Prologue
Jamison - 18 Years Earlier
I’m crouching down as low as I can, pulling my knees close to my belly to stay wedged between two stalks. We’re hiding in the cornfield like minnows under rocks, trying not to get eaten by the large-mouth bass. Mommy says we’re on an adventure like Huck Finn, and we have to be sneaky just like him. Something is digging into my bare foot, but I’m trying my best to stay still because Mommy says we can’t be seen and we can’t be heard.
“Just a little longer, Jamison,” she whispers.
Mommy always calls me Jamison. Not Jay like everyone else. She says that Jamison is a strong name, and I’m a strong boy, and I shouldn’t make any part of myself smaller for someone else. It’s the name she uses when she calls me for dinner and when she tells me I better not be acting out in school. It’s also the one she used earlier running from the house.
“Come, Jamison. Now. We’re going on an adventure. Start running, baby, and don’t look back.”
We run through the cornfield that sits behind our house. I don’t know who owns it, but it must belong to someone because every year corn shows up and every year they chop it down. On the other side of the field, I hear yelling. It sounds like the slur of Bill’s words I’ve heard so often in the last month. I look at Mommy, and she puts her first finger to her lips and reaches around the stalk between us to squeeze my hand. He’s mad. I can tell by the way Mommy’s eyes dart around like the rolly-pollies do when I pick up the big rocks in the backyard. Her forehead is wrinkled and she’s pretending to smile. Sweat forms on the edge of her face where her skin starts and her red hair ends.
Mommy’s hand is sweaty and my foot is really starting to hurt. It’s only now that I realize we aren’t having an adventure. Adventures are fun and exciting. This is scary and strange. No, this isn’t an adventure. We are hiding.
We are hiding from Bill and his sour breath, his bruised fists, and his worn belt. We are playing Huck Finn but not the part where he rides the river and smokes cigars and pretends. We are playing the part where he is a prisoner and alone and he runs from his daddy who is a drunk and a monster.
Bill is mad. He’s drunk and mad, and he’s coming.
He’s the bass.
And we are the minnows.
1
Jamison
Iwassix the first time I remember running into a cornfield to hide from my mom’s piece of shit boyfriend. It wasn’t the first time I remember hiding though. In closets, under the porch, behind the thorn bushes that tore up my exposed skin — pretty much any spot a normal kid would choose for hide and seek is what I used as a refuge from drunk and high wife-beaters. It’s one of the many reasons that I black out my younger days as much as possible.
I guess at twenty-four, some would say I’m still in the prime of my so-called youth, but I haven’t felt young for as long as I can remember. And it’s remembering that’s the problem. Like now, when the early June heat takes me back to that day in the field. Before now, I hadn’t thought about that day for a while.
I stand outside of Monroe's Motors, taking my second official 10-minute break. I guess it’s my “smoke break,” but when a Newport sits between my fingers more times than not, it’s not technically needed. Either way, I’m entitled to it so you bet your ass I’m taking it, especially when I’ve worked six of the last seven days.
I’ve been a mechanic officially for eight years now, having started with small jobs in the shop right at sixteen, but I’ve been messing with cars for as long as I can remember. My fingers seem permanently stained from engine oil and my back constantly aches from hanging in cars. Already today I’ve had four cups of black coffee just to keep me coherent from my usual lack of sleep and this lingering dull headache is a physical reminder of my mental agony.What a fucking winner.
“Jay, let’s go!”
My boss interrupts my self-loathing long enough for me to realize my cigarette is burned to the filter and my ten-minute break is more than over. I flick the ash and crush the butt against the wall before tossing it into the standing ashtray, then turn to walk back to the front bay doors.
Inside, I see her. The hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time. No, scratch that. Ever. Smooth curves, well-built, polished, and clean. Damn, I would kill to get under that hood.
“Hey, Jay! Close your mouth, man!” my friend, coworker, and long-time pain in my ass Sean says, clapping me on the back. He points his index finger to my chin so close I ought to snap it off.
“You got a little drool right…there.”
He grazes my chin with his fingertip, and I smack his hand away with the back of mine. Sean just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see what I see when I look at the beauty that sits in front of me. With perfect timing, Zeke approaches us and tells me what I already know.
“302-Powered, 1974 Ford Maverick Grabber. Pretty sweet, huh?”
Sweet was not what I was thinking. This car is sexy as hell.
“The owner’s a long-time customer of mine. Just dropped it off. He wants us to take a look at it and make sure everything is in order. Sayshe’s looking to sell it and doesn’t want any potential buyers trying to lower the price on some made-up bullshit.”
“Sell it?” I say loudly, more aggravated than I mean to.
“Yep,” Zeke answers, ignoring my tone. “His dad passed away and left it to him. He says it’s just not his thing. Takes up too much room and isn’t worth the upkeep.”
I scoff under my breath. See, this is what’s wrong with people. They get something good, something special, something that maybe requires some space, some care, and decency…some love, and they throw it away because they don’t feel like dealing with it. This is why I love cars. If you take care of them, the older they get, the more valuable they are. Cars mean more as long as you protect them, love them, and keep them clean and fed with the best fluids and nutrients.
