Chapter 4 #2
She tilts her head, eyes running over me. I don’t see the color of them, but they’re sharp. She’s no princess in distress, that’s for damn sure. More like an alley cat.
“The name’s Lark,” she says, pushing off the frame. “And this beauty you’re ogling?” She nods toward the Camaro. “She’s mine.”
I arch a brow. That’s… something. Most people who say this is my car really mean this is the car I hover near so people assume it’s mine. She doesn’t have the posture of a pretender though. Her hands are loose, stance casual, like she’s not trying to convince anybody.
Could still be stolen. She seems the type.
Alright, I’ll bite.
“You keeping her out in the rain like this is a crime,” I say, crouching down and tapping the sidewall. “And this?” One knuckle to the bald patch. “Feels like abuse.”
“You always insult people’s rides?”
“When they deserve it.”
She steps closer, boots splashing through puddles, smell of fuel and wind and something scorched drifting with her. Definitely not a poser’s perfume.
“What’s your name?”
My name could be anything for a girl like her. I’ve worn a dozen aliases when it served me. Fisher’s best man. Some made-up street legend. Hell, I could hand her any version of myself and she’d have no way to prove it wasn’t true.
But I don’t.
I don’t know why I don’t. Maybe because she’s watching so sharply, and it’s nice to look at? Wouldn’t want to turn it into a frown.
So instead, I lick my lips, let the grin slide into place and dip my chin just enough that my hair swings forward across my forehead.
People think I do everything by impulse. It’s not true.
Girls love the hair. Ginger’s a novelty around here. It’s just rare enough to look like trouble, just soft enough they want to touch it.
“I’m Talon,” I say.
Lark’s smirk sharpens, like she just tried my name on her tongue and decided it tastes good. Yeah, she likes it. She likes me. I can tell.
“You one of Fisher’s boys?” she asks, circling.
I don’t bother giving her the truth. Does it matter?
“I work for me,” I say.
“Uh-huh.” She gets close enough for me to finally see the color of her eyes. They are green. Like the shard of a broken beer bottle green. Stabby, but also pretty in the street way. Like the type of art we can afford around here.
“Working for yourself on Fisher’s turf?” she says. “That takes guts.”
“Or a head injury,” I shrug. “I’m still weighing my options.”
She tilts her head, assessing.
“You look like a high school dropout,” she tells me. “Been running with the wrong crowd since before you could shave type. You’ve got a little grease under your nails, a lot of fat in your blood, and exactly zero fear in your eyes.”
I grin.
She’s not wrong.
Not entirely right either, but close enough for someone who just met me. People usually stop at the surface, and that’s fine. Easier that way.
“You don’t look like a scholar yourself,” I say.
She’s got that kind of face that dares you to underestimate her—cute, a little wild, eyeliner sharper than her words. Probably sixteen, seventeen tops, but her eyes say she’s already lived through a few wars no one talks about. I recognize that look. You don’t fake it.
“Maybe,” she says, “but I’ve got a Camaro.”
So she’s proud. Or deflecting. Or both. Either way, she’s not denying the rest. I respect that.
Still… girls like her don’t just walk around without someone claiming their shadow. There’s always a name behind the curtain. A crew. A man. Something.
I should figure that out before getting involved.
Should.
But those eyes, like cracked glass catching the sun, they make it real hard to care about logic.
“Cut the bullshit, babe,” I say, leaning against her car.
My gaze drifts down before I can stop it.
Tight black blouse, laces crossing over.
Rose tattoos blooming on her collarbones.
There’s a small dip between her tits, and I tell myself I’m just being observant.
“You and I both know this beast won’t survive another month without a proper tune-up. ”
Sure.
She folds her arms, pushing up what I was staring at a second ago. Her tits perk up, and I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose to get me hooked or something. I mean, I think I’m hooked enough already, but I’m not complaining.
“And you’re the guy to do it?” she asks.
Am I?
Hell if I know. I came here for quick cash, not charity work.
But my mouth answers before my brain catches up.
“Yeah. I’m the guy.”
And just like that, I trade rent money for trouble wrapped in black lace. Guess I’ve made worse deals.
She studies me, like she’s weighing how full of shit I am. I’d say half and half. But she’s not exactly transparent either.
“You fix her,” Lark says, “and maybe I’ll let you take her for a spin.”
Are we still talking about the car here?
Maybe.
That’s so vague only a fool would agree.
Still, my grin widens. Can’t help it.
“Maybe?” I echo. “Thought girls like you knew how the world works.”
Her eyes gleam. “And I thought boys like you didn’t need to be told twice.”
Touché.
She turns her back on me and strolls toward the Camaro, running her fingertips along the hood like she’s petting a living thing.
“She’s temperamental,” she says. “One wrong touch and she’ll make you regret it.”
“Funny,” I say, circling around to her side. “That’s what people say about me.”
Her mouth curves in that dangerous half-smile, and I realize I’m in trouble. I’m already picturing her in the passenger seat, legs up on the dash, my face between them, checking just how sweet this thorn really is.
“You start today,” she says. “Tools, parts, whatever you need. You work here, though. I want to keep an eye on my baby.”
“Not a problem,” I tell her.
Liar.
Fisher-Rey border isn’t exactly a friendly neighborhood for repeat visits, especially for me. My granny would say I’m begging for an early grave. She might be right.
Lark tosses me a set of keys. They land against my chest.
Huh, she really does have them.
“Don’t scratch her,” she says, already walking away. “And Talon?”
I look up.
“Try not to get attached.”
I should walk.
Go home.
Find a way to pay the rent. Forget the way her voice sounds when she says my name.
But I don’t.
My boots move on their own, carrying me to the Camaro. My fingers trail over her hood like I’m tracing someone’s spine.
“I don’t do attachment,” I call after her.
And yeah, maybe I say it like I know what I’m talking about.
Too bad I don’t.