8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Logan
Time spent in the Charger is bittersweet. While I toil over what the hell I'm going to say to Mac when I find her, memories creep in, uninvited. Different drives with Braden and Mac, though not as many as you'd think, considering how much Braden doted on this iron beauty. The car always felt more like his third limb than just a machine. Even now, she settles into the highway like she remembers him, like she’s searching for him too. The weight in my chest tightens.
A sign flashes past—some flower festival near Mt. Vernon. Fields of tulips stretch out in the distance, divided into endless rows of red, yellow and purple. I can see it clear as day—Mac, old Mac, spinning through them with her arms outstretched, laughing, taking in the colors like they were made just for her. Before Braden or I did something dumb to piss her off. Then she’d turn, all claws, feet, and teeth—more cat than girl, hissing and snapping like we weren’t her favorite people in the world five minutes ago. I fight a smirk, but it fades fast.
The cassette clicks, the end of the tape snapping me back to the present. I reach for another, slipping it in. A crackle, then a hiss, and Black Sabbath rumbles through the speakers, followed by a few other classics, distorted and aged. The sound is rough, raw—so goddamn fitting it makes my gut clench.
For a second, just a second, I forget. Then the realization slams back into me like a freight train. I half expect Braden to be here, bitching at me for touching his shit, giving me that smug-ass smirk because he knows damn well I’d never have the balls to take his baby out when he was alive. My stomach drops.
He’s not here.
The potholes in the road match my goddamn mood, up and down, rattling me straight through.
I grip the wheel tighter, my jaw clenching. None of this fucking matters if I don’t find Mac. If I don’t figure out what’s going on. Why she’s avoiding my calls. Why she’s shutting me out after everything we’ve been through.
My foot presses heavier on the gas.
I’m coming for you, angel.
Going through Seattle, things get a little hairy when a couple of Karens and Kyles decide to ride my ass, then pull up to pass, flipping me the bird like I’m the asshole.
I grip the wheel, fuming. I can speed too, putás, but I’m not gonna ding this baby.
It’s like I can feel Braden’s ghost staring at me in shock, waiting for me to escalate things. I roll my eyes. I’m not that insecure, amigo.
So what if, while thinking this, I shift gears, my foot gradually pressing down? The car trembles with excitement beneath me, the music fading beneath the clapping thrums of the engine doing its thing.
Karen’s Opel doesn’t stand a chance—I pass her like she’s standing still. Kyle in his F-150 hears me coming and threatens to cut in front, but I take the feint, shifting to lane three, then diving into the first, slipping past with effortless precision.
Highway patrols are dotted along the roads, so after a few miles, I ease off and take in the views. The emerald ocean of the state forest stretches endlessly beside me before the highway bends alongside the Columbia River. Portland is finally within reach.
And that’s when it really hits me. I have no fucking clue what I’m gonna say to Mac when I find her.
My phone chimes. Slipping in a wireless earbud, I tap to connect, waiting a beat for Bluetooth to wake the hell up.
“—ck you at, man?”
“Sorry, earphone was connecting. Shit, did I drop the call?” I adjust the bud, making sure not to accidentally hang up.
“No, we good. What’s going on? What’s this about Braden’s cell Chace was rambling on about?” Sam’s voice is rough, like he just woke up after a night of whiskey and bad decisions.
“It was Mac,” I say, gripping the wheel tighter. “She gave us the slip, bro.”
“The fuck that mean?” Sam’s instantly more awake.
“I got back to their place. No one was home. The place was clean—not a disaster like I expected.” I hesitate, my fingers tightening on the leather. “I found a note on the bed. Just one word—‘Sorry.’”
“What the fuck, Mac… that sounds like—”
“Yeah,” I cut in. “I thought the same thing when I saw it.”
Sam exhales sharply. “But she wasn’t there?”
“No. She’s in Portland.”
“The fuck she doing in Portland?”
“I have no idea, bro. Maybe she’s got friends there? A spa? A retreat? Something?”
“It’s Mac, man. She doesn’t exactly strike me as the ‘spa weekend’ type.”
I snort. “Yeah. Either way, I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“You’re in Braden’s baby, aren’t you?”
A small grin tugs at my lips. “You can hear her purring, huh?”
“Unlike that goddamn rice racer you usually ride? That’s American muscle, man. You can hear her from a mile away—she’s gonna hear you coming.”
That thought lands like a punch to the gut. If she hears me—sees me—is she gonna run?
