“Whatever,” I muttered, letting her go.
“You’re such an asshole, Dorian,” she hissed, punching me in the back as I walked off.
What is it with women?
They chase you, play their games, pull you in, and when you’re done,you’rethe villain. Like I begged for this. Like, I made the first move. I didn’t want this. It was her idea.But suddenly I’m the problem?
Men get blamed for walking away, but no one ever asks why we had to in the first place.
I stepped out, leaving her behind. She slammed her fists into pillows as she fell onto the bed, screaming into the pillowcase.
Maybe I was the asshole, or maybe I was just tired of being what she needed.
What I needed was someone to love me forme,not who they imagined. Not who they could use. If that made me the bad guy, so be it.
The mechanic was already waiting by the car, window down, a smoke blurring his face as he held a cigarette in his hand.
“You ready?”
I nodded, pulled the gray jumpsuit up and zipped it to my chest, and sat down in the passenger seat without a word.
He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, a half-lit cigarette still dangling from the corner of his mouth. The whole car filled with smoke almost instantly, blending with the toxic stink of motor oil and metal.
Neither of us said a word.
I leaned my forehead against the window. Outside, the sky didn’t move at all, no clouds, just the color blue above my dark brown eyes.
I pulled the ski mask up onto my head. Letting it rest there, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I looked like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin.
The Mechanic cleared his throat.
“You know your part?”
I turned toward him slowly and nodded.
He wasn’t satisfied. “Say it.”
I hesitated. My throat felt dry, words felt stuck inside, but I had to repeat them.
“I run. Two blocks. Bag over my shoulder. Straight through to Midnight Salem Avenue. White van in the alley. Don’t stop for anything. If I get caught… we’re strangers. I never met you. Never met him.”
He nodded, eyes still on the windshield.
“Clear?” he asked again, sharper this time.
“Clear.”
He didn’t blink. He looked me dead in the eyes as he crushed the burning cigarette out on his skin, same spot as always, just beneath the anchor tattoo on his right hand. The flesh there was already puckered and scarred over from old burns. He didn’t even wince. He rolled down the window and flicked the cigarette butt out.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” he muttered.
Then, with one hand, he grabbed the edge of my ski mask and pulled it down until it covered my face up to the bridge of my nose. He gave my forehead a light clap, like a slap you give a kid when there’s something dumb left to say.
“I won’t,” I said, shrugging.
He studied me for a second, then he asked, “Can I give you some advice, kid?”
I nodded.
