Chapter Nine
Zane
The sun’s already up when I jerk awake.
The bench under me is hard as shit, my spines twisted wrong, neck aching from slumping too long against the rusted pole.
The bus stop’s dead quiet, nothing but the groan of traffic bleeding through the distance.
There’s a bottle cap under my boot, a smear of old gum dried on the concrete by my hand. A trash corner of the world, and somehow it fits.
Perfect place for a guy like me.
My mouth is sour, stale from sleep and the storm that ripped through me last night.
Every swallow tastes like rust. I drag my hands down my face, palms scraping over grit that never leaves.
My shirt hangs heavy on me, creased and stiff from wearing it too long.
The bench digs into my back, unforgiving, but I don’t move.
Moving feels worse. Moving means thinking.
Both bags are still with me.
The pack with my money is practically glued to my side, every strap pulled tight, every zipper checked more than once. The other sits at my feet, cords wrapped around my boots so no one can touch it without taking me too.
My body’s stiff, legs numb, but the ache in my chest drowns it all out. I breathe through it, forcing the air to scrape past the knot in my throat. Out here, I’m not trapped in their walls.
Out here, there’s no one watching me, no one pulling at the parts of me I can’t keep locked down.
Morning traffic groans, rolling past without ever slowing down.
Somewhere, people are dragging themselves out of bed, pouring coffee, getting ready to face the day. Their lives keep moving, simple and steady, while mine sits stalled on a busted bench.
I didn’t even make it to the workshop. Just sat here and let the night bleed into morning, watching the world drift past me.
Great start to this new fucking life.
I’d told myself I’d go straight there, find Rainer, ask if I could start my job full time now instead of waiting three weeks. But somewhere between Dolores and the corner past the liquor store, my feet stopped dead.
I dropped onto this bench under the busted glass of the bus shelter and stayed.
I couldn’t drag myself through that door yet.
I needed to sit in the cold, to understand what it means to have nothing over my head.
My eyes burn. Sleep, guilt, her—all of it grinding behind my lids until they’re raw.
Skylar’s face wouldn’t leave my head last night. The way she stared at me, as if I was worth something. How it shattered when I threw the cruel words at her, told her she was nothing but a mouth around my cock.
I swallow hard, bile clawing up my throat until it scorches. The taste sits there, bitter and permanent. There’s no taking that back. No way to touch her without causing her more pain.
I shove myself upright, every muscle stiff from the night. My spine cracks, knees creak, and a low groan slips out before I can choke it back. What I need is a shower, a coffee, maybe a new soul.
Two out of three might be possible.
The workshop’s a twenty-minute walk from here. I drag the backpack strap over one shoulder, fist tight on the laundry bag so it doesn’t slip, and start moving.
The streets buzz around me with early workers, delivery vans, kids in uniforms shoving past each other, all of them with places to be. I keep my head down and keep walking.
The mirror in the corner shop window catches me, and I almost don’t recognize the wreck staring back.
Bloodshot eyes, face hollow, jaw rough with stubble. Hair sticking out in every wrong direction. Shirt creased, stained, clinging to the proof I spent the night on a bench instead of a bed.
I keep walking.
His place sits at the edge of the industrial strip, brick faded, roller door scarred, a peeling sign that still manages to shout Rainer’s Custom Restorations.
The smell hits before I even touch the door. Oil. Steel. Dust. It sinks into your skin, into your lungs, and tells you this is real work, not bullshit.
I stop outside, hand tight on the strap of my bag, every ounce of weight pressing down harder than the canvas on my shoulder.
This is it.
No turning back. No Dolores. No classrooms. No Skylar.
Just this.
I press my palm to the metal door and shove it open.
Light slants in through high windows, cutting across the shop floor in sharp bands. Machines line the walls, hulks of rusted frames waiting to be torn apart and built back again. The air is humming with heat, and the faint sting of burnt metal.
Rainer is at the back, bent over his bench, torch flaring blue, sparks bursting off the steel in showers of fire against the concrete.
The sight makes me breathe better—it’s work, it’s purpose, it’s the kind of place a man can bury himself and not be dragged out.
