2. Blair
2
BLAIR
" W ell, fuckity fucking shit. Matt, you see that rear differential?"
I slide out from under the old Ford, wiping grease off my hands with a rag.
Matt's legs are still sticking out from under the truck. "Yup, my thoughts exactly."
"Mr. Johnson's been driving this thing since before I was born." I lean against the workbench, calculating costs in my head. "We're looking at new seals, bearings, and probably a fluid flush."
Matt rolls out, wipes his face with the back of his hand, and smears grease along his forehead. "That's gonna cost a pretty penny. Can the old man afford it?"
No, he definitely can't. I shrug. "Probably not. But we'll figure something out." There's really no option but to fix it. He needs that truck to keep shit running at his farm.
Matt gives me a look that makes me want to stick a finger up his nose. "Blair, you can't keep doing work at cost. We've got bills to pay too, you know."
"Has your paycheck ever bounced, asshole? My bills always get paid. Just not on the backs of folks who can barely make ends meet."
Matt sits up, giving me that look I've seen a lot since my dad died. "How about actually making a living?"
I snort. "So I can buy what exactly? I don't need anything. My truck runs, I have a roof over my head, and enough money to have a little fun with once in a while. I don't need to gouge anyone."
"I guess I better get my resume polished up for when this place goes under," he grumbles.
"I'll write you a glowing recommendation." I toss him a clean rag. "Now, get back under there and double-check those brake lines. I thought I saw a leak."
Matt mock salutes. "Yes, ma'am." The man is determined to annoy the shit out of me but he’s out of luck. I’m good.
As he disappears under the truck again, I start jotting down parts we'll need. The sooner I get the order in, the sooner the parts will get here. It's going to take a couple days since we're a few hours from the city and the trucks don't run this way every day, but it's no big deal. Mr. Johnson knows the score, and he can be plenty patient when he needs to be.
Nobody around here has piles of extra money lying around. Everyone's doing the best they can to make what they have last. So we fix cars and tractors and anything else with motors. A lot of folks have learned to fix their own shit, so when a farmer brings me something to work on, it's pretty close to fucked. But I like those cases. I’m amazing at figuring out a way to make something nearly dead work again.
I like watching those restoration shows on TV. It's fun to dream about finding just the right details to make something perfect again. But in real life, it's not about perfect. It’s about making something scarred and broken useful again. It's function, not flash.
I guess that applies to me too. Nothing about me is flashy. I live in work boots, jeans, and t-shirts. I don’t wear makeup. The only part of me that’s flashy is my hair. For a mechanic, hair nearly to your waist is dumb. But I love it. Dad loved it.
He loved it.
But he doesn’t matter anymore. What he thinks doesn't matter.
Never again.
I spend the morning buried in engine parts and paperwork. The clank of tools and rumble of motors fills the garage—sounds I've known since I was a kid. When I was little, I woke up to those noises. Kinda hard to miss them when you live above a garage like Dad and I did. They’d be ringing through my mind, even when the garage is cold and silent.
“Blair. Phone's ringing," Matt calls out.
How the fuck did I miss that? I wipe my hands and grab the receiver. "McKenna's Auto Repair, this is Blair."
Mrs. Simmons' voice crackles through. "Blair, dear, it's about my Oldsmobile..."
I listen patiently as she rambles about strange noises and vibrations. "Bring it in tomorrow morning, Mrs. Simmons. We'll take a look."
After hanging up, I head to the office to update our schedule. The ancient computer whirs to life, its fan whirring like it’s about to launch into space. I really should replace this thing, but every penny counts.
The bell over the door chimes. I peek out to see Mr. Granger shuffling in, his weathered hands clutching a paper bag.
"Afternoon, Mr. Granger. What brings you by?"
He grins, revealing more gums than teeth. He’s looked like that as long as I can remember. I’m honestly not sure how old he is at this point. Somewhere between eighty and a hundred would be my guess.
"Thought you kids might be hungry." He sets the bag on the counter. "Martha's homemade sandwiches."
My stomach growls in anticipation. Anything Martha makes is amazing."You didn't have to do that."
"Nonsense. You fixed my tractor last month for next to nothing. It's the least we could do."
I smile, touched by the gesture. "Well, thank you. We appreciate it."
After Mr. Granger leaves, I call Matt in for a lunch break. We sit on overturned buckets, savoring the homemade roast beef on thick sliced fresh bread. The good kind, with all the seeds, that's heavy as hell and will leave you feeling full until tomorrow. Stick to your ribs food.
"See?" I say between bites. "This is why we help folks out."
Matt rolls his eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile. "Yeah, yeah. Can't pay the electric bill with sandwiches though."
"True, but it's not just about money. It's about community."
Matt's eyes get a little dark as he stares out the open bay door. "This is a pretty good one."
