Dean
The Winchester job was in five days.
My role as the driver was to deliver the boys and the weapons to the location, wait in the car while the weapons were inspected and bought, and drive the boys back out again. Hopefully with a weapon-free van and bags of cash.
It sounded easy in theory but anything like it could go sideways fast.
The job wasn’t the reason I was wide awake though, staring up at the ceiling.
Lily had run away because I crossed a line; pushed too far because I was curious to see how she might react. Which was why I hadn’t gone after her when she left. I couldn’t shake her from my head though. As if the idea of her had rooted itself deep inside my skull and was growing like a vine of jasmine.
The quiet girls were never my type but here I was, thinking over every little thing she did. From the way she took in new experiences with a wide-eyed amazement, to how just the sound of her voice seemed to anchor my thoughts or provide some semblance of calm.
She jump-started my heart.
And I think I did it for her too, going off the way she blushed. It was a nifty way to gauge how she was feeling, usually when she was flustered around me.
I would be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined what it would look like beyond her cheeks and throat.
“Fuck sake,” I groaned, pulling my hands up through my hair as I shifted my hips. The fabric of my boxers felt just a little tighter as I glanced over at the digital clock on the nightstand.
7:15 AM.
My gaze dropped to Lily’s phone beside the clock.
I considered dropping it off at her place last night but figured she wouldn’t want to see me again, at least not for a little while. And I wasn’t going to leave it in the basement. Finders Keepers was a favorite pastime for some of the fighters. Personal belongings were either kept for themselves or sold for fast drug money.
My plan was to give it back to her when I saw her tonight. When we could talk. If she talked to me again, and if I could figure out what to say to her.
I rolled into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, rubbing my face with my hands.
The garage wouldn’t be open for another two hours, but I knew the owner left the back door unlocked — simply because he was careless — so heading into work didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Fixing a car was the distraction I needed.
And a cold shower.
Cracking my neck and rolling out my stiff shoulders, I stood and grabbed an old shirt and jeans from my closet before silently heading for the bathroom across the hall.
About an hour later, I was striding through the back door of the garage. Finishing off the apple I had grabbed for breakfast, I switched on the lights of my station and dragged my tool cart over to a gray Ford Focus with carburetor problems. It belonged to an elderly Argentinian woman. I promised her yesterday that it would be working again this afternoon.
I popped the hood and got to work, reminding myself to focus on the car and the car only. But this kind of job was one I did so often I could’ve fixed it in my sleep. It was easy for my mind to slip again.
Six hours later, hands covered in dried grease, I drove down the driveway left of the house and pulled up in front of the garage. When the engine was cut off, I sat for a moment in silence, drumming my fingers on the bottom of the steering wheel. Yawning.
The lack of sleep from last night was finally catching up, which was going to make tonight just that little more difficult — for the fight and the conversation. I still had no idea what I wanted to say to her.
I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of a small dog barking somewhere nearby, and with a huff, climbed out of the car. Swinging my keychain around my finger a couple of times as I headed for the wheelchair ramp at the back door. When I stepped inside, dropping my keys on the counter by the fridge, I was suddenly greeted by a tiny ball of caramel fur hurtling for me from the living room. Its four little feet, on ridiculously short legs, tapped quickly on the tiles before it skidded to a halt at my boots and pounced on the laces.
My mother wheeled around the corner next, grinning from ear to ear as she watched the small puppy bouncing all around my feet.
“What’s this?” I asked, slowly closing the back door behind me as I watched the furball.
“This is Bella.” The smile hadn’t faded from her face as she watched the puppy fondly.
I scooped the puppy up in one hand and held her at eye level. She didn’t care as she licked every one of my fingers and wiggled all over. Her white-tipped tail whipped around like a tiny propeller. “And what’s Bella doin’ in our house?”
“A lady down the road found out her Chihuahua had a litter of puppies eight weeks ago and wondered if I wanted one,” she replied as she moved closer. “We think the father is the terrier that lives a street over."
Bella began chewing my thumb before I plopped her down into Mom’s lap.
