So did you get the job or what?
I brought snacks.
I’m out of apples.The fruit, not the tech company.Unless you want me to steal you a laptop.I’m flexible.
Ten minutes pass.
Me: Are you ghosting me already?That’s cold, mechanic girl.
Bluebird: Stop
Stop sending messages?Or stop being so damn charming?
I grin.
Me: Rude.But fair.
I set the phone down and crack my knuckles.
Time to sketch a new Disney princess.I’m thinking blue hair, grease-streaked cheekbones, boots too heavy to run in, and gilded eyes that know how to dismantle a man’s heart with a socket wrench.
I pull a sketchpad from under the table and start roughing her out in graphite.Gloves with the fingers cut off.Welding goggles slung around her neck like jewelry.A clockwork dove tattoo on her thigh that she inked herself with stolen parts and a homemade rig.
If she’s gonna haunt my thoughts, I might as well make her immortal.
I push open the door to the mechanic shop, the squeak of rusted hinges protesting my arrival.
The familiar scent of motor oil, gasoline, and worn tires fills my senses.Tools scatter across benches.Grease-covered rags drape over car parts.An air compressor hums softly in the corner.
Feels like home.
Two middle-aged men pause their work and stare at me, eyes wide, brows lifted, surprise painted on their sweat-slicked faces.
One leans against the hood of a battered Ford truck, a socket wrench hanging from his hand.If I had to guess, he’s the boss.He’s tall and broad, with thick black hair pulled into a low ponytail, and deep-set dark eyes that don’t miss a thing.
His features are strong and weathered, his expression impassive beneath a smear of engine grease.Inuit, no doubt, and someone used to commanding the room without speaking much.
The other man steps up behind him, wiping his fingers on a rag.He’s younger, maybe mid-forties, with ruddy cheeks, a beer belly under his flannel, and short-cropped sandy blond hair.His eyes narrow with skeptical amusement, like he’s seen enough of me to think he knows everything.
“You lost, sweetheart?”the Inuit man asks, his voice dripping with interest.
Not the kind of interest I’m hoping for.
My jaw hardens, but I keep my face neutral.“Are you the manager?I’m here for a job.Name’s Dove Rath.”
They exchange bewildered glances before the younger man chuckles.
“Honey,” the Inuit man says, attempting patience.“We aren’t hiring.Haven’t hired anyone in years.”
“I see that.”I direct my eyes around the cluttered shop.“Looks like you need a new hand—or two—around here.”
The younger man snorts.“Listen, girl—”
“I’m thirty-two and could teach you a thing or twelve about fixing cars.”
“That so?”Curiosity flickers in the younger man’s expression.“I’m Chester.This here’s my brother-in-law, Taaq.He’s the owner.No offense, miss, but we don’t get girls just walking in here, outta nowhere, claiming to out-wrench two guys who’ve been doing this since before you got your hands greasy.”
“Test me.”I stand tall, lifting my chin and reining in my temper.“Carburetors, transmissions, brakes, electrical… Take your pick.”
