“I like the color,” she finally said, bending over and picking up the diagram I’d printed earlier. She frowned deeper, staring at the schematics. “This,” she pushed a finger into the paper, “does not look like that.” She lifted the same finger, shoving it towards the Brawler.
“It’s not this exact model, but close enough.” I dropped to my knees beside the table, excited to bring Lucy into my world. She knelt opposite of me, looking studious.
Over the next twenty minutes, I walked her through basic features. When I’d opened the mangled race car’s hood and seen the fuchsia and chrome carb, I’d instantly known this was where I’d start with Lucy’s ‘How to be a Mechanic 101’ crash course.
"Okay, so this is the... float bowl?" Lucy asked, pointing to completely the wrong part on the diagram. She’d moved closer to me a few minutes ago. Now, our shoulders brushed, and that slight touch made it hard to focus.
I bit back a grin. "Close. That's the throttle valve. It controls the amount of air entering the carb."
Lucy sighed dramatically, pushing the paper away. "Throttle valve, venturi tube, float chamber, choke... these names might as well be drug names. That second one sounds like something an anesthesiologist would intubate a person with during surgery." She made a face, then pitched her voice low, trying to sound masculine. It didnotwork. “You might feel some soreness in your throat. We had to use the venturi tube when your oxygen levels plummeted.”
I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips. Her frustration was adorable, her pout making my Alpha instincts stir protectively.
“Don’t laugh at me.” She scowled.
“Technically, I only smiled.”
“Same thing,” she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, clearly annoyed.
"Anyways, I'm pretty sure you're exaggerating," I teased, picking up a small component. "I feel like idle system’s a far cry from Penicillinmoxycodone."
Lucy's laughter burst through her irritation.
"That's definitely not a real drug," she said between giggles.
I shrugged, still smiling and enjoying every second of her joy. "Close enough."
The other guys had taken off for the Cirque earlier, leaving us alone in the compound. The first performance was edging closer. We’d been talking about whether to take Lucy to the first show. The odds of a second tent collapse were astronomical, but having Lucy anywhere near a Big Top was fucking terrifying. Besides, it wasn’t just splintering king poles and snapped riggings. Now that she’d been hurt there, the amphitheater seemed to hold danger everywhere we looked. Fire. Knives. Machinery. People. Too many damn people.
We kept having to check ourselves. Lucy had spent a lifetime protected and sequestered away from the world. If we weren’t careful, our protection would just be a new type of prison.
Lucy's scent shifted subtly as her laughter faded. “What’s on your mind?”
I blinked, our gazed colliding. I hadn’t realized I’d zoned out. But that happened easily these days, especially where Lucy’s safety was concerned.
“Thinking about the Cirque,” I said truthfully, though I probably should have pivoted away from my thoughts.
Her face lit up, the way it always did when Cirque du Sang came up. “I can’t wait to go back.”
“I know,” I breathed out. “But right now, you’ve got a carburetor to fix.” The change of subject worked only because Lucy let it.
She sighed and pulled the diagram closer again, studying it with renewed focus. "Okay, start at the beginning. I swear I'll pay attention this time." She cocked a half smile, nudging her elbow into me, then added, “Probably.”
Damn, she was impossibly cute when she tried to be serious about something.Another strand of hair escaped the bun as she stared down at the paper. It settled right between her eyebrows. I had to physically restrain myself from reaching up to brushit away. Instead, I focused on the carburetor, pointing out components with a grease-stained finger.
"So, the carb’s main function is to regulate the air and fuel mixture," I explained, tracing over the manifold vacuum. "Too much air and too little fuel makes your engine run lean. Too little air and too much fuel, engine’s gonna flood."
Lucy nodded, her bright green eyes tracking my movements.Was she understanding?
She scrunched up her mouth, looking thoughtful, then spoke. “Gotcha. We don’t want too much air or too little air. Or too much fuel or too little fuel. It’s got to be just right. A carburetor is the Goldilocks part.”
I cocked my head, confused. “Goldilocks?”
She gave me a confident nod. “Goldilocks broke into the bear’s house. She tried their porridge, sat in their chairs, even slept in their beds. Everything had to be just right, or she didn’t like it.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “That works, if Goldilocks passes out when the porridge is too hot.”
“One bite and she’s dead to the world,” Lucy agreed.
