Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
REBEL
The overhead fan in the garage makes a loud ‘whup, whup’ sound with every rotation. I glance at it and then adjust the standing fan behind me, turning the speed up a notch.
Nothing helps. I’m still blisteringly hot.
As a rock song rages in my headphones, I drop a car battery into place and pull out the left battery clamp from the tangle of wires.
My pink gloves are a bright contrast to the dusty, worn innards of the car. Normally, the sight of my gloves in the middle of an engine is enough to lift my spirits.
But not today.
With jerky movements, I fasten the clamp against the battery pole.
And then I freeze.
The battery needs two clamps to charge the engine.
I’ve got one.
Where’s the other?
My mouth tightens when I realize I’ve misplaced the right battery pole. What on earth…
I gently tug wires out of the way so I can see better, but that causes another problem. The client took this car to so many mechanics that the wiring is a colossal mess.
Duct-tape was the previous mechanic’s glue of choice. An empty plastic bottle wedged against the front of the hood keeps the battery from shaking in the engine. So many other modifications have been made. It’s a mad house.
“You can’t be serious,” I snarl at the engine.
“What happened?” My best friend’s voice pulls me from my sullen thoughts. April walks into my line of sight, wiping her hands on her navy jumper.
“I can’t find the stinkin’ pole.”
April’s eyes circle the hood of the vehicle and travel inquiringly back to me.
I point like a child tattling on a sibling. “It was there when I started. It’s not there any more. Where did it go? It’s not like an entire battery clamp can sprout legs and walk away.”
April chews on the inside of her cheek, studying me intently.
I pretend not to notice and return to rummaging around the wires. Finally, I spot the clamp, attach it to the battery pole and wedge the plastic bottle in place to keep the battery steady.
Stomping around to the driver’s door, I bend my head in, flick the key in the ignition and hear the blessed sound of the engine turning over. Next, I smack the lever beneath the steering wheel once, then twice, testing each of the lights.
The bulb I replaced works perfectly.
“It’s good,” April says, confirming that the job is complete.
“At least one thing is working out today,” I mumble, shutting down the engine and backing away from the car.
April follows me as I storm to the sink and tear off my gloves. Lathering my hands with soap, I wash off the grime from my skin.
“Are you upset because of the interviews this morning?”
“No,” I grumble. And then I add, “Well, I’m not happy that we wasted our time. We took the entire morning off, and we still couldn’t find one decent technician.”
April wilts against the sink. “I admit, it’s discouraging. Not every mechanic has to love diagnosis like we do, but I wish we could find ones who were willing to learn.”
“They don’t understand how we make money doing things our way. Diagnosis is hard,” I remind her. “Mechanics get paid for the job done, so if it takes a technician months to figure out what the problem is for one car, they think they’ll go hungry.”
“But people are willing to pay more for that kind of solution.” April scrunches her nose. “I really thought that young guy from the next town over was promising.”
I shake my hands out at the sink, careful not to get any splatter on April. Reaching for the pink towels folded nearby, I add, “It’s better that he ghosted us. I could tell that he wouldn’t respect us if he worked here.”
April groans. “Why is it so hard to find a mechanic willing to work in our shop?”
“Probably because it’s our shop.”
“I refuse to believe that men won’t join our garage simply because we’re women. What about Dalton? He and his welding crew have no problem when we call them for work.”
I open the mini-fridge and take out two cans of pink lemonade. Handing one over to her, I respond, “Dalton owns his own business so, technically, he’s not working as our employee.”
“You have a point.”
I crack open the tab. The refreshing pink lemonade feels cool against my hand. Just inhaling the scent of the drink makes me feel a bit cooler.
“Running a business is hard,” April whines. “I just want to fix cars.”
“Cheers to that.” I clink my can of pink lemonade against hers.
April takes a sip and sinks into the chair next to me. “It’s like we can’t catch a break. First, we didn’t have customers because everyone was loyal to Stewart Kinsey. Now, we have too many customers, but no decent technician wants to work with us because of Stewart Kinsey.”
