Touched by the devil, p.4
Touched by the Devil, page 4
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
There’s no way I’m dealing with another one here.
3
Sebastian
With the barest thread of control, I manage not to lose my shit until she’s off the property. I don’t know at first just what I’ll do—as usual—but I can feel it swelling inside of me and bucking to break free. The instant she’s gone, I reach back and hurl my arm forward, flinging the wrench across the room. It smashes noisily into the workbench, landing with precision, scattering tools all over the floor. It’s meager and dissatisfying. It’s not the feel of my fist meeting bone, a flame licking up my spine and exploding from my muscles. I thrust my hand into the box and pick up another, throwing it at the same spot, and then another. I lose track of what gets thrown, unable to see past the thing burning inside of me, pummeling the fuck out of the wall.
It barely leeches the blind fury from the pit of my chest.
No matter how many direct hits I make, I can’t get that girl’s expression out of my mind. It was like she’d seen a ghost. No, worse, a monster.
I’m the one who saw a ghost. How else could I possibly fucking explain that girl from the Briar Cliffs—my dirty secret, the worst thing I’ve ever done—just waltzing right into this garage. It took me longer than it should have to recognize her. The blue tips of her hair were gone, and everything about her looked tired and harsh—especially her eyes. They’re what made me connect the dots. Those big hazel eyes. The fear was the same today as it was then.
She’s terrified of me.
At least this time she didn’t scream.
Jesus Christ.
I shove my hands in my hair, and it takes me longer now than it used to, gathering up all this fury and packing it away. It was easier when I could just beat the fuck out of someone and lay it all on them. There’s probably a name for it somewhere, in some boring, overly-technical textbook. Fucked-Up Pretty Boy Syndrome. If it had an illustration, it’d just be wild, Pollock-esque scribbles. The caption would read ‘prognosis: terminal.’
I try breathing. Everyone tells me do that when I get like this. ‘Just breathe, Bass’. Most useless fucking thing ever. My lungs are not the problem here. Still, I do it, air whistling through my gnashed teeth.
My eyes dart to the Mustang up on the lift, the one she said was hers. I noticed it when I got in this morning, mostly due to the fact I was surprised someone had been able to get it here in the first place. It was obviously held together by dirt, rust, hope, and a prayer. The paint is completely gone in places, and lot of the ornamental details are gone. It’s a complete junker—a total piece of shit. A beater. A lemon.
A challenge.
Breathing doesn’t help, but that does. I look at the body and let my brain start racking up a list. Plenty could probably be salvaged, with a shitload of work. But that’s not even to speak of whatever’s going on under the hood. And the interior, which is probably grotty, too.
Now that my adrenaline has waned, I look back over at the tool bench, biting back a groan. Fucking hell, Merle is going to kill me. He already barely tolerates me coming here in the first place. I’d charmed the old man—as much as the crusty, old bastard can even be charmed—into letting me rent a bay to work on Jasmine whenever I want. There’s a particular kind of affinity that runs through gear-heads, a common thread. Merle must have sensed it in me the first time I came in here with Jasmine. It’s best in the mornings and at night, when it’s quiet and there aren’t any customers here. Those are my times. That’s why I was so annoyed at a customer just walking up when I still had twenty minutes of blissful peace left.
Having something to do with my hands helps. A project to focus on. A physical, tangible objective. The only issue is that I’ve put so much work into my Jasmine that she’s in top shape. More and more, I’ve been snagging wayward tasks from Merle, desperate to keep myself occupied for just a little longer. This place has been my only goddamn saving grace these last few shitty months.
And now she’s a part of it.
That realization is depressing as hell and sparks the rage still smoldering in my chest. Without thinking, I give into the impulse to pick up one last wrench and throw it as hard as possible across the room. It hits the exit light over the door and the plastic casing cracks, shattering to the ground.
“What in the ass-licking hell is going on here?”
