Chapter 5 #2
He's asking. Not assuming. Giving me the choice. Making sure I want this and not just going along because I feel obligated.
"Yeah." I grab my phone from where I left it on a shelf, shove it in my pocket. "Sounds good."
His shoulders drop slightly—relief, maybe—and he nods once. "Alright."
Finn kills the music, Holt checks that everything's locked, I make sure the front desk is clear.
The walk to Finn's trailer takes maybe five minutes.
The sun's setting properly now, turning everything gold and beautiful in that way the desert does—harsh during the day, gorgeous at the edges.
The heat's finally breaking, temperature dropping from unbearable to merely oppressive.
Almost. I can actually breathe without feeling like I'm inhaling fire.
Finn walks ahead, talking the entire time about something that happened with a customer last week that apparently involved a misunderstanding about brake fluid and someone's very expensive mistake. Holt and I walk side by side, quiet between us while Finn provides the soundtrack.
I'm hyperaware of him next to me—can't stop noticing the way he moves, that slight unevenness in his stride I've picked up on but can't quite place.
He smells like work—grease and engine heat and clean sweat underneath.
His arm almost brushes mine when we walk but never quite does, like he's tracking the space between us and maintaining it deliberately.
"The boots you ordered," I say quietly, not looking at him. "Thank you. You really didn't have to do that."
"Your shoes had holes." He doesn't look at me either, both of us staring ahead while we talk. "Couldn't have you tripping over your own feet more than you already do."
"I don't trip that much."
"You kicked over a bucket of bolts on your second day."
"That was the bucket's fault for being in a stupid place."
His mouth curves slightly. "If you say so."
"I do say so. And thank you. For noticing. For ordering them."
"You're welcome." There's warmth in his voice, something softer than usual.
Finn's trailer appears ahead—vintage Airstream that's seen better days but is clearly loved.
String lights are hung outside, wrapped around the awning and strung between poles, waiting for dark to glow.
There are mismatched camping chairs arranged in a circle, a cooler that's probably older than me, and a portable speaker that Finn's connecting to his phone.
"Welcome to my palace," Finn announces, gesturing broadly. "It's not much, but it's mine and the AC works most of the time."
"It's great," I say, meaning it. There's something about this space that feels lived-in, comfortable, loved.
Like Finn's poured himself into making it a home instead of just a place to sleep.
The faint smell of sunscreen and old tequila and something spicy—hot sauce, maybe—hangs in the air. "Very you."
"That's either a compliment or an insult and I'm choosing to take it as a compliment."
"It was definitely a compliment."
"Too late. Already offended." But he's smiling, pulling beers from the cooler—actual good beer, not the cheap stuff—and tossing one to Holt, then me. "Sit. Drink. Tell me about your day in town."
I twist off the cap, take a sip. Cold. Perfect. Exactly what I needed after hours in that back room. "Maeve's great. Showed me around. Introduced me to everyone. Made me feel like I've lived here for years instead of days."
"That's Maeve." Finn kicks his feet up on the cooler. "So. Ward and Weller Auto. Final thoughts? Be honest. We can take it."
"Good." I settle into a chair across from him, Holt taking the one between us. "Chaotic in the best way. I've learned more about cars in a this short time than I knew in my entire life. Finn's organizational system is a crime against humanity—"
"Hey—"
"—but in a weirdly functional way. Holt's impossibly competent at everything which is annoying—"
"Not everything," Holt murmurs.
"—and you're both ridiculous but in complementary ways that somehow work." I take another sip. "It's good. I like it here."
"She likes it here," Finn repeats, beaming at Holt. "Hear that? We're likable. This is new information."
"We're tolerable," Holt corrects.
"I said likable and I'm sticking with it." Finn raises his beer. "To Scout. For surviving without running screaming into the desert."
"There's still time," I say.
"That's the spirit."
We drink and the conversation flows. Finn tells a story about a customer who brought in a car making a weird sound that turned out to be a cat stuck in the engine bay—"Alive, by the way, fine, just very angry"—and I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my beer.
The sun keeps setting, the temperature keeps dropping, and the string lights flicker on automatically, bathing everything in warm honey-gold that softens all the edges.
"Oh!" Finn sits up suddenly, like he's just remembered something vital. "Scout. Did Holt tell you about Mrs. Patterson?"
"Who's Mrs. Patterson?"
"See, this is exactly why we need Scout around. Fresh audience." He turns to me, eyes bright with mischief. "So Mrs. Patterson brings her car in last month, right? Says it's making a 'worrying sound.'"
