2. Dylan
Chapter 2
Dylan
E ver since our mom died, my twin sister, Cassie, and I have made it our mission to make sure nothing else is taken from our father, but the vandalism attacks are becoming more frequent, making me concerned for the future of our shop.
My Caucasian father married a Mexican immigrant back when that was not a cool thing to do. Instead of bringing the two communities together, we were shunned by both, but we managed to find a small corner in the world where people were too busy just trying to survive to care what went on in our house.
Until recently.
Just this morning I had to clean another racial slur off our glass window. At least my dad didn’t see this one. For as much as tolerance is preached these days, it’s rarely practiced.
Dad and I work eighty hours a week fixing cars while Cassie runs the office. Although my dad and I love American muscle, it’s the imports that pay the bills, so we became the best there are, which is why I’m not worried about fixing that Maserati.
I pull back into the shop’s parking lot and smile when I see my dad’s legs sticking out from under his project car. He gives it about an hour every day despite everything else we have going on.
“Hey, Pop. I’ve got those frozen tamales you like. You about ready for lunch?”
Dave’s Discount Mart is the only place that carries these anymore and I haven’t yet decided if the trip was worth the hassle. My dad flashes me a thumbs up, but doesn’t emerge. He’d forget to eat most days if we let him.
Pushing my way into the office, I see my sister typing something in the computer, and I hoist my bags up onto the counter next to her.
“Hey, Cass. Could you check the books and tell me when I can fit in a front quarter panel replacement on a Maserati?”
She looks up in disbelief. “You’re joking, right? You guys have jobs from here to Christmas.”
I’m grateful for the work and glad we’re not struggling to make ends meet like a lot of the places around here thanks to the rise in crime, but a day off every now and then would be cool.
“Yeah, well, this one’s gotta get done. I sort of backed into this douche who wasn’t watching where he was going. The Screaming Eagle did a number on the front-end.”
Cassie laughs, shaking her head and rolling her eyes as she starts flipping through the books. She thinks it’s ridiculous that I name my cars.
“If you put that McLaren on hold and if I can get the parts, you can do it next Thursday, but you’ll pulling fifteen-hour days through the weekend.”
I sigh. “Nothing new there. Thanks, Cass.”
“What year?”
“Shit. I don’t know. Looked new. I’ll text him and ask.”
Cassie nods and goes back to work while I carry the groceries into our small breakroom.
He typed his name into my phone as Jacob Ellington. I redid it and laugh when I pull up the contact.
Dylan 12:48pm
Hey, this is Dylan from Ryder Automotive. What year is the Maserati?
Maserati Douche 12:50pm
Hey Dylan. It’s this year’s model.
Dylan 12:51pm
Ok can you bring it by next Thursday?
Maserati Douche 12:52pm
Sure. What time?
Dylan 12:53pm
Doesn’t matter. I’ll have to keep it a few days though.
Maserati Douche 12:54pm
Okay. I’ll bring it by around 4.
The rest of the week, weekend, and start to the following week all pass by in a blur. I’ve lost most of the friends I had because I’m never free to hang out. I’m at the shop all day every day. Yet vandals still catch it during the hours I’m not here. And by the timeThursday rolls around it’s as if only twenty-four hours have passed.
I’m elbow deep in an engine block with my favorite rock band, Beautiful Deceit, blasting through the shop’s Bluetooth speakers when I see a flash of white in my peripheral vision. I shake my head. Who would buy that car in white? I quickly reign in the judgment, knowing all too well how it feels when people think they know you based on your name, your skin color, or what car you drive.
The memory of the car I backed into comes to the forefront of my mind quickly and I register the man who reminds me of a Calvin Klein model emerging from the driver’s side door.
His lean physique — like all he eats is salmon and broccoli — his light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and clean-shaven face all scream trust fund . He’s in another suit. The way it hits his wrists and ankles makes me pretty confident he had it custom tailored. I have to admit his jawline is sharper than mine. Maybe if mine looked like that, I wouldn’t hide it behind facial hair either, I muse .
Wiping my hands on my pants, I walk to the open garage bay to greet Jacob Ellington.
“Nice place,” he says, shaking my hand.
I want to bristle, but I don’t hear any sarcasm or condescension in his tone so I try to relax. What is it about this guy that sets me on edge?
“Thanks. You got the keys?” He places them in my hand, but hesitates with his fingertips resting on my palm before letting them go. “I’ll take good care of her. I promise,” I reassure him.
He shakes his head. “It’s just a car. I’m not worried about it.”
I snort. “Spoken like someone who has an extra hundred grand to lose.” Damn Dylan, calm the fuck down.
He’s looking at me like he did in the grocery store and I wish I knew what that look meant. His gaze is almost calculated, like he’s rehearsing every line in his head before saying it aloud. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising with the gesture inside his fancy suit.
“Spoken like someone who’s glad they didn’t drive their ’69 ‘Vette to Dave’s Discount Mart last Monday.”
My eyes bug out of my head at his statement. Less over the fact that he owns my dream car, and more over the fact that he seems to be aware of how much it’s worth. “You know cars.”
“I know a lot of things,” he replies defensively, calling into sharp relief my asshole attitude.
I blow out another breath feeling like this encounter needs to end before this guy decides he doesn’t want me touching his car and I end up owing him some outrageous price for dealership repairs.
They’d fuck this car up anyway.
“Right. Well, I’ll give you a call when she’s ready.”
I watch him climb into the passenger seat of an Audi SUV I hadn’t seen pull in behind him. A pretty woman with shoulder-length blonde hair sits at the wheel and smiles at him as he buckles up. I wonder what it’s like to have so much assurance and security in your life. I bet Jacob Ellington has never woken up wanting for anything.