My eyes drop down to where Merle is standing in his green coveralls, eyebrows ominously low, coffee in one hand, paper bag in the other. The broken sign flickers a frantic ‘EX’ over his head.
I thrust a hand in my hair. “Fuck.”
The only thing worse than this hot thing burning in my chest is the shame—the dark cloud of remorse—that always follows an outburst like this.
It leaves me feeling sick and vaguely scared of myself in that way I used to be when coming out of a fight, slamming rudely back to reality with cut-up knuckles and bloody faces. It’s why I started picking them. Hard to feel ashamed about beating the shit out of someone who deserves it. Even harder to feel scared about hurting someone when they signed on, knowing full well the consequences.
“Boy, I don’t know what brought on this tantrum,” he nods to the broom leaning against the wall, “but you have until noon to unfuck yourself and get it back together. Understand?”
Fuck you, old man. Screw this. Go to hell. I swallow it all back. If Merle kicks me out of here, what will I have? No fighting, no work outs, no cars? I’ll go fucking guano. “Yes, sir,” I grind out. “Sorry, sir.”
I walk over and grab the broom, stepping over the tools scattered all over the floor. Merle steps out of my way and heads into his office, muttering about me the whole way.
Before starting, I take one last look at the Mustang and wonder exactly what it is about this girl, her mere presence, that apparently brings out the worst in me. I know one thing for sure—if I’m going for self-preservation, the only thing I can do is stay the hell away from her.
I hang the last tool on the peg board just as the clock over the office door rolls to noon. Merle has spent the last hour checking out the Mustang. Jotting notes on a clipboard and shaking his head. It’s pretty obvious that whatever needs to be done to the car, it’s extensive. Unsurprisingly. I don’t know much about the girl, but she’s from the Briar Cliffs. She drives a car like this because she has to, not because she wants to.
“How bad is it?” I ask when he slams the hood.
He gives me a look that says my outburst has been forgiven, but not forgotten. “Aside from the body work, the transmission barely qualifies to be called one, and the engine needs a complete rebuild. But, excluding those, I can probably get it running for about a grand.” He walks toward the office, head shaking. “You ready to tell me what happened this morning?”
I shake my head. “I promise, it won’t happen again.”
A car pulls into the parking lot, and we both look out the open garage bay door. I recognize the car immediately as Georgia’s. What surprises me is who climbs out of the passenger seat.
The hazel-eyed girl.
Motherfucker.
I glower as I watch her raise a hand, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I’m going to go unpack those boxes in the storeroom that came in yesterday.”
Merle’s eyebrow raises. “You’re what?”
I don’t answer, just stalk into the back. The storeroom has a glass window with closed blinds. I stand in the dark and peer through the slat. The girl walks into the garage, eyes darting around, and from the tense set of her face, it’s obvious that she’s looking, bracing, for me. Her shoulders ease when I don’t turn up.
I take a moment to get a proper look at her. When I first saw her in the garage, I’d been interested. She’s got a nice, small, compact body, but her demeanor is so fucking big, you could almost miss it. Narrow waist, big eyes. Full lips, set in a scowl. Smooth-looking, porcelain skin, contrasted with her dark hair, blowing chaotically in a passing breeze, fluttering around her like an ink cloud. Her chin is always up, those hazel eyes staring down her nose at everything. She looks exactly like the kind of girl you’d expect to threaten to cut your balls off.
The good thing is that she doesn’t seem to want to see me again either. The bad news is that, if she’s riding around with Georgia, there’s no way she isn’t a student at Preston Prep. And like, how the hell did she even pull that off?
“Well?” I hear her ask, her arms wrapped around her middle like a shield. It’s an insecure gesture, but her face is full of severity. “Can you fix it?”
“Oh, I can fix anything,” Merle says, “but with a car like that, it’s going to cost. Finding parts isn’t easy, and it’s pretty clear there hasn’t been regular maintenance on it.” Merle starts listing off the vehicle’s problems, running down a pretty broad list. With each word her jaw tightens and that look of exhaustion in her eyes grows. “It won’t be road-ready for less than a thousand.”
