Chapter Thirteen
A FEW HOURS LATER,I lean against the body of the Mustang, biting the edge of my thumb nervously, the terrible habit I’ve had since I was a kid and haven’t indulged in quite some time.
Jimmy’s place opens at 11, and it’s 10:15, when I told the guys that I’d be ready for LJ—but of course, it looks like he’s going to be late. I sigh, spit out my thumb, and fold my arms. I added some motorcycle boots to my outfit, and my hair ties also arrived—an embarrassing array of choices, but I opted for a plain black elastic; no need to be froofy for Jimmy. Or for LJ.
I drum my fingers on my biceps. It’s bright and clear and sunny, with a hint of Virginia heat creeping in. It’ll be summer before we know it.
Will I still be here then? Stay through the long dog days of August into the Indian summer of September and beyond?
The thought stops me. It doesn’t feel like home here. Not exactly. But I’m also more at ease than I ever was in John’s house.
No, I tell myself. Don’t think about the future. Just focus on the task at hand. Buying parts, fixing something small—concrete tasks that I can accomplish easily. That mean something.
“Princess.” The voice sets every hair on my forearms on edge. I manage not to jump in surprise and control myself to turn slowly to the garage apartment.
LJ strides out, wearing army fatigue pants and a fitted black T-shirt. His hair is tied in a loose bun at the bottom of his neck, and his gaze is as hard and unyielding as ever. I can’t deny that if I need a bodyguard, this is definitely the most intimidating choice. Even the roughest of rednecks that frequent Jimmy’s place wouldn’t give me trouble if this guy’s at my back.
I hope.
“Good morning to you too,” I say as evenly as I can and nod. “Thank you for agreeing to accompany me.”
LJ says nothing, just nods at the Mustang. “We taking yours?” he asks.
I hold my head high. “If you don’t mind,” I reply, with an emphasis that I hope makes it clear it’s a final decision. Without asking, LJ takes the keys from my hand and strides to the driver’s side.
“Hey!” I cry. “Do you even drive stick?”
LJ scowls. “I got it back here, didn’t I?”
“Answer the question.”
“I drive it enough.”
I purse my lips. “Enough is not enough,” I say. I respect the transmission on this thing too much to let him grind it to dust. “I’ll drive.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t put up a fight. “As you wish, Princess.” He smacks the keys back in my hand, opens the passenger door, and settles in.
There’s barely enough space for his giant form in there, like an Incredible Hulk action figure crammed into Barbie’s dream-mobile. I resist the urge to giggle, probably out of nerves, and get into the driver’s seat.
As I wrap my fingers around the keys, it occurs to me that there’s one hitch in my plan I’d somehow forgotten about: I still don’t have a license. If we get pulled over, I’m screwed.
But then again, if we get pulled over, I’d be screwed no matter what. So maybe I can just obey all the traffic laws and scoot in and out. It’s not like Jimmy’s is far. I won’t break the speed limit. I’ll signal at all turns. No, I convince myself, this will be fine.
“Are we going somewhere?” LJ says. “Or just revving the engine?”
“Sorry,” I mutter and click my belt into place. “We’re going.” With that, I shift into gear and give it gas.
LJ says nothing as the mansion gates glide open and let us out into the forest. Patches of sunlight flash past over the hood as we drive through the trees, and I let myself pick up just a little speed, shifting into second, figuring that no cops are going to be hiding out here in the thick of the forest. The wind feels good in my hair, teasing a few loose strands from the ponytail, and I take a deep inhale of the spicy smell of the woods, the feeling of freedom at my fingertips when I gently ease the wheel around the curves. “Nice day,” I remark after a silent minute or two of driving. It feels weird not to talk, even if LJ seems perfectly content with stony silence.
“Mm,” he mutters.
So much for that, I guess. Cross the weather off the list of acceptable small talk conversation topics. Maybe LJ stands for less joking the better or something.
