Classy Chassis (Side Hustle #12)

Chapter 1

Sally

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that comes from talking sweetly to an engine… and being ignored.

“Come on, baby,” I mutter, turning the key again. The starter whines like a bored teenager forced to get up before noon. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the camera. I’m trying to make content here.”

Another turn of the key. Another sputter and wheeze.

Then—nothing.

Not even the courtesy of coughing before dying. The little spinning “wheel of death” on my laptop has more personality than this car right now.

I smack the steering wheel gently. “You have one job.”

Silence.

I glance toward the camera. “So! What we’ve learned today is that Mustang Sally”—I pat the dash with more affection than I’ve given any human male—“is feeling shy. No big deal. We’ll, um… cut here and try again tomorrow.”

I scramble out of the driver’s seat to stop the recording before my growing panic becomes immortalized content.

That’s the fun thing about trying to start a YouTube channel.

Everyone tells you to be authentic, but no one warns you that “authentic” might include actual footage of your hopes and dreams going up in smoke before you even have enough subscribers to monetize your suffering.

I hit stop. The LED light fades. My confidence does too.

“Grandpa, I really need you to send me a miracle,” I whisper to the hood. I half expect his old ghost to chuck a wrench at me.

Maybe I’m doing this wrong. Maybe I should’ve waited until I had, I don’t know, skills. But Grandpa raised me on grease and grit and the belief that if you love something enough, you can rebuild it.

And I love this car even if she is being a diva tonight.

I brush the dust off my jeans and look at the Mustang again. She’s rough around the edges—paint faded, rust freckles on her fenders, one headlight permanently squinting like she’s suspicious of my intentions—but I see what she used to be. What she could be again.

This car is the last thing he gave me. The last piece of him that still exists in steel and memory.

Little me would giggle every time. I didn’t understand the tenderness behind it back then. Now I do.

Three months since I lost Grandpa. Three months living alone in the house I shared with him and inherited on his death. Every creak in the floorboards still sounds like him. The garage smells like oil and Old Spice.

You don’t just lose someone once. You lose them over and over. Every day, when the loss creeps up on you and the grief hits again because you know they’re gone. Losing someone is a journey, not a single step.

And it’s not just the car that’s his.

It’s everything.

Grandpa used to say, Now I’ve got two Mustang Sallys to take care of.

Little me would giggle every time. I didn’t understand the tenderness behind it back then. Now I do.

He worked on the assembly line his whole life. This car was his escape plan—weekend grease under his nails and dreams in engine form. Then he got sick, and the Mustang sat in the garage.

Now it’s mine.

I want to make him proud. But wanting and knowing how are very different things.

I drag the tripod back inside, stow my filming gear, and attempt to shove my frustration into the same toolbox of emotions where I keep grief and baked-in perfectionism. Spoiler: it doesn’t quite fit.

Okay. Deep breath.

If YouTube has taught me anything, it’s that someone out there knows how to fix every problem you could imagine… including vintage Mustangs that refuse to wake from their rusty coma.

I pull out my phone and look up the number for Clover Canyon Autos, owned by Georgina Lucas. The homepage pops up featuring a cherry-red Chevy Bel Air mid-restoration and the tagline We build legends.

I’ve met Georgina a few times because her father, Sheriff Lucas, was friends with my grandpa, but I don’t know her well.

I look at the pictures of Georgina—George to her friends—working in grease-smudged overalls, smiling like she actually enjoys having carb cleaner in her hair.

Reviews rave about her attention to detail, her custom jobs, and her ability to “bring the dead back to life.” Which sounds a little necromancer-adjacent, but hey, that’s exactly the kind of witchcraft I need.

I hit the call button before I can second-guess myself.

The phone rings twice before a woman picks up, voice brisk but warm. “Clover Canyon Autos, George speaking.”

“Hi, um—hi! This is Sally Hargrave. We met once or twice, I think? My grandpa was Hank. Hank Hargrave?”

“Oh! Right. Mustang Hank.” A fond note enters her voice. “Sorry for your loss, Sally. Your granddad was a good man.”

“Thanks,” I say, swallowing. “I, uh, I inherited his car. The Mustang. I’m trying to restore it. Or, you know, raise it from the dead.”

George laughs lightly. “Classic Mustangs are stubborn bastards. What year?”

“Sixty-seven. Fastback. Original everything, which is… part of the problem.”

“Whew. Yeah, okay. That’s a hell of a project.”

“Would you be able to take a look at it?” I ask, already praying she says yes. “I’m filming the rebuild for my channel, and I really want to do this right. For him.”

She hesitates. “I’d love to help, but I’m slammed for the next two months. And I’m spending a lot of time out at Havenridge Ranch working on the Suttons’ fleet and trying not to fall behind on everything else.”

“Oh.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“But listen,” she says. “I’ve got someone working out of my shop full-time right now. Nolan West. He’s doing a lot of the day-to-day jobs while I’m off site, and he stays late most nights working on his own builds. He’s magic with classics. Grew up around engines like yours.”

“Nolan West,” I repeat. “Never heard of him,” I add, though the name feels steady somehow.

“I’m not surprised. He only moved to Clover Canyon a few months ago. Doesn’t do much advertising, but he’s the guy you want under the hood of that car. Especially with how much it meant to Hank, and now you. He’s careful. Knows his way around vintage engines.”

Careful.

That’s what I need. Someone who understands that this isn’t just a car. It’s memories. A legacy. Maybe even a last chance at something I can’t name yet.

“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. I’ll call him.”

George gives me his number and a gentle warning. “He’s grumpy as hell, but don’t let it scare you off. He’s good.”

My brain conjures an elderly, frowning Popeye with zero patience for social media girlies.

“Thanks, George.”

“Anytime. And Sally?”

“Yeah?”

“Your grandpa would be proud you’re doing this.”

I thank her again and hang up before I cry.

Then I stare at Nolan’s number.

Guess it’s time to call the night mechanic.