Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 73311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I snorted.
A ‘looker’ to Pops meant the man had tattoos.
Pops liked tattoos, even though he didn’t have any of his own. He was absolutely enthralled, and never made it a secret that he was obsessed with them.
“All right, Pops,” I sighed. “I have to go take care of a few cars. Which one are you taking?”
In answer, Pops picked up his paper again and I had my answer.
Obviously, he wasn’t taking any today.
Wonderful.
***
“Pops!” I called when I heard him walk up to the Nova I found myself underneath. “Can you give me a three quarters?”
I held my hand out from underneath the car, and immediately I had the wrench in my hand, which I brought below and immediately put it to use.
“Did you get a chance to talk to the guy about my suggestion?” I asked, looking up through the hole where the engine used to reside.
Then I promptly gasped when a man’s face, which most assuredly didn’t belong to Pops, leaned casually over the side of the car and looked down at me.
Me, with streaks of dirt and grease all over my face. It was also rather likely that I had chunks of dirt in my hair.
“Yes, he did call me.” The man—the completely intolerable man—stared at me. “But I’m not sure that I want to sell. Not yet, anyway.”
I snorted.
“You’d be stupid not to take this offer,” I told him. “The man who saw it is a local car restoration guru. He pays triple what they’re worth.”
“I know the guy,” the sexy prison medic who’d sewn me up only hours prior, informed me. “But even if I did want to sell the car, I wouldn’t sell it to that piece of shit.”
My mouth dropped open.
“You really should be careful who you call a piece of shit,” I tried to keep a straight face. “It’s not very nice.”
“If the shoe fits,” he shrugged. “I heard you cursing up a storm as I walked up.”
I sighed.
“That’s this car’s fault. When was the last time you had this thing cleaned?” I asked, gesturing to my hair.
The man’s blue eyes found mine.
“I just got it last week, but if the trash in the interior is anything to go by, the last time it was driven was the seventies—according to the old newspapers I found in the back seat. Likely, the last time it was washed was around then, too.” His stare was unnerving.
I cleared my throat.
“Old man Rayburn?” I guessed.
The man nodded.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “How did you know?”
“We used to have a house that backed up to his property.” I slid out from underneath the car on my creeper, and did a sit up so I didn’t have to look up at the man anymore. “I used to hit baseballs over the fence, and then have to sneak over there to retrieve them. He had quite a few old cars. Cars that he refused to sell.”
“If you ever go see Rayburn, mention Aaron to him. He’ll sell you a car if he knows you are the one fixing up the car for me.”
I tried not to laugh at the hilarity of buying a car.
I couldn’t afford a car.
I couldn’t afford insurance on a car. I also couldn’t afford an apartment.
When Clarabelle left for a tour of duty in Iraq, she put not just me, but my mother, in a bind. Though, at the time, she’d thought that she was leaving Davis with Davis’ father—who had sworn up and down that he would take care of Davis while she was gone.
Then he’d gone and stolen from Pops again, and then had gotten shot and put in jail, leaving my mother, my younger sister and I taking care of Davis until my older sister came back in six or seven months.
Really, it likely wouldn’t have been all that bad, sharing Davis with my mother.
Then we’d had a series of bad things happen.
Like my car breaking down. Then my car’s tires were stolen. And then it was broken into.
My mother’s house had been burglarized, and then she’d lost her job as a truck dispatcher during the oil recession—and hadn’t been able to find a job since then.
Though Mom had disabilities that rendered her unable to do certain jobs that would likely never affect people that could work for less money.
So then Mom and my sister had moved in with me, and I’d taken over as the primary breadwinner for not just myself, but my mom and Davis as well.
Though it’d been my decision not to take Clarabelle’s offer of money when she’d heard what was going on.
“What’s that look for, Pixie?” the man mumbled.
“What look?” I feigned ignorance.
“The look that practically screams that you have shit on your shoulders that you’d rather not deal with.”
I shrugged and stood up, immediately walking to the sink in the corner and scrubbing my hands clean—or as clean as I could get them since I was a fucking mechanic who didn’t wear gloves like a pussy.