Chapter 12 Jump Start
JUMP START
Imay never be clean again.
It doesn't matter how many showers I take.
How many rounds of lather, rinse, repeat I do.
How many fancy, scalp-cleansing, clarifying shampoos I buy.
The smell of motor oil is part of me now.
It lingers in every hair and clogs every pore on my body.
I'm the greasiest creature this side of the border, and it's what I deserve.
For the last six weeks, I have worked my fingers to the bone, doing all the shitty jobs no one else wants to touch, and I've done them with gusto.
I've crawled under pickups with shit-caked mudflaps to drain oil pans that haven't been changed in years—the thick, black sludge coating my arms up to the elbows.
I've scraped undercarriages caked with road salt and rust until my knuckles bled.
I've spent hours flat on my back on a creeper, wrestling with seized bolts on exhaust systems, breathing in rust particles and feeling the heat from still-warm catalytic converters inches from my face.
But every filthy exhaust, every disgusting transmission fluid change, every corroded battery brings me closer to redemption.
My sisters have been sympathetic, but I know they're glad to leave all the worst jobs to me. Each night they party, hunt, or socialize together, and I spend my precious few hours free from sunlight trawling highways, searching for stranded passengers.
Mother has barely said a word to me since that night she clipped my wings, and whilst my sisters have mostly been polite, I can detect the unmistakable scent of betrayal beneath the niceties.
I suppose I could leave, but where would I go?
Who would have me? This sisterhood is all I've ever wanted, and if I need to eat shit for a hundred years to get it back, I'll do it.
The Malditas aren't the only thing I've lost. I left Black Betty back at the bunker, and I haven't been back. The thought of returning to that place—the place that gave me so much and stole almost everything in return—is still too raw, too painful.
So I make do with the shop's 1983 Chevrolet C30 instead. Nothing flashy, just a workhorse. Which is fitting, really, because that's all I am now.
Without my wings, I can't be out in the day, so my world consists of darkness and only darkness. If this is what a regular vampire's existence is, then stake me now and send me straight to hell because I don't want it.
Tonight is Saturday—at least I think it is—and I'm on call again.
Sitting, waiting, reading, passing time until a call comes in.
Some nights there's nothing. Other times it's a back-to-back stream of desperate calls from hysterical drivers who've blown out a tire and can't summon the strength to change it.
I'm desperate to peel off these overalls and scrub myself under the cleansing fire of a nice hot shower, but I know the second I turn on the water we'll get a call and I'll have to abandon my plans.
Better to wait it out, read some smut, and enjoy a pint of laksa-laced blood whilst the rest of the world goes on without me.
A few of my sisters are out on protection jobs, some gone for months, others still here in Juarez planning a night on the town.
I hear them chattering downstairs, swapping clothes and testing lipsticks whilst a montage of mismatched music drifts from the Bluetooth speaker that belongs to no one in particular.
I'm splayed on an old, threadbare couch, feet up, enjoying the sound of Joni Mitchell smashing into 50 Cent when Nadège bursts through the back room.
She's breathless, braids twisted into a full bun at her crown, half-dressed in a pair of high-waisted leather pants and a half-buttoned silk blouse. She tosses a phone at me.
"You left this downstairs," she says as I catch it in one hand. "Just got a call from some guy with a flat battery out near Monumento Cristo de Curiel. It sounds like all he needs is a jump. Can you go?"
I shut my book and haul myself up. "Sure. It's not like I've got a hot date or anything. What time are you leaving? I can give you a ride on the way."
She waves her hand. "No need. We're only going to the Kentucky Club. We'll walk." She cocks her head to the side. "You doing okay? You look a little sad."
I'm on my feet and grabbing the keys for the Chevy. "Never better."
As I pass her, she grabs my arm and fixes me with a concerned look. "Sophia, she'll forgive you eventually. You know that, right? She loves you. We all do. You don't have to spend eternity punishing yourself."
"Have you forgiven me?" I ask.
She smiles. "I don't hold grudges, babe. Not my style. Cat's still furious, but you know how she is. As for the others? They’ll get there. Just give it time."
"All I have is time."