I curse under my breath. “You’re giving me other shit to worry about now, man.”
“Just keeping it real.”
I grumble at Sam’s so-called realism.
“Huh. You think she’s into micro-breweries?”
“What? Why?” I ask, thrown by the sudden topic shift.
“Looking online. Apparently, Portland’s got a shit-ton of them. Some eco-friendly, hipster haven kinda places.”
“Right. That totally sounds like Mac,” I deadpan.
Sam chuckles. “Alright, whatever. You’ll find out soon enough.”
I sigh. “How’s Phil taking all this?”
A dark laugh crackles over the line. “Phil’s losing his goddamn mind. Contracts, agreements, expectations—you know, the usual disappointment speech. He wanted you in a studio yesterday. That cover last night? Blew up, bro. Like, seriously. I don’t even know if we can call it a cover—it was something else.”
“Fucking Phil,” I mutter. Then, softer, “And thanks, man.”
“Anytime.”
I glance at the road sign. Portland, 20 miles.
“I’ll call you when I find her,” I say.
“Alright, brother. Take it easy. I’m gonna go throw something at Trey.”
A smirk tugs at my lips as the call disconnects.
Twenty minutes to go.
And then I’ll have to face whatever the hell I find.
I have a real surreal moment just before crossing into Oregon when the I-5 takes me through Vancouver, Washington.
Get your own fucking names, I grumble, gripping the wheel tighter. For miles, I feel completely disoriented, not a hundred percent sure I’m even in the right place. The confusion sticks with me all the way into Portland, my head still in a fucking state as I turn onto the 405 Stadium Fairway.
The Willamette River slides beneath me, slow and steady, as I trundle forward.
Portland’s got a lot more green than I expected, trees growing up between high-rises like nature is trying to reclaim the city. I half-expected to stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of silent Priuses, but there are plenty of normal gas-guzzlers crowding the roads too. Still, I might’ve gotten off the I-5 too soon—I’m gonna have to meander through city traffic to get to Old Town, where Mac was last seen.
Faded lampposts with Victorian-style heads line the streets, giving me flashes of Gastown back home, their ornate designs a little out of place against the grittier parts of the city. Coffee shops and so-called “taverns” dot nearly every block. If you ever asked someone out for coffee here, you’d better have a go-to spot, or it’d take all damn day to pick one.
Not that I’m here for a coffee date.
The GPS chimes, announcing I’ve arrived.
I glance at the pin on the map, my stomach tensing. Mac’s last known location.
It’s a nondescript street, one of those places that could be anywhere in America. There’s an old-school auto shop right where the pin dropped and a diner a little further down. Perfect. I can park the Charger by the shop, let it blend in, and skulk around on foot.
That way, at least, she won’t hear the old girl prowling and bolt before I even lay eyes on her.
Fuck.
I’m here now. No turning back.
One of the mechanics thuds toward me, wiping grease-streaked hands on a rag. He’s built like a linebacker, his expression quizzical as he takes me in.
The shop looks like it’s been plucked straight out of the ’80s—faded signage, oil-streaked windows, the faint tang of gasoline in the air. Out front sits a shiny red Porsche that looks like it doesn’t belong. The thing smells like it just came off a track, heat still radiating from the hood.
“First time out in a while?” the guy rumbles, eyeing the Charger.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“She’s a beauty. Service?”
I exhale, debating. “Not sure how long I’ll be in town.”
He considers this, then shrugs. “Won’t take long. Theirs is done.” He jerks a thumb toward the Porsche. “Might as well. Safer.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Alright, man. Probably just needs some water in the radiator. Hasn’t been out much.”
“Shame,” he says, nodding in understanding. Then, with a sharp whistle, two skinny teens bolt out of the shop like a pit crew, one carrying seat covers, the other reaching for my keys. They move fast, too fast.
It takes me a second to process.
I offer my hand. “Logan.”
The big guy grips it firmly. “Si.”
“I’ll leave her in your care.”
“Logbook?”
I nod toward the glovebox. “Should be in there. Neat stack of cassettes next to it.”
He raises a brow but says nothing, disappearing inside.
I loiter for a minute, shifting my weight as I take in the street. Mac was here. Not long ago. That means I’m close.
Si returns, wiping his hands. “Steering columns loose. Wheel bearing needs work. Rust spots. Radiator’s almost shot.”
My stomach sinks with every word.
“How long to fix it?”
