“Marly Winchester appears to be lost again,” He says, “Her car has broken down on the crossing at Seventy Third.”
I sit up, “What?”
“You deaf?” He huffs.
“Fuck you,” I climb up from the roller and grab a rag to wipe the oil from my hands.
“Well you gonna come save her or not? I’ve got to pick up Amy from school.”
“Seventy Third?” I repeat.
“Yep,” He pops the P.
“I’ll be there in ten.”
After a few days, I started to believe she may not take me up on my offer which would have fucked up my plans. But now she’s on my turf, with car troubles nonetheless, and it gives me the perfect opportunity to reel her in some more.
I grab the keys for the tow truck and lock up the garage, heading out a few minutes later. The sun is beating down on the town, I’m already sweaty and covered in dirt and the lack of air in this damn truck isn’t helping.
I wave at a few kids who stick up their hands when I drive by and spot her gleaming white Mercedes a mile off. She stands at the side of the road, her hands folded in front of her and her blonde hair moving with the slight breeze. It’s in a half up style and she has that damn ribbon in her hair again, the silk tails tangling with the golden strands around them.
Pulling the truck to a stop in front of her car, I hop out, reveling in the way her eyes widen when she sees me.
“Damn princess,” I grin at her, “You didn’t need to go blow up your car to see me. Next time, take my number.”
My eyes roll down her body appreciatively, she’s in a white sundress that has little flowers printed all over it, tight across her chest and abdomen which then flows around her long tan legs. She looks like she’s just come from lunch or brunch or whatever you call it.
I pause when I get to her feet, noticing they’re bare.
“Where are your shoes?”
She blinks rapidly and stays quiet, that shocked look still on her face.
“Hey princess,” I cock my head, stepping up to her, “You good? Did you hit your head?”
“River?” She sputters out, shaking her head.
“In the flesh, baby, where are your shoes?”
“In the car.” Her eyes move all over me, only stopping for a minute at the puckered, scarred skin on my arms and chest where it’s visible beneath the stained white tank. My dark green overalls are tied around my waist, leaving my shoulders and arms visible for her to look at. And it looks like she likes what she sees. Dirty, covered in sweat, and all.
“Why are they in the car?”
“I don’t drive well in heels,” She admits, “You’re a mechanic?”
“Need a day job,” I shrug, heading to the open hood of her car that appears to be sending tendrils of smoke into the air, “Track racing only pays so much.” At twenty-three, with only a high school diploma, it’s not bad going owning my own garage and track, but there is only so much money I can make.
“But you own it.”
“I don’t charge to race, the racers earn money in bets.” I tell her, grabbing the stick to close the hood, “I need to take it in.”
“Huh?”
“The car, Marly, I need to take it in.”
“Oh right, sure.” She nods, “Can I use your phone?”
“What for?” I ask as I head back to the truck.
