitions I’d ignored as simple dreams before.
He was standing there in the back of the parking lot, leaned against a light pole like he’d been watching me for hours. The wind that moved the trees also moved his shirt and hair.
This was real.
How?
My mouth fell open, and I knew I had to say something, but I wasn’t sure what.
Rough, sudden, and probably harder than he intended: the customer shoved my arm. “Listen, if you’re going to ignore me, I’m going to get my keys b-”
“What the fuck, back off.”
Planting my hands squarely in the center of the customer’s chest, I shoved him hard away from me. He yelped in surprise and fell backward, almost taking his bike down with him. A tin of oil fell over from his commotion and started soaking into his pants leg.
“Don’t touch me,” I hissed at him. His face turned a weird angry shade of deep red, so I stepped closer. “Pay me what I’m owed, or I’ll have the cops out here.”
Half of the customers there were shady; I didn’t need to know anything about him to know this was a button I could push.
“Wait, you don’t have to call the police.”
“Your total is sixty for the work and fifteen for the oil you knocked over when you laid hands on me. Pay, and I’ll give your keys back.”
With his pride damaged, looking ashamed, the customer stood up slowly and reached for his wallet. I glanced over to the guy I saw behind him, but the blond man was gone. Somehow seeing the stranger that was in the back of the lot vanish made this worse.
What was that?
My stomach shifted uncomfortably. As the customer left, I slumped down onto a bench instead of clearing up my workspace. I wasn’t terrified of blond guys or anything, I dated my fair share of men, but his face had popped in and out of my consciousness since I was a kid.
It terrified me.
Most of my visions weren’t as straightforward as him.
They weren’t as violent.
