“Stitch,” Pres says. He turns to me and looks up and down my body. “What are you doing here, princess? Are you lost? Do you need directions?”
I look over at Stitch. He still has the flyer with my information on it. After walking over to the president, Stitch hands him the flyer. With eyes still gazing at me, the burly man reads the flyer and looks up at me with a stone-cold face.
“Sit,” he instructs.
With my thoughts racing a mile per minute, wondering if the president will give me the job, I hesitantly walk toward the chair in front of his desk and do as I’m told. The scowl on his face gives me the impression that he’s not happy. All I can do is pray and hope that he is just putting up a façade and will be happy to let me have this job.
“So, you want this job?” He leans back in his chair, looking even more intimidating than he was before.
I nod, and at this moment, I wish so badly that I could explain myself. If I could talk, I wouldn’t be in this situation, but I was dealt this hand, and I have to play it.
The psychologist told me that I have traumatic mutism and will speak when I feel safe and comfortable again. It will be like a switch is flipped in my brain, and I will be able to speak normally again. It’s been over a year since the accident—the last time I spoke.
Right now, I don’t think I am ever going to feel safe again, and I’ve come to terms with the reality that I may never speak again. Sometimes, being mute is nice, but other times it can be a pain in the butt. I find myself missing talking to people and holding a normal conversation.
“How do I know you won’t hurt us? You’re dressed like an assassin, and I don’t know if I can trust you. Why do you wear all that clothing? Why don’t you take the scarf off? It is the summer, and I bet you are burning up in those clothes,” the president rapid-fires questions at me, his thoughts carrying him along.
The blood drains from my face. I hate when people bring this up. Why can’t they just leave it alone? I am a tiny person who can’t even defend herself. I couldn’t defend myself back then, and I still can’t. The men in this house could take me down with one hand.
I hold my hand up and pretend to write something, hoping he understands the gesture. With understanding, the president hands me a book and a pen. I flip to a blank page and start writing.
“If I take off my scarf, can I have the job?” I write and hand it back to the president.
I don’t want to take off anything, but if it helps me get the job to show them that I am not a threat, I will. Even if it makes me super uncomfortable. The president reads it before looking up at me.
“It will put me at ease. No one covers up that much without hiding something,” he says, giving me a pointed look.
I shrink back and let out a sigh. I lift my hands, taking a deep breath in before starting to unwrap my scarf from around my neck. I look to the side, not wanting to see their face when they notice the scars. When my scarf is completely off, I hear a sharp inhale and someone clears their throat before talking.
“You can put it back on,” the president says.
I quickly wrap it around my neck and look up, not meeting the president’s eyes. I don’t want to see the pity or make him mad. I have gotten a lot of sympathy in the last year, and I am sick of it now. That’s why I had to leave Ohio and come to Nevada. I look at his shoulder, so he knows I am at least paying attention when he talks.
“Do you have a résumé?” the president asks.
I shake my head. I worked in a garage for a couple of years, but stopped when the accident happened. My sister took me in and helped me recover. Once the court trials were over, I left the state. I only left a note telling my sister I needed a fresh start, and I would contact her when I felt safe. I didn’t tell her what state I was going to, in fear that Jared or one of his friends would find me and try to take me back, or worse, kill me. My sister and I aren’t close, so it didn’t really matter in the end whether I toldher where I was going or not. She only took care of me out of pity because I was covered in burns.
The president sighs before standing. He walks around and toward me. I flinch a little as he gets closer, making him stop.
“If you can fix this car, you can have the job, for now. I will have someone keeping an eye on you until we know for sure that you are not a threat. I can’t take any chances with my brothers. I don’t want any mess-ups, or you are done,” he warns. “Follow me and we will get started.”
I nod and follow him out the door. We walk back the way we came, all ofthose eyes lingering on me once again. He walks through the house and out the door leading to the garage. It is smaller than the last garage I worked at, but it almost looks better because it has all the tools you need for just about anything. This garage is a mechanic’s dream.
“The blue 1970 Mustang is what you will be fixing. There’s something not working near the tire area,” the president says.
He probably wants to see if I can figure out what is wrong. The car is already lifted. I have this feeling that it has to be something with the tires. One of the tires is brand new, and some of the bolts on the other tires are loose. I also notice new rotors and brakes for the car. There are no other cars in the garage.
I walk over to the Mustang and look at the new tire. I want to see what’s different between them all. After inspecting the work on the new one, I make my way over toward one of the older ones.
From what I can tell, the brakes and rotors need to be changed, along with the tires. I look over at the president and then the wall of tools. I grab an Allen wrench set, lug nut wrench, and a C-clamp.
I set all of the tools on the ground beside me, grabbing the lug nut wrench first. I need to get the nuts off before I can remove the wheel. I put the wrench on a nut and start to put force intoturning it. Once all of the nuts are off, I lift the wheel off. I drop the tire on the ground and lay it against a wall.
I walk back and grab the C-clamp before looking at the brakes. I decide against using the C-clamp and grab a T50 Torx. I attach it to the bolt of one of the brakes and loosen it. I pull the bolt out, then pry open the caliper and remove the old brake pads.
I grab my breaker bar and place it on one of the bolts that is holding the caliper bracket in place. I’ve always hated loosening the bolts on the caliper bracket. They are always the tightest and toughest to get off, but I can’t show that I am struggling now because I want to make a good impression.
Once I have the caliper bracket off, I move to the rotor. I turn it to make sure that it is not held in place by a screw. I gently tug on the rotor, but it won’t budge, so I stand and grab one of the larger hammers hanging on the wall. I gently hit the rotor and spin it as I work, trying to loosen it up.