He's right. It is. And despite all the shit he likes to give me, we're lucky to have him. He showed up one day looking for work, and we didn't really need the help, but Dad said there was something about him that made him think he was supposed to be here. So he got a paycheck, and Dad went fishing a little more often. It worked for all of us.
Until Dad died. Then I needed Matt more than ever.
The rest of the afternoon flies by in a blur of oil changes, tire rotations, and minor repairs.
"Blair, I'm heading out." He wipes his hands dry, the smell of the orange soap at the wash sink filling the air. "I have that thing for my sister."
The mysterious thing. I could ask, but I really don't care. Matt does a lot for his sister and her kid. He spends a lot of his weekends in the city with them. Not sure what happened to the kid's dad, but again, I don't really care enough to ask. I don't know her, so other than hoping she's okay in a kumbaya kind of way, I don't think about her. If Matt has something he wants to share, I'll listen, though.
I'm not a shitty friend. Just a selective one.
I learned when I was a kid to be choosy about who I let into my life. Now, it's filled with people I actually like, and a few that I tolerate.
"Right. Thanks for today. See you tomorrow."
"Thanks." He turns to leave but hesitates, asking over his shoulder, "How's Maggie doing? Is she holding up?"
As always, a little bit of sadness wells up. "She's hanging in there. The chemo is rough."
He winces, walking back to me. "I wasn't around for the last time, but this time is pretty bad isn—". I don't let him finish, just reach out and twist his nipple through his shirt. He slaps his hand against his chest and gives me a wounded look. "Jesus fuck, Blair! What the hell?”
"Hey, you have a problem, take it up with Maggie. She ordered me to nurple anyone who dares talk about any of that shit. She's here now. That's what we focus on. She's not living thinking the worst, so why the hell should you?"
He groans and rubs at his massive pec. "Maggie's fucking delusional. How are we supposed to just pretend she's not sick?"
"You don't pretend. You just focus on the fact that she's here now. We're all going to die, Matt. Hell, you could walk out there and drop dead from a massive stroke. None of us know when we're going. So why focus on that possibility?"
"Is it really that easy for you?"
"Easy?" Is it easy to look at my best friend snuggling her son on the couch, sunlight dancing on thinning dark hair and act like everything's okay? No, it fucking isn't. "It's easier than cancer. I'd say Maggie has the harder role to play."
Wincing, he nods. "Right. You're right. It's just…she's so young. It's not right."
"No, it's not. And you can be damn sure she'll take that up with God when she sees him. Hopefully a long, long time from now."
One black eyebrow wings up. "She's sure she's going up there, huh? I think Old Man Morrison would have an opinion on that."
Out of habit, I look over my shoulder, making sure no one else is listening. No need to spread this shit around. "Doesn't matter. He deserved it." I'll stand by that till the day I die. You don't swat anyone's kid with a broom. The second he touched Max, he had to die.
Well, not die, but pay. Big time.
"He had to toss a thousand eggs, Blair. The stores wouldn't take purple ones."
"That's unfortunate. But the sheriff never charged anyone." And he can afford it. He has more money than most around here. He’s miserly and grumpy.
He’s on my tolerate list.
"Right. There was no proof." He says it like he knows exactly who did the deed, which, of course, he does. My fingers were purple the next day. That orange soap does wonders for grease, but food-grade dye’s another story.
"Nope. Not a spec."
He rolls his eyes and nods. "See you tomorrow, boss."
"Asshole," I mutter, fighting a smile as I watch him walk to the back. He knows I hate when he calls me boss. “Jerk stuck me with all the cleanup."
I go through my routine, cleaning up from the day's work. Matt's tools are already neatly put away, but I wipe mine down and put them back in their spots in the tool chest. I'm not a naturally organized person, but I learned a long time ago that searching for my tools every morning is frustrating and a colossal waste of time.
And I hate wasting time.
The breeze is blowing through the open bay doors, and I give myself a second to breathe it in. There's a crispness in the air—cold enough that I almost put my flannel on. Almost. I fucking love Fall.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Max on his bike, nearly blocked by two very large men and a dog. The dog I'm not worried about. The wag in his tail makes it damn clear he's not a threat. The men? I don't like the looks of them. From the back, one in a motorcycle jacket, one in a suit, they look like trouble. They don't fit in here at all.
Leaning the broom against the tire of the Oldsmobile on the lift, I head for the little group, just in time to catch Max in all his six-year-old glory.
"Are you bad guys?" he asks, scowling up at the men. "You look like a bad guy. Do you have a gun? Are you going to rob the joint?"
Jesus fuck. Rob the joint? This kid's going to turn me grey.
The guy in the leather jacket chokes out a muffled laugh. "Um, no, I'm not a bad guy. Just because I wear a leather jacket doesn't make me a bad guy. You watch too many movies."
