Page 13 of Inferno
Startled, I jump away from Parker like Penn has caught us doing something wrong.
“We’re fine. Just bonding,” Parker says, mouthing “Thank you” to me before she turns around to face our boss. “Do we have a busy day planned?” she asks him.
Penn looks stressed, and I brace myself for him to tell me I’m fired or made a huge mistake or something, but he doesn’t even glance in my direction. “Really busy. But that was Lulu on the phone. Poppy is spiking a temperature, and Lulu thinks she needs to go to the doctor’s office, but Poppy’s asking for me.”
“Go,” Parker immediately says.
“Bay is at home with the kids because Missy has to?—”
Interrupting him, she shakes her head. “It’s fine. Henry and I will cope. Go be with your baby. She needs you.”
“Thank you,” he says, his shoulders slumping with relief as he glances at me, then back to Parker again. “If she’s feeling better, then I’ll?—”
Parker takes control again. “Penn, it’s fine, this is why you employ us. Go be with your family.”
“Thank you, guys. Any problems, just call,” he says as he turns and sprints from the room.
The rest of the day is the busiest I’ve experienced since I started working at the garage. With only Parker to handle the two-person workload, I spend my morning calling each client and creating a list to prioritize which job needs to be handled first, depending on how the clients react to the delay. Parker works tirelessly, finishing one repair and handing off the paperwork before immediately moving straight onto the next. When six p.m. rolls around, I head into the shop to check on her and find her with her head buried beneath the hood of a car.
“Don’t miss your bus,” she shouts, her attention still on the engine she’s adjusting.
“I’m not leaving, I just wanted to check if you needed anything.”
“No, I’m good,” she calls back.
It’s after nine p.m. by the time I finish creating the last invoice and getting the paperwork for the next day sorted.
“You didn’t have to stay with me,” she tells me, leaning against the break room door, her hair a wild mess.
“And like I said the other ten times you’ve told me that, I’m happy to help. Plus, there’s no way I’d leave you here alone at night,” I tell her, scoffing lightly.
“I’m driving you home,” she announces, pushing off the door and grabbing her bag, while I follow her and do the same.
“You don’t need to do that; I can get the bus or an Uber,” I try to assure her. Obviously, I won’t actually get an Uber, it’d cost me a fortune, but as long as I make it to the stop before ten p.m., I can get the last bus home.
“Or I could drive you,” she says, putting her hands on her hips and staring me down, like she’s daring me to try to argue.
“I don’t want you to have to do the long drive home alone,” I protest, but it sounds weak even to my ears. I hate riding the bus. It’s long and uncomfortable, and honestly most nights, it’s terrifying. The number of times I’ve sat rigid in my seat, frozen with fear, is unbelievable.
“I don’t mind. I enjoy driving, and it’s less than an hour,” she assures me, her expression open and honest.
“I can pay for your gas,” I suggest, silently calculating how many miles it is between here and Bozeman.
“No, you can’t. But you can stop arguing.”
Lifting my hand, I mime zipping my lips, then mouth, “Thank you.”
Her eyes light up, and a warm smile spreads across her face. “Awesome. Let’s go.”
Parker’s car is a beautiful, shiny, old-fashioned thing that looks like it should be in a movie, not parked behind a garage in Montana. The moment we hit the freeway, she puts her foot down and drives like a maniac, treating the roads like her personal racetrack.
As she animatedly regales me with stories about all the filthy things her and Danny are getting up to while they’re sharing a house up on the mountain, her speed increases until she’s going so fast, my fingers go white as I grip the seat and the door so tightly it hurts. By the time I direct her to my apartment building, I feel a little nauseous.
“This is where you live?” she asks with a squeak, her head moving from side to side as she takes in the run-down buildings and prostitutes openly standing on the street corner beside the guy who sells drugs.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I try to assure her, heat filling my cheeks, because it is exactly as bad as it looks.
“I’m sure your place is great, but this doesn’t seem like that safe an area,” she says quickly, like she’s worried she’s offending me.
