Chapter 9 Jamison
Jamison
Ihear the car pull into the parking lot before I see it.
A pop song about jets blares from the stereo and the tires screech as they turn into the first spot in the lot.
A petite blonde girl with her hair in a mess on top of her head throws open the driver’s side door and steps out in flip-flops.
All of the guys look up, if only because of the hurricane that just blew in, but it doesn’t hurt that she’s female and definitely attractive.
She walks over to the front desk where Zeke, who was once half-asleep, is now fully awake in his chair.
I round the side of the car I’m dealing with in time to listen to the girl ask if we, “Do oil changes and stuff like that,” and hear Zeke laugh in response.
Where most of us find this type of ignorance kind of annoying if we’re honest, he finds it endearing being that his own daughter who practically grew up here, doesn’t know a thing about cars.
Zeke dives into a list of all of the basic maintenance and repairs we offer — oil changes, filter replacements, battery checks, tire rotations — and the girl nods along like it’s the most interesting thing on Earth.
I turn to leave them to their conversation and get back to my work, when I see from the corner of my eye, one long, lean leg pop out from the passenger side of the blonde girl’s car.
Another foot meets the ground and before my head interprets who it is, my body knows.
A sudden head rush and sweaty palms cause me to drop the wrench in my hand and it pulls the figure’s eyes to mine. Claire.
Ever since I passed her near Enzo’s, I can’t seem to shake her.
I’m clearly attracted to her, that much is obvious, but there’s something else about her that interests me.
Maybe it’s the fact that she’s not throwing herself at me like some girls who go off only looks, or maybe it’s that my lack of enthusiasm for conversation doesn’t seem to stop her from trying.
Either way, ever since walking away from her after the butterscotch incident, I’ve had this gnawing in my chest that’s pretty close to regret, a feeling I am all too familiar with.
Now, she’s in front of me again. I pick up the wrench, deciding on my next move.
Unlike her friend, her presence is quiet.
No one else so much as even looks up, but I can’t look away.
She stands behind the open door, holding the frame on top with one hand.
She offers me a small wave, and I smack the wrench against my palm to make sure I’m not dreaming.
This girl who has occupied my mind for the last four days is standing in front of me.
The girl I have pictured in my bed, in the shower, in the car, on her knees… here.
I grab a rag from my back pocket and slide the wrench into its place.
Wiping grease from my hands, I focus my eyes on the space between my fingers and make my way to her.
When I reach the car, our eyes meet, her lips parting and then quickly closing again.
She inhales a deep breath and drops her head, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear.
My body responds to fucking everything this girl does.
She waves, and I feel it in my gut, she parts her lips and I lick mine, she touches her hair, and I picture it wrapped around my goddamn fist.
I want to speak, but I’m not good at this.
Not good at talking to anyone, let alone someone I’ve seen more in my fantasies than in real life, and definitely not the first person who has caused this kind of response in me for as long as I can remember.
I search my brain for something to say to break the tension, willing my voice to speak.
“So just to clarify, you aren’t stalking me?” I say.
She takes a second to think then replies, “What’s your definition of stalking?”
I laugh unexpectedly, a reaction so strange to me, and she raises an eyebrow in response, pleased with herself.
“How about, what are you doing here?”
“My friend needs her oil changed.” She says it quickly like she’s trying to convince herself rather than me. “Do you do those here?” She immediately closes her eyes like she’s embarrassed that the question slipped out.
I make a point of looking around the garage that is filled with cars and all things related. “We do.”
“Good,” she says awkwardly. “Her lucky day.” My lucky day, I think. She looks down at the rag, and I realize I’ve been wiping my hands this entire time. I shove the towel back into my pocket and pull out a cigarette.
“This okay?” I ask, holding it out. She nods but looks off in the distance, and I can feel the space she internally puts between us.
“Sorry, I’m not that good at this,” I say.
“Smoking?”
“Talking.”
She blushes. I bring the cigarette to my mouth and her eyes trail my movement.
When I run the filter over my bottom lip, I swear I hear the slightest gasp escape from hers.
She swallows hard, her eyes coming back to mine.
I’m reminded of the way they’re like maple syrup, in color and context, pulling mine to hers and sticking them in place.
“Get to Enzo’s yet?” I ask to distract myself from the reel my mind plays of all of the ways I’d like to make her breathe that noise again.
“It’s on my to-do list,” she says.
I take a long drag, hold it, and exhale, all without breaking eye contact. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, pulling her hair to one shoulder revealing much more skin than I’m capable of right now.
I catch myself staring at the curve below her neck and force my gaze back upward. “What else is on your to-do list, Claire?” She makes that sound again and I feel it between my fucking legs. Is it possible for one girl to completely change the DNA of an entire grown man?
Her friend returns to the car at either the least or most convenient time.
“Welp,” she says. “Never mind! Turns out I’m all set."
We both look at her like we have no idea what that means and again, I’m conflicted. I want her to stay, but I need her to go.
Her friend winks at her and slides into the driver’s side. Claire puts one foot inside the car but hesitates before moving the rest of her body.
“Maybe I’ll see you around then,” I say, and fuck, do I mean it.
“Now who’s the stalker?” She pulls her other leg inside and closes the door and I watch them drive away.