Chapter Thirteen #2
“I’m not enjoying the car being broken. I’m enjoying you trying to personally negotiate with reality.”
“Ay, cállate.”
She walks away again, muttering something under her breath that definitely contains my name and probably an insult.
By the time the tow truck arrives, she has called her mom, checked her email enough times to wear out the refresh button, and threatened to sell the Civic. Twice.
The shop is only fifteen minutes away, which helps.
The mechanic taking one look under the hood and making a face almost identical to mine does not.
Cece catches it immediately.
“Oh, no.”
The guy looks up. “What?”
“That face. You just made a face.”
He glances at me like I might explain her.
I just shake my head. “You’re on your own, man.”
He laughs and starts asking her questions about the noise, when it started, whether the car has been acting weird recently. She answers all of them, then follows him halfway toward the garage until he gently tells her they’ll need some time to check it properly.
We end up in a tiny waiting area with plastic chairs, a vending machine, and a daytime baseball game playing on a TV in the corner.
Cece lasts about six minutes before she starts pacing again.
I watch her for a while, mostly because telling her to sit down will probably get me killed.
When the mechanic finally comes back out, she’s on her feet before he even opens his mouth.
He explains that the starter is shot. The gear inside it isn’t engaging the flywheel properly anymore, which is the grinding noise we heard every time Cece tried to start it.
It’s not something he’s willing to keep cranking and risk chewing up the flywheel too.
He can replace the starter, but he doesn’t have the right one in stock and has to order it in.
“How long?” Cece asks.
“Part should be here Tuesday. I’d say three days tops and you’ll be back on the road.”
I see her entire soul leave her body.
“Three days?”
“Most likely.”
She turns slowly toward me.
I already know better than to smile.
Mostly.
“No. This can’t be happening.”
I lean back in the chair. “Not really my call.”
“I can’t stay in Miami until Wednesday.”
The mechanic looks between us.
“She’s having a moment,” I tell him.
Cece shoots me a look that promises violence, then turns and walks toward the front of the shop, already pulling out her phone. Probably calling her mom before she starts stressing herself into an early fucking grave.
The mechanic watches her go, then looks back at me with an amused shake of his head. He finishes printing the paperwork, staples everything together, and reaches beneath the counter for a set of keys.
“Got a loaner you can use till the part comes in.”
My eyes follow his toward the little silver sedan parked outside.
I stare at it for a second. “Any chance you’ve got something less… depressing?”
That gets a laugh out of him.
“If it was anybody else asking? Not a fucking chance.” He leans back against the counter, looking me over like he’s finally decided where he knows me from. “But as a die-hard Diablos fan. I know who you are, Revel St. Clair,”
I grin. “Is that helping or hurting me?”
He smirks and reaches into his pocket and tosses me another key.
I catch it.
“Ducati Streetfighter V4 S. Mine.”
I look down at the key, then back at him. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah. Don’t make me look stupid for it, Speed Demon.”
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He jerks his chin toward the back of the shop. “There’s a rack of helmets by the rear door. Grab two that fit. Bike’s parked around the side.”
“Well, fuck. Appreciate it, man.”
I turn the Ducati key over once in my hand, already feeling significantly better about being stuck here three more days.
By the time I make it back over to Cece, she’s ending the call with her mom.
Her phone buzzes again, and she looks down at the screen with a groan.
“Group chat?”
“Unfortunately.” She scans whatever they’ve sent, mutters, “Ay, qué fastidio,” and locks the phone before shoving it into her bag.
For about three seconds, she looks calmer.
Then her eyes go back to the Civic.
I watch her shoulders tighten again.
She’s already ten steps ahead in her head, probably thinking about work, Guac, the car, the hotel, the fact that we’re supposed to be halfway back to Tampa instead of standing in a mechanic shop with no fucking clue where we’re sleeping tonight.
I step in front of her before she can disappear any farther into her own head.
“Mama.”
She looks up at me, jaw tight, phone still clutched in her hand.
“I’ve got it.”
Her brows pull together. “Revel—”
“No.” My hand comes up and closes firmly around her chin, tipping her face up until she has no choice but to look at me. “The car, the hotel, getting us around—all of it. I’ll handle it.”
For once, there’s no grin, no joke sitting behind the words.
I hold her gaze so she knows I mean every fucking one of them.
Her eyes search mine, and I can practically see her trying to come up with a reason she should keep worrying anyway.
I rub my thumbs over her cheeks. “Stop stressing yourself out over shit you can’t control. Your car’s getting fixed, Guac’s taken care of, and nothing’s falling apart.”
She exhales slowly. “I hate not knowing what the plan is.”
“I know.”
“And you having the plan somehow isn’t as comforting as you think.”
That pulls a small grin out of me. “Fair.”
Her mouth twitches.
I lean down, pressing a slow kiss to her lips before resting my forehead against hers.
“I got you, Mama. Just trust me.”
She goes quiet for a second.
Then her fingers curl lightly into the front of my shirt.
“Ay, you better not make me regret that.”
My grin comes back, softer this time. “Not planning on it.”
She gives me a look.
“Yeah, all right. With my track record, that probably wasn’t very reassuring.”
That finally gets a real laugh out of her, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.