6
Human - Rag ‘n’ Bone Man
T he shop’s a madhouse today.
We’ve got two cars in for serious repairs after a two-car pile-up, so it’s all hands on deck. Not that I’m complaining—keeps me busy, stops me from stewing on shit.
Or, more accurately, on her .
Imogen. The blonde firecracker who’s got her claws so deep in my brain, I’m starting to wonder if she’s put some kind of voodoo spell on me. A week’s gone by, and I’m still walking around half-hard just thinking about her. The way she took control, riding me like she had something to prove. That filthy, sarcastic mouth of hers—Jesus, I’ve never heard anything so sexy in my life.
And that moment? When she came undone, completely letting go, soaking me and leaving me absolutely wrecked? That wasn’t just sex—it was something else entirely. Something I can’t stop replaying. Let’s just say it rewired my brain permanently.
And what do I get for my troubles? Radio silence. Not a peep. Sure, she wanted just one night, nothing more, but here I am, like a dickhead, catching feelings over a woman who literally told me to piss off afterward.
Well played, Immy. Well fucking played.
I laid awake all night after that, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything in my head. Not that I get much sleep at night anyway, but this was different. It wasn’t just her leaving so suddenly—it was the look on her face, the way her walls shot up like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I couldn’t stop thinking about whether I’d done the wrong thing, pushed her too far, or made her feel something she didn’t want to. It’s a special kind of torture, wondering if I fucked it all up with her before I even had the chance to figure out what this thing between us really is.
She’s ruined me. Completely. How the hell am I supposed to move on from that? From her?
It’s maddening. Infuriating. She’s my match, and I think I’ve known it from the second she started tearing me down with that sharp tongue of hers.
The real question is, how the hell am I supposed to let her go when every part of me is screaming not to?
Joe’s shouting something across the shop, but I’m too busy wallowing in my self-inflicted misery. Figures the one time I actually listen to a woman and agree to her terms, it turns out I’m shittier at casual than I am at maths. And let me tell you, I suck at maths.
It’s bad enough Joe’s still on my case about that pub brawl from a few weeks back. Cranky bastard’s got a knack for holding grudges.
Can’t say I blame him, though. Head on straight, all serious kinda bloke. I look up to him. Ever since he came into the picture, when Michael and I were teenagers and on the loose, he wasted no time trying to shape us up. He’s been like a second dad since Mum met him.
I’m grateful for that, because, well, Mum does fuck all. Which is no real shocker. Sure, she’s sober now, no more drugs, no longer drinking, but years of enduring what I did, watching her do nothing but fall into the hands of that pathetic excuse of a man that I once called Father , is enough to leave a stale taste in my mouth.
Michael’s managed to forgive her—good on him, I guess. But me? Nah. I was the one shielding him from all of it. Taking the punches, covering for her. That shit sticks with you.
Joe yells again, and this time, I snap out of it. “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses!” Grabbing a wrench, I wipe my hands on a rag and head over to the wrecked ute on the lift. But let’s be real—I’m not focused. Imogen’s still in my head, legs wrapped around me, that smart-ass smirk daring me to try to keep up.
Fuck’s sake. If this keeps up, I’m gonna end up accidentally fixing a carburetor with duct tape. The shop is buzzing now with activity, the clanging of tools and the hum of engines filling the air. The kind of noise that should drive anyone nuts, but somehow keeps me sane. Or as sane as I can get. Busy hands mean a busy mind, and a busy mind means no time for the demons to crawl in and start their bullshit.
That’s the trick. Keep moving. Keep talking. Keep everything at bay. Works most of the time.
Grab a spanner, a socket, a wrench— anything —and get to work. Easy. Until it’s not. Until she shows up in my head again, uninvited. A blonde tornado with a dirty mouth and enough attitude to fuel a V8. She’s all over my brain like grease on my hands. Can’t scrub her off, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to. That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? One night of no-strings sex, and now she’s stuck in there, in my brain, taking up real estate rent-free.
And let me tell you, my brain is a crowded fucking place. Between remembering which bolt goes where, keeping track of Joe’s rules, and debating whether I locked my car this morning, I don’t have space for anything else.
“Oi, you good?” Joe’s voice snaps me back to reality. Right, the shop. The cars. Actual work.
“Yep,” I mutter, dodging his knowing look and going back to tightening bolts. Or loosening them? Who knows. Probably should double-check. Michael appears by my side, grumbling about something being loose.
“Alright, don’t get your jocks in a twist,” I say, twisting the bolt a little harder than necessary just to piss him off. Michael gives me his signature scowl, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s so close to cracking. Perfect time to strike. I sneak up behind him and wrap him in a massive bear hug, putting all my weight into it.
“Get off, you clingy fuck!” he barks, shoving me off.
“Aww, c’mon, Mikey, don’t be shy. Hugs are good for the soul,” I tease, grinning as he mutters a string of curses.
“Go find Imogen and give her a fucking hug,” he shoots back, wiping grease off his hands.
“Wish I could. She’s avoiding me like I’ve got cooties,” I retort, leaning against the car with an exaggerated sigh.
Jono joins in, grinning. “The blonde? The one who’s already got you by the balls?”
“Not just the balls, mate. She’s got the whole damn package,” I say, popping a toothpick between my teeth. I don’t smoke—well, not much, anyway, only when I desperately need it—so chewing on something keeps me from losing my mind. Helps with... everything, really.