Max waves a hand, like he's swatting a fly, and turns his attention to the guy in the suit. "What about you? You look rich. Are you? Or do you just dress fancy? I bet you're just a fancy dresser, and you drive a piece of shit car home to your baby momma."
"Jesus,” Suit Guy mumbles, turning to the other guy. “Who the fuck is this kid, and why do I want to somehow prove to him that I'm actually rich and not just faking it?" I almost laugh at that. Almost. Max has that effect on people.
"I don't know, man. And 'baby momma'? Seriously? Where did he even?—"
Time to nip this shit in the butt. "Maxwell Jones, have you been watching that stupid show again?" I wonder if a reality TV addiction is genetic. Maggie sure as fuck has the same problem, but I'm not going to quarrel with a forty-three-year-old woman about her choice in TV.
The kid though? That's a fucking problem.
Both men spin to look at me. Their mouths don't drop open, but it's close. I'm not shocked. I stopped getting annoyed when people stare at me twenty years ago. Women built like me, over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, aren't exactly all over the beauty magazines. I’m not ugly. I know that. But still, men can get a little squirrely around me. So I let them look for a second as Max, straddling his bike, sniffs.
"Nu huh," he says, eye twitching. A dead giveaway. Little liar. I move closer to him and crouch down.
"Liar. You have a tell, little man. Don't ever try to play poker. You'll lose your money and end up living under a bridge."
He wipes the back of his hand across his nose, smearing dirt across his face. Gross. I thought the baby stage was bad, with all the…fluids, but this isn't much better. "Don't matter. I like it under the bridge. Me 'n' Nikki built a fort under there. It's got lizards and frogs and everything."
Of course he did. Those two are either going to be in jail by the time they're eighteen, or millionaires. Could go either way. "Sounds like paradise." I stand, backing up a little, trying to escape his stench. His typical little boy smell is overlaid with the unmistakable smell of dog shit. "Now I think you better head on home. Your mom is going to be looking for you. And make sure you take your shoes off before you go inside. You smell like shit, so you'd better check the bottoms real good."
The kid shoots a foot out behind him and cranes his neck, then does the same to the other one. "Yup. There it is," he says, like it happens every day. Which it nearly does. The kid's got shit luck in the shit department. "Kay, I'm going. Can you message my mom and tell her I'm coming in hot with a shit situation?"
I nod, already anticipating the look on Maggie's face when he gets home. "Will do."
"Thanks, Aunt Blair. See you later." He pedals away, completely ignoring the two very large men watching him go.
"What a weird kid. It's—" The guy in the suit stops talking, then they both stare at each other. Then, leather jacket guy takes a step toward me. "Blair?"
I'm a fucking statue, a mixture of frustration and anger welling up inside me. I know who these fuckers are. Well, not specifically, but they know who I am, and I can only think of one reason a stranger might come looking for me.
"Holy fuck," the suit guy says. "You're Blair McKenna."
I am so over this shit. Ransom Kyle won't take the fucking hint.
"I'm guessing you're his guys? He sent you to get the paperwork signed? You're wasting your time. I'm not selling. Not ever. They will have to pry my cold dead body out from under a car when I'm eighty. That's the only way I'm leaving."
Visions of Ransom, the way he was the day he broke my heart, fill my mind and add a growl to my tone. I step closer until I'm right in both their faces. "Ransom's obviously too big of a coward to ever come back here, so you tell him for me, 'kay? NOT. FUCKING. SELLING. I don't care what deal he and my dad had. Now I'm done. You should go."
I turn around and stomp back to the garage, yanking the chain to slam one bay door, then the next, and then let myself lean against it. Why won't he just back the fuck off? He made it very clear twenty-five years ago that he was done with me and this town. He has no right coming back and stirring shit up. Because that's what he's doing. That first offer took my breath away. Not the money, though that wasn't bad. But looking up the name on that offer, Brash Group, and seeing his picture on the fucking website took out my knees.
Yanking out my phone, I call Mags. And of course, she lets it ring forever before she picks it up. She's done that her whole fucking life. She says phone calls are aggressive. Most of the time I’m fine with texting, but right now, I need to hear her voice.
"What's up, Buttercup?"
"Max stepped in dog shit."
"Oh hell. Not again." There's shuffling noises, and I can picture her rushing from the kitchen, her favorite place in her house, to the front door. On cue, the door squeaks as she opens it. "Got him." She pulls the phone away from her mouth as she yells. "Max baby, you're supposed to step over the shit. Not in it." He yells something back, and the tension in my shoulders releases. I let their arguing wash over me; the words don't matter, only that I can hear the laughter and picture their smiles.
This. This is what matters. The people here that I love. I don't want or need Ransom's bullshit in my life.
He's done with this town, and I'm done with him. And I'm going to make sure he realizes it once and for all.