Page 7 of All the Ugly Things
He still didn’t trust me. Fine by me. I hadn’t had anyone trust me since…
Whatever.
“Sure, Mr. Valentine.”
“David.” He grinned then, that easy smile and for some reason, it almost made me cry. I turned before he could notice the burn of my cheeks or the rapid blink of my eyes to brush it all away.
Being deemed untrustworthy was a common occurrence these days. Pretty sure Judith always had Chaz check the till after I left.
But I didn’t go to jail because I was a thief.
I went because I killed someone—even if I didn’t actually do the killing.
I pretended to go back to studying balance sheets, unable to focus on my work with my mind spinning. I crossed a line with him tonight. Did I regret it? Was it too late to take it back? Surely, he’d asked how I learned about engines. Then I’d have to answer… or lie? This was why I didn’t ask questions. This was exactly why I didn’t want to answer them. When he requested his check, I ripped it off the pad and handed it to him, waited while he pulled out his billfold, thick and heavy with cash. And slid out his credit card.
By the time I rang him out, he’d left a tip tucked beneath his coffee mug and gathered his iPad and files into his arms.
I followed him out to his SUV, cursing myself. I should have stayed in my lane, ignored him, let him do his thing.
Probably not too smart to back out and change my mind now, though, at least not without looking like an absolute moron.
“It might surprise you, or maybe not, but I don’t even have the faintest idea how to open the hood.”
I’d figured he was the kind of guy who’d never worked on his own car. But to admit that so easily? I blinked, almost impressed he’d admit it. In my experience, men with money like he clearly had would rather go down with a sinking ship than admit weakness.
“There should be a lever to the bottom left of your steering wheel.”
I waited at the front while he opened his door, fumbled for far too long before I heard the latch loosen. It took me just seconds to find the locking lever and I pushed it to the side. I had the hood raised and was checking the oil when he met me at the front. Based on the obvious sweet smell he already mentioned, I already figured the problem, but I might as well check it.
“It’s impressive you know your way around an engine.”
“Because I’m a girl?”
I kept my head down. No way was I telling him how I learned how to do basic mechanic work.
“Apologies if that offends you. Also, because you’re young and still in school.”
I’d brought out paper towels with me figuring I’d need them, so I wiped off the dipstick. Oil was at a good level and good color.
Sliding it back into place, I asked, “Do you get regular maintenance on this? It’s only a few years old, right?”
“Six. And yes, I get maintenance. If I forget, my son usually takes it in so I’m not sure when the last time it was serviced.”
Of course. He had far too many other more important things in his life to worry about a vehicle he could probably turn in tomorrow in order to buy something brand new.
He surprised me when he stated, “My bet, at a place like this, there’s a high turnover.”
“Sure. Probably.” I was bent over his hood, propped up on my tiptoes due to the height of the engine in his SUV. I found the coolant cap and untwisted it. That’s where the smell was coming from, I was almost sure of it. A syrupy tang was in the air that had nothing to do with the pancakes I’d served to a customer earlier.
“You been here a while.”
“Few months.” The first couple jobs I had were rougher. One in a rundown garage where the male workers liked to crack jokes about my ass while I was in a position similar to this. I lasted two weeks. One of them grabbed my ass and when I told him to knock it off, two other mechanics came up to his side. All three caged me in. Had it not been for the sound of the garage opening, a sign the boss was returning from his lunch break, I don’t know what would have happened. I called Ellen that night and told her if she couldn’t help me find something else I’d be going back to prison for assault.
Getting out of prison was almost worse than being in it. At least inside, you knew your role. You found a clique and you were relatively protected. Mine was pretty low security but that didn’t mean entirely safe.
Still, some days I wished for those metal bars and small windows and dreary, gray chipped walls.
Outside, I was nothing. No one. Just another ex-con who screwed up.