"Okay."
"She's very concerned. Very serious. 'Something's wrong, boys, I can hear it.' So we're like, alright, let's diagnose this." He's fully into the story now, using his hands. "We spend forty-five minutes checking everything. Exhaust. Engine. Belts. Suspension. Everything. Can't find anything wrong."
Holt's mouth is curving—he knows where this is going and finds it funny despite himself.
"Finally," Finn continues, "Holt opens the trunk. Just to check, you know? Be thorough. And there's her purse. Just sitting there. And her phone is ringing."
I'm starting to laugh. "No."
"Yes. Her phone. In her purse. In her trunk. Ringing." He's so wide-eyed with delight his face might split. "Holt, what was the ringtone?"
"'Who Let the Dogs Out,'" Holt says, deadpan.
I lose it. Actually lose it, laughing so hard I snort, which makes me immediately mortified but I can't stop. "'Who Let the Dogs Out'? That was the worrying sound?"
"That was the worrying sound." Finn's delighted by my reaction. "She'd been driving around forthe whole day thinking her car was dying and it was just her daughter calling her repeatedly."
"What did you do?"
"Handed her the phone," Holt says. "Told her the repair would be free."
"He didn't tell her it was free because there was nothing to repair," Finn adds. "Just let her think we'd fixed some mysterious problem. She tells everyone we're miracle workers now. Brings us cupcakes every now and then."
"That's amazing." I'm wiping my eyes, still laughing. "That's the best thing I've ever heard."
"We have more," Finn says, clearly enjoying this. "Scout, did you know Holt once set himself on fire?"
Holt goes still. "I did not set myself on fire."
"There were flames. Actual flames. I saw them with my own eyes."
"It was smoking."
"FLAMES, Holt. You were on fire."
I'm watching this back and forth, delighted. "How does someone accidentally catch themselves on fire?"
"Welding," Holt says flatly, like that explains everything.
"Welding while wearing a cotton shirt that basically said 'please ignite me,'" Finn corrects. "Spark caught it and you just kept working like you weren't actively becoming a human torch."
"I noticed."
"You noticed after I screamed 'YOU'RE ON FIRE' loud enough that two customers came running into the bay thinking there was an emergency."
"I handled it."
"You patted yourself down like you were brushing off dust. Very casual. Very unbothered." Finn shakes his head. "Meanwhile I'm having a full cardiac event thinking I'm about to watch my best friend spontaneously combust."
"I didn't combust." Holt takes a sip of his beer. "Still here."
"Barely." Finn looks at me. "Scout, this is what I deal with. This is my life. Preventing Holt from accidentally killing himself through sheer stubbornness and questionable safety practices."
"Sounds exhausting," I say.
"It is. I deserve recognition. A medal. Maybe a parade."
"Coyote Bend doesn't have parades," Holt says.
"Then they should start. For me. For my service."
"What service?"
"Friendship. Loyalty. Keeping you alive against your will." Finn's full smile is back. "Also I make excellent coffee."
"Your coffee is terrible," Holt says, serious as a heart attack.
"My coffee is beloved by me and that's all that matters."
"That's not how quality works."
"Says you."
I'm laughing again, watching them bicker. It's not mean. It's not even really arguing. It's just how they communicate—affection disguised as insults, care wrapped in mockery.
"Okay, okay," I say when I can breathe again. "What's the weirdest customer you've ever had? Because if Mrs. Patterson isn't number one, I need to hear what is."
Finn and Holt exchange a look. Some silent communication passes between them.
"Tell her about the chickens," Holt says.
"Oh god, the chickens." Finn's starting to laugh. "Okay. So this guy comes in—this is maybe six months ago—and his truck needs work. Transmission's shot, brake lines are questionable, the whole thing's a disaster. We give him a quote. Fifteen hundred, give or take."
"That's reasonable," I say.
"Very reasonable. We're not trying to rob anyone." Finn takes a sip. "So he looks at the quote. Looks at us. Looks back at the quote. Then he says, dead serious, 'I can pay you in chickens.'"
I blink. "Chickens."
"Live chickens."
"He tried to pay you in livestock."
"He had a whole system worked out." Finn's eyes light up. "Three chickens for an oil change. Five for brake work. Fifteen for a transmission replacement."
"Did you take the chickens?"
"No," Holt says.
"But we considered it," Finn adds quickly. "For like, a full thirty seconds. Just to see what would happen. Just to see his face when we said yes."
"You didn't."
"We absolutely considered it." Finn gestures at Holt. "Remember? You were actually doing math."