“Good luck, lover boy,” Jono says, shaking his head. “She’ll ruin you.”
Michael snorts.
“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s a comedian.” But they’re not wrong. She probably will ruin me. But you know what? I’m already halfway to the scrapyard, and I don’t even care.
Later, I pull up to the house. Michael’s Ducati’s parked out front, but Mum’s car’s nowhere in sight. Michael’s words from the other night pop back into my head. “She’s worried, you know. Thinks you’re avoiding her.” I can’t help but snort. Mum, worried? That’s a fucking laugh.
I make my way to the granny flat, the one I built with my own two hands. Privacy. Needed it bad. Can’t stand being in the same house as Mum—hell, can’t stand being anywhere near people when the night terrors hit. Those bastards, they’ve been around forever. Way before I can remember. And let me tell you, they suck. Waking up gasping for air, drenched in sweat, heart racing... Fuck. I hate it. I fucking hate that part of me.
The part that makes me weak.
I step into the flat, and it hits me—the familiar scent of leather, oil, and old wood. My safe zone. My fucking sanctuary. I built this place to control something, anything. It’s the only place those demons don’t dare come. Kicking off my boots, I head for the fridge and grab a cold one, crack it open, and take a deep swig. The first sip’s always the best. It’s like a mini-vacation from the chaos.
I plop down on the couch, staring at the ceiling, mind racing as usual. But she’s there, in my head. I close my eyes, the cool leather rubbing against my skin. I can still remember what she felt like. What she tasted like. God, I’m so fucking hung up on her. It’s consuming me.
Every second I’m not thinking about work, I’m thinking about her. Then there’s the other part. The part that’s terrified she’ll see the real me. The broken, fucked-up mess who wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. The part of me that’s never been able to let go of the past.
I toss the beer bottle into the bin—perfect shot, by the way—and grab another. The fridge lets out that little hiss as it seals shut, and it’s weirdly satisfying.
I head out to the back of my flat, to my spot on the verandah—a real DIY champion effort, if I do say so myself. The chair creaks as I drop into it, but it’s sturdy enough.
Like me. Sort of.
The sunset’s doing its thing, painting the sky all pretty, but it’s a con. That calm, golden glow? Yeah, it’s just nature setting you up for the nighttime shitshow. The calm before the storm, or whatever. The night terrors are reliable like that—they always show up.
And I’ll be here, alone, fighting them off like I always have.
Most nights, Michael and I park ourselves out here, solving the world’s problems one joint at a time. I take a long swig of my beer, the cold bite hitting just right, when—speak of the devil—Michael pushes the screen door open. He’s got his standard kit—beer in one hand, a joint in the other. He tosses it to me, and I catch it easily.
“Thought you might need this,” he says, that little smirk in place.
“Legend,” I mutter, already sparking it up. The first drag? Magic. My shoulders drop a bit. Not much, but it’s enough. Michael drops into the chair next to me, boots propped up on the table.
“What a day, huh?”
“Fucked,” I say simply, chasing it with a swig. “I’m knackered, and my back’s gone.” My foot taps restlessly on the floor.
Michael nods. “Busy’s good, though.”
“It is,” I say, exhaling a cloud of smoke. The way it curls up, slow and steady, is the opposite of what’s happening in my head. “Keeps the noise down.”
“The noise? Or you mean her?” Michael asks, glancing over at me with that knowing look.
I turn his way. “Both. She’s got me all twisted up, man.”
Michael sets his beer on the table, and I pass him the stick. He takes a long drag, head tipping back to blow the smoke up into the fading light. “You gonna do something about it?” My smirk comes easy. He knows me all too well.
“Mate, you didn’t,” he groans.
“I couldn’t help myself.”
He stares at me. “Imogen? You fucked Imogen? There is no way she’s into you.”
“Mate, she was very into me.”
He snorts, flicking ash onto the ground. “Alright, Casanova, now what?”
“Nothing. It was a one-off. Done. Dusted.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I sigh. “She’s… complicated. This whole thing is.”
“Yeah, well, so are you. Doesn’t mean you should just give up.”
Me, complicated? Understatement of the century. I’m like a tangled set of earphones you forgot in your pocket. Past mistakes, unresolved crap, emotions I don’t even have names for—it’s all there, knotted up nice and tight. Silence settles between us, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Just the faint crackle of the joint, and the creak of the chairs.
Michael’s the one to break it. “You been sleeping alright?”
“Eh,” I shrug. “Three times this week. Not bad, considering. I’m banking on this knocking me out tonight, but, you know, not holding my breath.”
He lets out this big, dramatic sigh . “Have you thought about what I suggested?”
“What?”
“You know, a therapist, or a counsellor… whatever.”
The words land like a brick to the chest. My jaw tightens. “I’ve told you—there’s no way I’m spilling my guts to some stranger.”
“They’re trained for it.” He leans forward. “Sometimes it helps, talking to someone who doesn’t know you.”
“Doubt it.”
What are they gonna do, hand me a tissue and say, ‘Wow, that sounds hard’? Like they’d get it. Like anyone could. Night terrors that slam into me out of nowhere, a deep dread that digs its claws into my stomach, and refuses to let go. Nope. I take another drag, the joint burning down to where it starts warming my fingertips. The buzz creeps in, softening the edges.
My foot’s still bouncing, but slower now, like it’s winding down. Finally.