Chapter 6
Sterling
Pulling into my spot, I get out and head straight towards my shop doors.
It took me a long time to get to this point in my life, and I still can’t believe that I own this building.
It seemed like only a few years ago, that I was fixing cars at home in my own one car garage.
Flipping on the lights in the empty bay, I roll up the door.
I grab a few tools and a step-stool. I’m hoping to get the beast started, and pull it into the shop.
I have a tow truck, but would rather drive it in.
“Hey little brother, what’s going on,” I ask. He isn’t so little. He is about two years younger and an inch taller than me. A fact that he loves to rub in my face.
“Are you at the shop today,” He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries and gets straight to the point.
“Yeah, I’m here,” we both hate talking on the phone, and aren’t the best conversationalists.
“See you in 10,” he states and cuts off the call. There wasn’t a need for a response anyway. Honestly, he probably just wants to come by and get his hands dirty. There are many Saturdays that we both find ourselves working on one of the cars in my shop and catching up.
I try to turn the engine over with the key, hoping that letting it sit overnight gave it the juice it needed to start.
I have to give the old Bronco credit, it tries but it just can’t get there.
I climb out, pulling on the hood latch as I go, and walk around to the front.
I hop on the stool and open the hood. From this vantage point, I am able to see better.
I hear Holt’s motorcycle pull up, while I am tinkering under the hood. “Did you get a new ride,” he asks.
“No, it broke down late last night and I’m trying to fix it for a customer,” I explained. I was trying to be vague about it. I didn’t want him asking details. Details that I wasn’t prepared to share— mainly because I didn’t understand what was really happening yet.
“This thing is nice, don’t see many of these around much. Need any help? I have some time to kill.”
I lift my head and look at him quickly. “Sure, I can use the extra set of hands,” I say as I hop down from the stool.
“I need to get her started first, and get her into the shop.” He nodded at me and jumped into the driver’s seat.
I whirled my finger in the air, letting him know to try to start it.
I was hoping that the engine would turn over from my tinkering.
The Bronco struggles a bit, but all of a sudden fires to life.
I wave my hand and urge him to pull it into the garage.
I follow behind, listening to it sputter and struggle. It sounded like there were more issues than I initially thought. Holt puts it in park and leaves it running while he steps down from the running board. Raising his voice he says, “running pretty rough, definitely needs some help.”
I run my hands through my hair and mutter, “what did they do to it,” and sigh with worry. I round the front of the vehicle and lift the hood again. Inspecting it.
Holt comes up next to me. “What did who do,” he asks, quirking his eyebrow quizzically and crossing his arms. I walk around to the drivers side, shut off the engine, and look at him.
“It looks like someone tampered with one of the battery cords, but it sounds like there is some other issue too,” I explain.
He looks a bit confused for a second, and then scrunches up his face. “You mean someone fucked with this truck on purpose? Why would they do that?”
“I’m not sure, but I intend to ask the owner today. She has to know something,” I say to him and cross my arms.
“She—She? You mean a woman owns this beauty?” He looked at me disbelievingly and scoffed a bit.
I sighed, not wanting to get into this with him. He would ask questions, questions that I didn’t have the answers to. “Yes, a woman owns this truck. She is a total pain in the ass too. A walking contradiction.”
He starts to chuckle. “What the hell is going on with you? That is the most you have said in one go in… well ever.”
“Nothing, man. I just had a weird night last night, that’s all.” He chuckles again and then opens his mouth.
“Hot weird?” He was just needling me, and I knew that.
I let it get to me anyway and shoved him in the shoulder.
“No dude, that’s fucked up,” I say exasperatedly.
He is always the jokester. Always has been, even when our Mom’s new flavor of the month was beating the crap out of us.
I know it was his way of coping, but it pissed me off sometimes.
“I had to fire Wes and his brother last night. It got ugly and they ended up beating the shit out of each other in the alley. At about the same time, this Bronco broke down. The driver, decided to be a hero and tried to break up the fight. She hit Wes in the head with the wooden handle of her umbrella—,” I am interrupted by Holt laughing hysterically.
He is laughing so hard he is bent at the waist. “Did you say an umbrella,” he asks trying to get his breathing under control. Mostly, unsuccessfully.
“Yes, I did. Then I had to threaten Wes within an inch of his life to get him gone. Before he started in on her too,” I explained.
“Tell me more of this story, please. I know that isn’t it,” he practically begs. I shake my head and toss him a a pair of mechanic’s gloves.