She throws her eyes heavenward and grins. "Don't I know it."
The truck stutters and ticks beneath me as I ride out through the barren desert. It's quiet tonight, and so far I've only spotted three other vehicles whiz past me, headlights dipped low, drivers desperate to get wherever they're going without attracting attention.
The highway stretches endlessly ahead, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through nothing.
No streetlights out here, just the occasional reflector post catching my headlights and throwing back a weak yellow glare.
The landscape is sparsely dotted with dried scrub and jagged rocks, the kind of gaping terrain that swallows secrets whole.
A rusted sedan passes going the opposite direction, windows tinted so dark they're practically opaque, sitting low on its axles like it's carrying something heavy.
Minutes later, a pickup with Sinaloa plates crawls past, moving maybe thirty miles an hour despite the empty road.
The bed is covered with a tarp pulled so tight it could be hiding cinder blocks or bodies—none of my business either way.
The two men in the cab stare straight ahead, their faces ghostly pale and lit by dashboard light.
This is the Juarez Americans are afraid of. This is the night shift, where everyone's got somewhere to be and no one asks questions. Where the only people out are those who need the darkness as much as I do, even if their reasons are different.
I check the dashboard clock. This guy called thirty minutes ago. He should still be out here, but I have barely seen any signs of life.
"Where the hell are you?" I mutter, eyes scanning the horizon for signs of life.
Then I see it—about a quarter mile ahead, hazard lights blinking weakly against the vast dark.
A black luxury pickup, hood popped open like a mouth mid-scream, parked half on the shoulder.
It's one of those pristine Ford F-250s with the chrome package, the kind that narcos buy in cash.
Completely out of place in this wasteland.
I slow down, signaling even though there's no one behind me for miles.
As I pull up in front of it, my headlights illuminate the scene: the truck is immaculate except for the raised hood. No visible damage, no signs of a struggle or accident. The interior light is off. Nobody visible inside or out.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, listening. The tick of cooling metal. The whisper of wind across the desert. The distant, barely-there hum of power lines.
Something feels off.
I grab my jump kit from the passenger seat and step out into the night, my boots crunching on gravel. "Roadside assistance," I call out, my voice carrying in the stillness. "Someone call for a jump?"
No answer. Just the wind and the clicking of the hazard lights and a familiar, irregular heart beat.
When I hear the beautiful rhythm, my own stutters in recognition.
I approach the truck slowly, every sense on alert—not the human ones, but the other ones, the ones that make me special. I can smell motor oil and expensive leather. Cologne, something woody and familiar. Something vampiric.
My skin prickles but I need visual confirmation before I dare to dream.
"Hello?" I try again, moving around to the driver's side.
A footstep.
The crunch of gravel under an expensive shoe.
"Angel," I breathe.
He steps out from behind the truck, and my heart doubles its pace.
He looks even better than I remember. Suited, like he was that day I left him in the bunker, and immaculately groomed.
Head to toe in black, with lambent lapels and diamond-encrusted cufflinks.
It's strange to see him looking so well, hair groomed and slicked with pomade instead of clinging to his damp forehead.
Eyes alert and dark with desire and hunger, not misery and terror.
There's another change too. A small teardrop tattoo under his eye.
Damn, he looks good.
"Sophia," he sighs, and when he says my name, every cell in my body wants to run to him.
So I do.
I drop the jump kit, cables clattering against the asphalt, and I'm closing the distance before I can stop myself.
He meets me halfway, his arms coming around me and knocking the air from my lungs.
I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in, inhaling the rich scent of the blood that pulses under his skin.
His blood. My blood. Our blood.
His lips find mine, and I remember why I did what I did. Why I betrayed my family. Because this is all that matters. This is how it feels to be loved by someone who needs your love to survive.
His hands slide up my back, fisting in the dark fabric of my denim coveralls like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"I've been looking for you," he says, voice strained.
"I've been waiting for the right time, but there never was one.
So I waited until I couldn't wait anymore.
" He pauses and takes a deep breath, and his voice wobbles.
"Every day without you felt like a lifetime. "
"How did you find me?" I say, blinking back the tears.