When the door shuts behind me with a thud, he looks up. Torch clicks off, goggles shoved to his forehead.
He studies me in the kind of silence that makes your skin itch. His eyes sweep slowly, from my face to the crumpled shirt, the backpack strap, down to the laundry bag at my side.
“Shit, kid.” His voice carries across the space, rough as gravel. He sets the tool down, wipes his hands across a grease-stained rag. “You sleep in a gutter?”
“Close enough.” My voice comes out raw, throat scraped from the night. “Bench by the bus stop.”
Rainer studies me for a beat longer, then jerks his chin toward the back wall.
“There's a room upstairs if you want it.”
I nod once. “Thanks, that would be great.”
He doesn’t ask anything.
No why, no how, no if I’ve thought this through. He heads for the small office at the side of the shop. The air in there is different, a mix of coffee gone bitter and old paper. Hooks line the wall above the desk, keys dangling from them like scraps of freedom waiting to be claimed.
He reaches up, grabs one and tosses it across the space.
I catch it one-handed. The metal hits my palm, edges biting into my skin. It isn’t just a key. It’s a lifeline.
“Upstairs, back corner.” His voice is flat, all business. “Mattress isn’t much, but it’s clean. Shower’s through the steel door. Fridge works, but I’m not sure for how long.”
The words land like a checklist, but they feel like more than that. A door cracked open. A place to stand.
“Thanks.” The word comes out thin, not nearly enough for what he just handed me.
I pause too long.
Rainer tilts his head, eyes narrowing the way they do when he’s measuring up a piece of metal. “What’s on your mind, kid?”
I swallow, forcing the words out. “Can I start early?”
His brow lifts. “How early are we talking?”
“Now.”
“Unload your shit. Get cleaned up. Then come back down.” He turns toward his bench, voice flat but solid. “Got some parts that need sorting. Could use your eye on it.”
I grip the key tighter, metal digging into my palm, and head for the narrow stairs at the back of the workshop.
My boots echo against the steel with every step as I climb, the sound too loud in the quiet above.
The room is bigger than I expected.
One window set high in the wall, glass smeared with dust but still letting in enough light.
A single bed shoved against the far corner, mattress thin but flat. A crooked chair sits hunched in the opposite corner.
On the sill, a chipped mug, left behind by someone who probably walked out and never looked back.
That’s it.
Empty space and bare walls. But it’s mine.
For the first time, the room is mine.
No bunks stacked three high, no kids fighting over space that never belonged to us. Just four walls and a door that shuts.
It’s almost clean compared to everything I’ve known. I drop the backpack in the corner, no blanket needed to hide it, no hands waiting to pry it open and steal what’s inside. The laundry bag thuds down beside it.
The silence presses in, but it doesn’t feel empty. It’s solid. It’s a fucking chance.
Dolores won’t notice as long as the check keeps showing up. The state won’t care. School never gave me anything but hours to kill and rules to break. This is my shot, if I can keep my head down and make it stick.
But behind all of it sits Skylar.
The first girl who ever made me feel something I couldn’t shut off. She doesn’t know I’m gone yet. When she figures it out, she’ll think I used her. She’ll hate me, and that’s the way it has to be. Hate will keep her out of reach.
I move towards the bathroom with the steel door.
Inside, a bare fluorescent tube hums above, spilling hard white light over cracked tiles and rust-stained sinks.
I twist the tap.
Cold water gushes out. I lean in and splash it over my face. The chill bites into my skin, slides down my neck, and soaks into the collar of my shirt.
For a second, it shocks me awake. I cup my hands, take a quick drink.
Rainer’s workshop waits below, the clink of tools pulling me forward.
Downstairs, the workshop hums with low music from a radio buried somewhere in the back. Rainer’s at the bench, torch lit, sparks spitting as he fuses metal.
I hang back a few feet, waiting him out.
A moment later, the torch dies with a hiss. He pushes the goggles up, eyes shifting to me.
“Room okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Better than okay.”
He wipes his hands on a rag and nods once. “Good. You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t.”
Rainer leans back against the bench, arms crossing over his chest.
“What’s on your mind, kid?”
The air thick with oil and heat is heavy in my throat when I drag in a breath.