“Parts take time, but I can make her roadworthy in a few hours.”
I hesitate. I don’t have a few hours.
“I’m on a time crunch,” I admit. “Looking for someone.”
Si studies me for a long beat. Then, finally, he jerks his chin toward the diner down the street. “You good. Go.”
Behind him, the Charger disappears into the shop.
My stomach growls, and I realize I’d fucking kill for something to eat right now.
Guess I’ll start at the diner.
The diner is exactly what I expected—checkered floors, neon lights buzzing faintly, and booths packed with napkin dispensers and enough condiments to start a small war. It smells like bacon and fresh coffee, which is a fucking relief. Everywhere else in Portland feels like a vegan retreat, but this place? This place feels tried and true.
I slide into a booth near the back, keeping my hat low, and grab a menu. Before I can even decide what I want, a woman shuffles over, her name tag reading Patty. She’s got one of those ageless faces—could be mid-forties, maybe fifties—but her smile is warm, her voice welcoming.
“What can I get you, hon?”
I hesitate, still scanning the menu. “Uh, I was just gonna see what you have on, Ma’am.”
She waves me off like I’m wasting her time. “Tell you what, sugar, how about I sit you down with a nice half-stack of pancakes, bacon, and eggs? And a coffee.”
“That sounds like heaven.”
She grins. “We also got a real good peach pie or coconut cream pie.”
“Don’t you tempt me now.” I chuckle. “I’ll take your first offer, please.”
She beams as she pours me a steaming mug of coffee. I take that first sip, the scalding liquid hitting just right, warming me from the inside out.
“So, what brings you to this part of town, honey?”
Something about her mannerisms, the calm knowing way she looks at me, reminds me of my abuela. God rest her soul.
I grin, setting my cup down. “Just waiting on a mechanic. But I’m also looking for some family around here.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Family, huh? I’m guessing that means you left your ride with Si? That big, beautiful bear of a man.” She gives me a look, studying me like she’s trying to read my soul. Then she smirks. “You look like… you drive, hmm…” She taps her chin, considering. “I wanna say muscle car, but you got a biker look about you.”
I blink. “H-how did you—?”
She beams, pleased with herself. “Knew it. I got a sense for these things.”
I shake my head, laughing. I didn’t think I’d come to Portland and meet a bruja.
“What car is it?”
“A friend’s. ‘69 Charger.”
Patty makes a little “o” shape with her mouth. “That’ll keep him busy. Charger, huh? Bet he’s grinning ear to ear like a kid in a candy store.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Alright, let me get your order in, and once you’ve eaten, we’ll talk about your family, alright, hon?”
I’m not about to question the bruja’s motives, but the promise of food is too good to pass up. I nod, sipping my coffee, my stomach already rumbling in anticipation.
I check my phone, then Braden’s. A text flashes up from Trey—a chaotic string of emojis that make absolutely no sense. Does Trey even know what the fuck he’s saying half the time?
Links start flooding in, lighting up my screen. Clips from TikTok, asking if I want to open in a browser or install the app. Absolutely not. I’m never using that time-wasting bullshit. Another ding—YouTube this time.
I try to ignore it as my food arrives, but somehow, my thumb betrays me, tapping one of the links.
A video pops up—me on stage, acoustic in hand, the crowd screaming.
My stomach twists as I fumble with the volume, muting it before more people start looking. My face burns as I shove my phone aside, reaching for my fork instead.
The pancakes are perfect, the bacon savory enough to hit just right with the melting nub of butter. I drown it all in syrup, watching as it soaks into the fluffy stack. The eggs, though—they’re not the daffodil yellow I expect. They’re paler, almost delicate. I frown, take a bite…and stop.
Dios mío.
Eggs. Fucking eggs.
I don’t know what kind of sorcery Patty’s got back there, but these are the best damn eggs I’ve ever had. Creamy, light, full of flavor. I don’t even like eggs that much, but I’d fight someone for another plate of these.
I’m going to have to thank the chef. Or the grill cook. Or—no. I’ll tell Patty. She’ll appreciate it. I’m already planning a damn good tip.
For a moment, I forget why I’m here, why I’m sitting in this booth at all.
Then Braden’s phone buzzes in my palm, snapping me back to reality.
The door swings open behind me, and Patty calls out—
“Oh, heavens! Look what the cat dragged in.”
I turn from my empty plate, my pulse spiking.
And then I see—
No.
No fucking way.