“Anyone who decides to join us would be joining our war against the Kinseys. They’re just protecting their own.”
“I thought the public wouldn’t have to choose sides since you and Gunner got together. Isn’t your relationship a sign of a truce?”
I stiffen at the mention of the six-foot-five hockey menace who backed me up against my car this afternoon.
April taps her oil-stained, blistered fingers against the can. “You two might not be dating for real, but the town has no idea. You seem really natural together. Plus everyone knows you ate lunch with Gunner at The Tuna today.”
“What?” I screech.
April seems surprised by my response. “Photos of you were all over the neighborhood group chat. I was waiting for you to tell me.”
“Tell you what? There were no free tables, so I sat with him. It wasn’t a big deal.” I huff out a breath. “This town is so nosy. I can’t believe lunch with Gunner made it to the neighborhood group chat.” I plunk my pink lemonade on the ground. “I get why everyone was posting about you and Chance, but Gunner and I are normal people. What’s with the town scrutiny?”
“You and Gunner are not normal people. He’s a Kinsey. If Lucky Falls were a fairytale kingdom, he’d be the prince. And you are the most beautiful belle in the land.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. Plus, you and Gunner are known for being enemies. Of course people are interested in how you two relate now.”
“We’re not the town’s entertainment.”
“You kind of are.” April pulls down her clip and her long, straight hair spills around her shoulders. “If it makes you feel any better, at least no one is writing about how you aren’t ‘good enough’ like they did with me and Chance. The old ladies like you and Gunner a lot. They say you have chemistry.”
“Chemistry?” I guffaw. “Animosity. Hatred. Disdain. Sure, we have that. But we don’t have chemistry.”
As I speak, I remember Gunner leaning over me, his dark hair just begging for my fingers to run through it. His lips, firm. His gaze, potent . I’d been struck dumb by the look in his eyes. How did he do that? It’s like he went to the Bad Boy School of Eye Smoldering.
Aggravated, I pick up the pink lemonade again and cough when it goes down the wrong pipe.
“Take it easy, Rebel.” April pats my back until the coughing subsides.
I pinch my nose to stop the burn in my nostrils. Stupid Gunner. He keeps saying weird, confusing things.
You’re my responsibility and I’ve got your back.
Yeah, right.
The only thing a Kinsey will do to my back is stick a knife in it.
“April,” I wheeze, still recovering from my coughing fit, “I need your help.”
My best friend offers me a napkin.
I take it and wipe my mouth dry. “How do you tick off your boyfriend?”
“How do I…” Her eyes narrow at me. “What?”
I made a total fool of myself because Gunner gave me the impression that he’d kiss me. The shame still makes my cheeks burn. I have to get him back for that.
But Gunner’s so unflappable. I bet he could hammer his own thumb by mistake and he wouldn’t holler. That’s how unbothered he is.
“Pretend that you and Chance are in a fight. What’s something that would really get under his skin?”
“Are you trying to get under Gunner’s skin?”
Heat creeps to my cheeks. Why does it sound scandalous when she says it like that? “Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I set the pink lemonade aside and hop to my feet.
April laughs. “Did Gunner say something to upset you? Is that why you’re asking?”
I shake my head and walk over to the car.
“Fine. Fine. Let me think.” She jogs toward me and taps her chin in thought. “Chance is really easy-going so not much bothers him, but…”
“But?”
“He does have this weird thing about his jersey,” April says.
I lean forward. “What about his jersey? Like he can’t stand when it’s dirty?”
A million ideas populate in my mind. I can sneak into the stadium, steal Gunner’s jersey and spray it with fish oil. Better yet, if he has lucky socks or a lucky charm of some sort, I can steal it and…
“No,” April corrects me, her pink lips stretching into a knowing smile. “Like he has this thing about me wearing his jersey. I think it would really tick him off if he saw me in another player’s merch.”
Another player’s jersey?
A lightbulb goes off in my head.
“Does that help?” April watches me nervously, as if she can sense that I’m about to wreak havoc and she’s not sure she made the right choice.
I nod and get back to work, while internally twirling my villain moustache and rubbing my hands together in glee.