But thinking that does make me wonder, so I decide to go for broke.
“Hey, what does LJ stand for, anyway?”
He makes a grunting sound, but actually answers. “My name.”
“Well, obviously,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Which is what? It doesn’t just say the letters L and J on your birth certificate, presumably.”
He snorts in a way that I think is a laugh and rests his arm on the side of the car, drumming on the door idly.
“Johan Lepetit.”
I blink. “Come again?”
“That’s my name. Little bit German, little bit Cajun. Flip the initials around”—he puts up two fingers and twists them in the air—“and you’ve got me. LJ.”
“So, you just decided to abbreviate one day or what?” I can’t let it drop. He actually takes his eyes off the road ahead of us and looks at me.
“Do I look like a Johan to you?”
I swallow, my mouth unexpectedly dry. “No, you do not,” I agree.
“I don’t really like my father, who I was named for. And the feeling was mutual. So this is the best I can do to get away from that name.”
That feels like enough personal disclosure for one car ride, so I let the rest pass in silence.
Jimmy’s Auto Supply is a rusted-out, broken-down, ramshackle little joint, a good ten miles on the outskirts of Nottingham proper. It’s never busy, so the odds of me running into anyone, let alone someone who knows who I am, are very, very low. I pull us into the parking lot next to a newer model F-150, but don’t kill the engine.
“So, do you want to wait here, or...”
I don’t even finish before LJ holds up a metal card between two fingers. “I’ve got the money.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right.” It’s a good point. I don’t have any cash, let alone a fancy credit card. But I’m not even sure Jimmy has a swiper at the console. If anything, he has one of those old carbon paper ones you have to shuttle the card through to make an impression.
LJ gets out of the car without another word. He glances at the back of the Mustang, then at me.
“You’ve got a taillight out.”
For crying out loud. I roll my eyes. “What are you, a traffic cop? I know, okay? I’m getting around to it.” I’d actually completely forgotten about it until now, but whatever. I kill the engine and crack open my door. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The bell above the door dings softly, and a weathered man in a faded green feed supply baseball cap looks up from the counter when we walk in. There’s not much actually in stock here: some dust-covered bottles of Penzoil, a couple of display toolkits and creepers, beef jerky. But anything you actually want, you’re going to have to get from the man himself.
“Maren!” Jimmy’s voice sounds like a piece of sandpaper smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for about a century. But there’s a happy undertone to it, I can tell, and I soften a little. He always liked me, although it’s probably hard not to take a shine to the former fifteen-year-old kid who came in asking about engine parts. “Hadn’t seen you for a while. Was worried something happened.”
“Just busy,” I lie, trying not to flinch as Jimmy’s steely eyes home in on my companion. “This is...” I falter. Why do I even need to make an introduction? I could just be cool and maybe everyone here would play along, but now it’s too late. So I forge ahead. “A friend of mine,” I finish.
“LJ,” LJ says, nodding. “Nice shop you got here.” He sounds like he means it. “I’m a biker myself, but I know a fellow gearhead when I see one.”
Jimmy cracks a rare smile. “Pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Maren’s is a friend of mine.” He looks at me. “What will it be, Maren? Another order for the shop? Because if so...” He breathes out, a wheezing, reluctant sound. “I know this ain’t your fault. But your uncle’s behind on settling his bills.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. “I’m so sorry, Jimmy.”
“Couple thousand,” Jimmy says. “I’m really gonna have to ask him to pay up. Even though—”
“I know, I know,” I say quickly. “I’ll make sure he does. Anyway, um, no. This is for a personal project. So we don’t need it to be attached to the account.”
“All righty then.” Jimmy doesn’t look like he fully believes me, but he respects me enough not to pry. “What will it be?”
I slide the smartphone back out of my pocket and read what I typed down. Jimmy’s wiry gray eyebrows go up as I do.
“Well, look at you, Miss Technology.” He squints, looking from the phone in my hand to LJ, to the phone again. “Are you sure you’re the same Maren?”
