Chapter 1
Jamison
Iwas six the first time I remember running into a cornfield to hide from my mom’s piece of shit boyfriend.
It wasn’t the first time I remember hiding though.
In closets, under the porch, behind the thorn bushes that tore up my exposed skin — pretty much any spot a normal kid would choose for hide and seek is what I used as a refuge from drunk and high wife-beaters.
It’s one of the many reasons that I black out my younger days as much as possible.
I guess at twenty-four, some would say I’m still in the prime of my so-called youth, but I haven’t felt young for as long as I can remember.
And it’s remembering that’s the problem.
Like now, when the early June heat takes me back to that day in the field.
Before now, I hadn’t thought about that day for a while.
I’ve been a mechanic officially for eight years now, having started with small jobs in the shop right at sixteen, but I’ve been messing with cars for as long as I can remember.
My fingers seem permanently stained from engine oil and my back constantly aches from hanging in cars.
Already today I’ve had four cups of black coffee just to keep me coherent from my usual lack of sleep and this lingering dull headache is a physical reminder of my mental agony. What a fucking winner.
“Jay, let’s go!”
My boss interrupts my self-loathing long enough for me to realize my cigarette is burned to the filter and my ten-minute break is more than over. I flick the ash and crush the butt against the wall before tossing it into the standing ashtray, then turn to walk back to the front bay doors.
Inside, I see her. The hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time. No, scratch that. Ever. Smooth curves, well-built, polished, and clean. Damn, I would kill to get under that hood.
“Hey, Jay! Close your mouth, man!” my friend, coworker, and long-time pain in my ass Sean says, clapping me on the back. He points his index finger to my chin so close I ought to snap it off.
“You got a little drool right…there.”
He grazes my chin with his fingertip, and I smack his hand away with the back of mine. Sean just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see what I see when I look at the beauty that sits in front of me. With perfect timing, Zeke approaches us and tells me what I already know.
“302-Powered, 1974 Ford Maverick Grabber. Pretty sweet, huh?”
Sweet was not what I was thinking. This car is sexy as hell.
“The owner’s a long-time customer of mine. Just dropped it off. He wants us to take a look at it and make sure everything is in order. Says he’s looking to sell it and doesn’t want any potential buyers trying to lower the price on some made-up bullshit.”
“Sell it?” I say loudly, more aggravated than I mean to.
“Yep,” Zeke answers, ignoring my tone. “His dad passed away and left it to him. He says it’s just not his thing. Takes up too much room and isn’t worth the upkeep.”
I scoff under my breath. See, this is what’s wrong with people.
They get something good, something special, something that maybe requires some space, some care, and decency…
some love, and they throw it away because they don’t feel like dealing with it.
This is why I love cars. If you take care of them, the older they get, the more valuable they are.
Cars mean more as long as you protect them, love them, and keep them clean and fed with the best fluids and nutrients.
Kind of like kids.
Or so I’m told.
The phone rings and snaps me out of my silent rant. Zeke turns towards it, seemingly indifferent to me and my internal monologue.
“So, anyway,” he calls from over his shoulder to us, Sean looking at me with a wrinkled brow. “You two take a good look and let me know what you come up with.”
Sean just stares at me now with a half-smile on his face, shaking his head.
“Man, you should see someone about that zoning-out thing you do. You daydream more than a damn teenage girl.” He walks to circle the car, but not before smirking and shooting me a wink. Smartass.
“Shut the hell up and lift the car,” I hiss back, returning his wink with my middle finger.
Daydreams — yeah, right.
More like nightmares.
Just all of the time.