What Lasts

Chapter 1

MICHELLE: THE PRINCESS brIDE

Mark my words.

The next time I stole a car, it wouldn’t be my mother’s. The woman could not be bothered to peel her own fruit, much less fill her tank with fuel. There’s staff for that, she’d always say. Yet here I was five miles to empty.

So much for my dramatic getaway, skidding out of the driveway all full of aggrieved conviction only to discover a few miles into my deliverance that I didn’t have enough in the tank to clear the city limits.

I’d been defeated by my mother’s entitled indifference.

I might as well turn around. Go home. Face my fate.

But I didn’t even have enough gas for that.

Puttering into a station, I parked mother’s Mercedes-Benz convertible in front of a gas pump and waited for an attendant.

A minute passed, maybe two. I turned down the radio and tooted the horn. Nothing.

“Hello?”

Removing my sunglasses, I scanned the perimeter. Not a single attendant in sight. Wow. The service here was atrocious. A moment before I laid on the horn, a young man exited the station. Finally!

As he approached, I took in his unkempt, layered brown hair, his ripped 501 Levi’s, and his black Iron Maiden t-shirt. My lips pursed. Did gas stations not have a dress code for their workers these days?

The guy kept his head down, not bothering to look my way.

“Hello?” I called again when it became clear he was not coming to my service.

No acknowledgement whatsoever. He kept on walking.

I sighed, impatience building. “Sir. Sir! Hello?”

It was then that he looked up and made eye contact. I pointed to my car. He stopped, casting a glance over his shoulder, then back at me like he was surprised I was even asking. My lord. This place was scraping the bottom of the barrel for its employees.

“That’s right.” I gave an edgy nod. “Over here. Can you please fill my tank? I’ve been waiting.”

“Oh, no. My sincerest apologies,” he said, somehow without sounding sorry. “We certainly can’t have that.”

Was he mocking me? This guy needed some serious gas-pump customer service training, if there was such a thing.

I tapped my steering wheel. “Sir, if you could…”

“Fill your tank.” He cut me off. “Yes, I heard you.”

In no hurry, he strolled over, a smugness to his gait. It was hard not to notice the artwork on his heavy metal t-shirt—that of a devil wagging its tongue. Charming. I smiled sweetly, but only because I’d spent the majority of my life in etiquette classes and knew how to fake the pleasantries.

Once at my driver’s side door, the attendant crossed an arm over his middle and bowed. “As you wish.”

My mouth dropped. Could he be any more condescending? The jerk acted like this wasn’t his damn job. I leveled my gaze, wanting nothing more than to aggressively swing my car door into his nut sack, but again falling back on my impeccable manners.

“Fantastic. Thank you.”

“No problem. Oh, and miss, would you like me to check your oil level and tire pressure while I’m at it?”

“Please. And if you could wash the windshield too, that would be ideal.”

“Ideal. Yes.” He nodded and gave a short laugh. “I’m sure it would be.”

I didn’t like his tone. Not one bit. “Sir, I’m a paying customer, so if you could just lay off the cocky Bon Jovi attitude until I leave, I’d sure appreciate it.”

The attendant recoiled like I’d slapped him in the face.

“Bon Jovi? Okay, now I actually am offended.” He squinted down at me. “Do I look like I spent three hours with a round brush and a can of Aqua Net this morning?”

“Well, no, I—”

He cut me off. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Not that it was any of his business, but if it got him pumping my gas, I’d engage him in conversation. “No. I’m from Long Island’s North Shore, or more specifically, the Gold Coast.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You know—from The Great Gatsby?”

He shook his head.

“The book? It’s a classic.”

A shrug.

“The Gold Coast is between New York City and the Hamptons,” I tried again, but Iron Maiden was rapidly losing interest, so I wrapped it up. “I’m vacationing. We have a summer home here.”

He leaned against the door. “Do you now?”

“Yes. Right on the ocean.”

“I wouldn’t assume anything less.”

“Look, I really need to get going, so…”

“Right. I understand. I’m sure you’ve got some big shopping spree to get to, but for your information, here on the Pacific Coast, we pump our own gas.”

My brows furrowed. “Wait… so you want me to get out and pump it myself?”

He nodded in a slow and deliberate manner. “Yes, all by your lonesome.”

“Well, then, what are you going to do? Stand there and watch me?”

“No, I’m going to go fill up my own tank. And then I’m going to drive to my place, smoke some joints, and head bang the night away to loud, fuckin’ music.”

Slowly, the pieces connected. This guy… he didn’t work here. Holy hell! He didn’t flippin’ work here. The tan I’d worked so hard on this summer drained from my face. “I’m so… I’m… I thought…”

“I know what you thought.”