My heartbeat picks up in my chest a little. “Yep, still me,” I say, trying to affect cheerfulness. It’s like I’ve forgotten how I usually behave, what I’m actually like now that my life has changed so much in barely a week.
I finish dictating everything that I need, and Jimmy laboriously copies it longhand onto a legal pad, along with some scratched-out notes. He then putters over to an ancient computer, a giant beige box sitting on the corner of his counter, where he pops on a pair of cheaters that slide to the end of his bulbous nose as he hunts and pecks the items into his software lookup.
“It’s going to be a couple of weeks on some of these,” he says, shaking his head. “Can’t find them aftermarket, so they’re gonna have to come from overseas.”
“That’s fine,” I say.
Behind us, the doorbell ding-ding-dings again. I glance back and see that two guys have entered, presumably the driver and passenger from that F-150. One’s short and stocky with hair that’s greasy as an engine block sticking out from his trucker hat. The other one’s long, lean, and tanned and wrinkled as an old baseball glove even though he can’t be much older than I am.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I feel like LJ tenses next to me.
“Now, for that Japanese one,” Jimmy goes on, with all the haste of molasses. He taps his screen with his pencil eraser. “I could get you aftermarket. But if I’m being honest, I don’t think it’s worth it. You’d only be saving fifty, maybe seventy-five dollars, and it’s going to be mostly plastic.”
“If you want the proper one, that’s fine,” I say. “We’ll take quality. Money is no object.” I wince, regretting that last part as soon as it comes out of my mouth. But nervousness has me over-explaining.
I hear the footsteps of the men behind us, the indistinct mutters from one to the other. I don’t like it. I can’t say exactly why, but something about them feels predatory. I’m no stranger to the occasional microaggression; I’m a young woman in an old man’s profession. It kind of comes with the territory. But now, out of my jumpsuit and in these fancy new clothes, I don’t exactly look the part of someone who knows her way around a socket wrench.
“All righty then,” Jimmy says and toddles over to his adding machine. “Let me just total those up for you.”
“Sure,” I say, all but squeaking. I dare to glance sidelong at LJ, and his expression startles me so much I almost gasp. He is stony-faced, but with blazing hate in his eyes, laser-targeted on our two hillbilly friends.
“Dude,” I mutter under my breath. “Chill out.”
I’m nervous too. I don’t like anyone pacing around me like this. But odds are they’re just a little soused up on Wild Turkey and gas station vape pods and feel like they might make a pass at me. LJ says nothing, but beneath his beard, I can see his jaw working.
“...and 493...” Jimmy drones leisurely, punching the buttons on his adding machine. I know better than to tell him to hurry up, but God, I wish he would for once.
Then something pokes me in the ass.
“Hey!” I whirl around, more surprised than anything to find Mr. Slim Jim with what he must think is a devilish expression on his face. He grins, his mangy goatee parting to reveal tobacco-stained teeth, but no sound comes out of his mouth.
Because LJ’s fist smacks his pickup line right out of it.
“Jesus Christ!” I jump backward, ramming into the counter and clutching at my chest. Slim Jim hits the deck awfully hard, his face a mixture of dumbfounded shock and pain. LJ, for his part, just leans back casually and gives his hand a tiny shake, more for show than like he actually hurt anything.
“What in the...” Jimmy is so surprised his cheaters drop right off his face. “Now, see here...”
“Don’t do that,” LJ growls.
“I wasn’t doing nothing,” whines Mr. Slim Jim from the floor. “The fuck is your problem, man?”
“Like hell you didn’t do anything. You touched her. You think that’s acceptable?”
Mr. Slim Jim scowls, rubbing his jaw. “Fucking psycho.” He glares at me. “And you must be a psycho bitch to put up with him.”
In a single fluid motion, LJ ducks to the ground and grabs the guy by the throat, ramming him against the wall, rattling the Quaker State metal sign that’s nailed up a few inches away.