“Shit,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead. “Fucking shit!”
“I knocked off a few of the bigger projects—the things that can hold off for a bit.” He looks at her sympathetically. “Do you have a dad I can talk to? A parent?”
One of her cheeks lifts with an incredulous lip-curl. “The car is my responsibility.” She plants a hand on each hip, thinking. “Look, I have some of the money. Well, most of it. But I’m going to need a little time to get the rest. Do you have a payment plan?”
I listen as Merle explains that he doesn’t work like that. This garage runs on cash or credit alone. It’s pretty clear, as I predicted, that she doesn’t have access to either. The defeat in her expression doesn’t match the tough exterior. The combat boots and torn jeans are a staple among the Briar Cliff girls for a reason. They’re not the soft, pampered type like Preston kids. They work because they have to. But this chick stands like she’s bracing for a hit, feet always planted in a wide stance.
It makes me uncomfortable. This girl has the look of someone who’s used to getting piled on, and despite our grab-bag of differences, that’s something I can relate to. I idly wonder if it’d make her feel better, knowing that karma’s already shanked me in the back.
From my hiding spot, I watch her tell Merle she’ll figure out by tomorrow how to get the car off the property. A moment later, her and Georgia peel out of the parking lot.
When I’m sure they’re gone, I slink back out of the supply room and approach the Mustang. It’s ugly and beat to hell, but in a weird way, that’s almost its best feature. This lady was a sweet-ass ride back in her day, but no doubt about it, she’s seen some real shit. This isn’t some fancy little show-car. This girl has lived. I unlatch the hood and lift it up, assessing the engine.
“Close the hood, Bass. I need to take it off the lift and put it out back. She says she’s coming back tomorrow, but we’ll see.” I let go of the hood and it slams shut, sending a shiver of rust to the ground. He echoes my thoughts, “It’s too bad. Was probably a real beauty back in the day.”
I nod in agreement and stare pensively at the car. Something twisted and complex squirms inside me at the thought of her rotting away in some junk yard.
“What if—” I start, then stop. I take a breath, both aching to commit and all at once wary of doing so. “What if I work on it. For free.”
He looks at me like I just offered to stick my dick into an electrical outlet. “Why the heck would you do that?”
Because I’m bored. Because Jasmine is out of flaws to silence this black, sick thing roiling inside of me. Because I can’t stand the thought of casting aside something so broken and sad. Because it has a brave little toaster smile. Because the girl who owns this car sort of resembles it.
I answer, “I’m renting the bay, so I’ll put it there. My car is in good shape. I could use a new project.”
Merle gives me a curious glance. “You got a crush on this girl or something?”
“No,” I say firmly, then give him a patented Wilcox grin. “You think she looks like my type?”
“I think a dumbass like you would be lucky for a girl like that to give you a second glance.” He throws up his hands. “You rent the bay, you can do whatever you want to with it.”
“Okay,” I say, but quickly add, “will you tell her you worked something out? Just say you got a deal or something, but it may take longer. I don’t know. I just don’t want her to know it’s me.”
“So, you do like her.” When I narrow my eyes, he shakes his head. For some reason, I can’t ever seem to impress this guy. Merle isn’t afraid of me and he doesn’t buy into my bullshit. “What’s with the secret, then? Why can’t she know you’re her fairy godfather?”
“Because if she finds out, she won’t accept it.”
His laugh sounds as old and rusted as the Mustang looks. “So. It’s like that. Should’ve known. Guys like you always go for the complicated ones.” He waves me off and heads back to the office. “I’ll come up with something. She’s not really in the position to complain.”
Merle is right. It is complicated, but not in the way he thinks. It’d be easy to say that I fucked up—that I hurt her—and it’d be true. I could call this penance, a clearing of conscience. That’d look pretty good.