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“As you should be,” he said, pushing off my car with his hip and chuckling as he turned away. “Enjoy your stay, Gold Coast.”

I watched him walk to his pickup truck, which happened to be parked directly in front of me. If I weren’t cruising on empty, I would’ve already peeled out of the gas station, screaming my stupidity into the wind. But no. I was now committed to this awkwardness.

Ignoring his stare, I stepped out of the convertible and assessed the situation. Right, so… the nozzle thingy went into the car somewhere. I was a bright girl. It wasn’t like this task was beyond my comprehension. I could fill my tank like Pacific Coast people did.

Circling the vehicle, I discovered the gas cap and twisted it off. So simple. Proud of myself, I returned to the pump and grabbed the nozzle thingy. Not so hard. I shoved it into the tank and waited. Nothing happened.

I glanced over at Iron Maiden. He was watching me, enjoying the show.

“You got it in the hole,” he complimented, even sparing a clap for me. “Congrats.”

“Yes. Thank you. Is there a trick to getting the gas to come out?”

“No trick at all.”

I waited for more instructions, but none followed.

“Any tips would be appreciated.”

“I bet if you put that fancy private school education of yours to work, you could figure it out.”

“You’d think,” I mumbled, not loud enough for him to hear, and returned to the task at hand.

I pulled up on the nozzle lever. Still no gas.

I walked back to the pump, searching for a button or switch.

As much as I didn’t want to look back over, I did.

Iron Maiden was done filling his own tank and was now leaning against the back bumper of his ‘70s two-toned truck, his feet crossed at the ankles as he observed me with a relaxed satisfaction.

“I thought you had big plans for the evening,” I called over.

“I do.” He popped a Red Vine in his mouth. “They can wait.”

“Well, you might be here all night, then, because I have no idea how to get the gas flowing.”

“You know, I might’ve been more helpful had you not hurt my feelings by comparing me to Bon Jovi. That was some bogus bullshit.”

The grin on his face told me this guy was not easily offended. In fact, if I was reading him correctly, he was finding this whole scene wildly entertaining.

“You don’t strike me as the sensitive type,” I replied.

“And you don’t strike me as incapable,” he shot back.

Our eyes caught, sparking twin smiles. It occurred to me then that he was more attractive than I’d initially given him credit for.

His face was open and unguarded, lips marked by salt and too many afternoons in the surf.

His dark hair fell wherever it wanted, permanently windblown, and his smile carried the careless confidence of someone who’d never questioned whether things would work out—only when.

“About that apology, Gold Coast. When should I be expecting it?”

“Yes, the apology. I was getting to that,” I said, clasping my hands together as if in prayer. “Dear heavy metal guy. Please forgive me for mistaking you for a gas station attendant. It was insensitive of me to stereotype you based solely on your demonic t-shirt and unruly hair.”

He grinned. “Go on.”

“And I’m really sorry for calling you Bon Jovi.

Back home, that’s not considered an insult.

Now, will you pretty please—with devil horns on top—help me get the gas out of the pump and into my car?

I’m sort of in the middle of fleeing from an arranged marriage, and I’d really like to get back to that. ”

He pushed off his dented Chevy and took a few steps forward. “What do you mean? Like a mail-order bride?”

“Worse. My parents are forcing me on a date with Donald Lavelle the Third.”

“Well, shit. Does he come with his own butler, or do you have to provide one?”

“Wait. It gets worse. He goes by the nickname Prince.”

“Prince? Such a loser. What, was King already taken?”

I laughed, caught off guard by his quick wit. “You’re right. He is a loser. I’ve known Prince since we were kids. One time, when we were like ten, our families were vacationing together in the Marquesas, and I caught him stashing a booger up the nose of a centuries-old tiki statue.”

“Was a couch not readily available?”

I stopped my story to eyeball him. “I don’t get it.”

“Wiping boogers on the side of the couch? Never mind. Go on.”

“I… that was the story.”

“Oh. Okay,” he said. “Good one.”

I stared at him, momentarily lost, and in that pause Iron Maiden closed the gap between us, approaching with such scraggly coolness that he set my pulse in motion.

“Red Vine?” He offered up his licorice choice.

“No, thank you. I’m a Twizzlers girl.”

“Of course you are.”

He popped the licorice into his own mouth instead, chewing slowly as he let his eyes drag over me. Was he flirting? If so, he was doing it with bare-minimum effort. Just a raised brow and the lazy tilt of his head. Meanwhile, I was over here wondering if I passed.