“The apprenticeship you talked about. You said it starts when I’m eighteen.”
“That’s the deal.”
“What if I start now?” The words are out before I can stop them. “I’m done with school. Been done for a long time. I just need a reason to stay out.”
Rainer studies me without a word. His gaze is steady, weighing me, no pity in it, no disgust either. Nothing but measuring.
“You’re still on the books. State won’t let you quit before you’re eighteen unless you’ve got a job lined up.”
“I’m standing in a workshop with a job lined up.” My teeth grind together. “I’ll work. I’ll be here every day. I’ll learn whatever you throw at me. You won’t have to babysit me. Just give me a shot.”
His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile. “You in trouble?”
“No.” My eyes flick away, then back to his. “I’m done. That’s it.”
He shifts his weight, rag twisting in his hands. “You’ll have to work your ass off. This isn’t a charity gig. You’ll be on your feet all day. No whining. No excuses.”
“I don’t make excuses.” My voice hardens. “I just need a way out. Out of that house. Out of that school. Out of all of it.”
He exhales through his nose, slow. “Fine. You start now. No pay until the books say you’re legal, but I’ll feed you and keep a roof over your head. You’ll shadow me, clean up, learn the basics. When you hit eighteen, the real apprenticeship starts. You screw up before then, you’re gone.”
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost give.
“I won’t screw up.”
“Good.” He drops the rag on the bench. “There’s a stack of parts in the corner that need sorting. Start there. Wash your hands first. You look like you crawled out of a ditch.”
“Bus stop.”
He snorts. “Then wash twice.”
I nod and head for the sink tucked against the far wall. The tap groans before water spills out, running brown until it clears. I scrub hard, knuckles raw, watching the dirt peel off in dark streaks that swirl down the drain.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, something inside me eases—only a fraction, but enough to feel it.
I dry my hands on a rag, grab the first part from the pile, and get to work.
Hours pass in a grind of bolts, rust, and grease.
My fingers ache, my shoulders burn, but I keep going. Piece after piece, I sort, wipe down, stack. The rhythm steadies me in a way nothing else does. Metal in, metal out.
At some point, Rainer steps in beside me, checks my progress without a word. He doesn’t hand out praise, but he doesn’t correct me either. That’s enough.
Before he leaves for the night, he tosses me a couple of hot pockets from the mini freezer and tells me to lock the door behind him, saying he’ll see me in the morning.
When he’s gone, it’s me alone with the machines.
The workshop settles into silence once he’s gone. The only sounds left are the scrape of metal in my hands and the rasp of my breath.
I keep working.
My back knots, shoulders tight, fingers burning from the grind, but I don’t stop. Not yet. The ache is better than the thoughts waiting to tear through me if I slow down.
Every piece I wipe down, every bolt I line up, keeps my head steady.
By the time I drop the last piece onto the stack, the clock on the wall creeps past midnight.
My hands are raw, grease carved deep into the cracks of my skin, nails blackened. My stomach growls, dragging my eyes to the two frozen hot pockets Rainer tossed me.
I peel one open and shove it in the microwave tucked near the back wall.
The machine buzzes loudly in the quiet; the smell of pastry and meat fills the workshop. When the bell rings, I wrap both hot pockets in paper towels, and head for the stairs.
The climb upstairs is slow, every step dragging me lower with exhaustion, but I don’t fight it.
For once the ache feels earned. My arms throb, my back screams, my legs are heavy beneath me, but when I glance back at the sorted piles, something inside me settles.
Order where there was none. Proof I didn’t waste the hours. Proof I can do this.
In the room, I set the hot pockets down on the bed, heat seeping through the paper towels. I strip down to my underwear, tossing my clothes in a heap on the floor, too drained to care where they land.
I duck into the bathroom and scrub my hands under the cold tap until the sting bites at my skin.
When I come back, I drop onto the mattress and tear into the first hot pocket. The pastry flakes, the filling burns my tongue, but I don’t care. I finish it fast. By the time I finish the second one, my eyes are already shutting.
I fall back against the pillow, stomach warm, body wrecked. Sleep takes me before I can even breathe out.