“I fucking told you,” LJ says as the guy scratches at his massive hand, trying to free himself. “Don’t do that.”
“What in the fuck is your problem?” says the greasy guy, holding up his phone. “I’m calling the sheriff’s office.”
LJ’s massive shoulders relax just enough to let the guy go. He wheels on me. “We’re leaving.”
“But—”
He doesn’t wait for me to protest. He steps to the counter, slams down a stack of bills thick as a brick, and ducks his head at Jimmy. “Apologies. This should make up for it.” He pivots and looks at me. “Maren, now.”
And before I can protest, he’s grabbed me by the waist and pulled me out of Jimmy’s shop.
The bell dings one last time as we burst out into the light.
“Get in,” LJ says gently but firmly, depositing me at the passenger door. “I’m driving.”
“But you said—”
“Keys,” he says, and I’m so stunned by how he’s taking over that I hand them to him with no questioning. He slides into the driver’s seat and revs the engine as I take unsteady steps to follow him in.
I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, like this is a movie. “What just happened?” LJ doesn’t answer; he just throws his hand on the armrest of my seat and glances over his shoulder so we can peel out in reverse.
I’m silent for a few seconds, listening to nothing but the pounding of my pulse in my ears and the purring of the engine as LJ shifts us into second, third, fourth, and not without a decent amount of grinding. There goes my fucking transmission, I think, finally, when my heart rate has approached something non-apoplectic. Then all my anger comes back at once.
“What the fuck was that? Why did you go beast mode on those guys? They weren’t—”
“They weren’t what?” LJ says, not tearing his eyes off the road. “They weren’t bothering you? Please.”
“Well,” I hesitate. “I mean, okay, no, I didn’t want my ass grabbed, but—”
“So they needed to be dealt with,” LJ says, “and I dealt with them.”
“But...” I ball my fists, frustrated at how much sense he’s making, except for the fact that it makes no fucking sense, because you can’t just cold-cock someone in the middle of Jimmy’s Auto Supply. “You can’t just cold-cock someone in the middle of Jimmy’s Auto Supply,” I say out loud. “I’m a loyal customer. This is gonna make me look bad.” Except as soon as I say it, I realize how absurd that sounds. I shake my head and actually laugh, nervous energy leaving me. LJ gives the Mustang a gentle pulse of gas.
“I’m sorry for startling you, and for”—he makes another grunt sound that might be a chuckle—“tarnishing your reputation as a customer.” He flicks a clipped glance my way. “But I won’t apologize for what I did.”
As we zoom down the road, we almost get sideswiped by a sheriff’s office patrol car tearing down the other way, lights flashing.
As soon as we see it, my mind goes blank. I can’t breathe. My chest is so tight. I put my hands on my collarbone, trying to suck in air.
LJ glances at me, then back at the road, then back at me again, and he doesn’t take his eyes away.
He brakes hard, fishtailing us around and zooming down a random side street I didn’t even notice. “Maren—”
“They’re coming,” I say out loud. “He said he was calling the sheriff and they’re coming. Fuck. I’m so fucked.”
“Maren,” LJ says, “you’re not fucked.”
“This is all your fault,” I say, pivoting on him. “How could you?” But the words come out stuttering, choked, high-pitched, a panicky sound I’ve never heard in my own voice before.
LJ slams the brake again, and this time we stop for real.
“You didn’t...you shouldn’t have...” I suck in breaths, my chest heaving uncomfortably tight like there are iron bands around it.
And then another bolt of panic surges down from the back of my neck.
Not now. Not now. I can’t have a seizure. I can’t lose consciousness. I’m not safe. Not in this moment, or in general. I can’t let him see that. Can’t let him—
My vision swims. I dig my fingernails into my palms and push my fists into the leather of the seat.
“Maren. Maren!” LJ says, an almost barked command. “Stay with me.”
But I don’t.