But I look at that sad, broken car and think that, even despite all the work it needs, it’d probably be the easiest thing to fix in either of our lives right now. It’s a cop out, more than anything.
I can’t deny how calming it is to settle into the focus of planning. The body is shit, but it’s least urgent. Most important is the engine. What’s beneath this hood is Frankenstein’s monster. I kick around under there for a good hour, just marveling at the weirdness happening. Non-original parts for cars decades newer than this beast, hoses held together with clamps and electrical tape, a radiator cap that used to belong to a Gatorade bottle—it just keeps getting fuckier and fuckier.
“No one respected you, did they?” I ask the car.
It doesn’t answer back.
Before long, I confirm Merle’s initial assessment. The alternator is toast. But if it weren’t, the solenoid’s going to kick the bucket any day now, and the ignition switch is dry-rotted and falling apart. In conclusion, there are probably a dozen different forces conspiring to make this car not start.
Whoever worked on this lady before me was happy just putting any old thing in her, but I’m never satisfied with anything but original. Ridiculously, I decide to rebuild the alternator and starter myself.
Merle pulls a face. “Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot, boy. Buy one for a few hundred, slap it in there, and call it a day.”
“Nah,” I argue, dipping back beneath the hood to take off the belt. “There isn’t much left in here that’s original.”
“This isn’t a show car. It’s a beater. It’s just gotta get her from point A to point B.” This is where Merle and I butt heads. He’s pragmatic, all about the practicality. To him, a car is transportation. It should be dependable and secure. I’m guessing forty years in this business, dealing with hard-up customers who need to just get to work will do that to you.
Dependable and secure is important, but so is character. “I get it, I do,” I assure, walking around him to get a wrench. “But why not? Come on, Merle, like….” I gesture to the car. “Come on.”
He just shakes his head. “It’s your life.”
Only sometimes, I think.
4
Sugar
“What did he say?” Georgia asks when I walk back into the room. I’d stepped into the hallway to take the call from the garage, which I was fully expecting to come with a new slew of charges. I know what kind of condition my car is in. It doesn’t make it any easier to let it go.
Now, I’m standing here, staring at my phone in complete bafflement. “He… changed his mind?”
Georgia’s forehead creases. “About the car needing work?” Her voice is dripping with enough doubt that someone else would probably find it insulting. It just makes my chest bounce with a laugh, because it’s not like she’s wrong.
“About the cost,” I elaborate, dropping into the desk chair. “He said he’d work on it for a reduced price, so long as I’m cool with leaving it there for a few weeks. And something about finding a junk yard with older parts that are less expensive? I don’t know, but apparently I can afford it now.”
Georgia’s face lights up. “Sugar, that’s awesome! I know you were worried. That must be such a weight off your shoulders.”
She has no idea.
Georgia isn’t like the girls from back home. I barely know her, but she’s such an expressive person—so damn genuine all the time—that it’s hard to dislike her. She wears every emotion right on her sleeve, right down to the disappointment she’d shown when I turned down her offer to lend me the amount of repair costs I couldn’t cover with my own savings. I’ve never known someone willing to lend a stranger a few hundred dollars, no questions asked.
There’s just no way she could possibly understand my financial situation. I’ve ridden in her car, seen the inside of her closet, the rings on her fingers. Her phone is the latest model, as is her laptop and smart watch. It’s not like I begrudge her or anything. I knew what I’d be getting into by coming to a school like Preston, and it’s not as though she can help coming from wealth. But the economic divide here is palpable. Students here probably blow a thousand bucks without a second thought.
But even though she can’t really relate, she isn’t wrong. Feeling a little more weightless, I give the chair an indulgent spin. “At least I don’t have to worry about it right away. I could really use some time to settle in before looking for a job.” I pick up a shoebox and start sifting through my rolls of film, sorting them by importance. Back home, I’d send these off to be developed the next town over, but Preston Prep has its own arts wing, complete with dark rooms and the necessary materials. “I wonder what made him change his mind?”
