“Did she eat?”I ask.
“No, sir.She hasn’t left the premises.”
“Thanks.I’ll take it from here.”
They nod and strike off toward their car.
Warmth bleeds into my skin as I slip into the garage bays, breathing in the scent of gasoline, motor oil, and sweat.
Fluorescent lights glow over the central lift.No music.No shouting.No clanking wrenches.Everyone’s gone.
Except her.
She doesn’t acknowledge me as she rolls past.
On skates.
Old-school quad skates, black leather, red laces.That’s not the only thing that’s different.She wears striped knee-high socks, mini denim shorts that should be illegal, and a brand-new tool belt slung low on her hips like she’s about to throw hands at a 1970s roller derby.
Love the look, but where the hell did it come from?It sure as hell didn’t fit in her backpack.
When I left her on the island this morning, she wore the same clothes she wore yesterday.I planned to fix that tonight and take her shopping.Build her a closet full of armor.Stuff that screamsDon’t touch mein five different languages and still makes people stare.Badass shit for a badass girl.
But nope.She beat me to it.
Except…
She hasn’t left the premises.
The only explanation?She built a time machine, robbed a punk rock pin-up, and said,Yeah, this’ll do.
She weaves between car skeletons, skating slowly, effortlessly, one hand dragging along the top of a parked engine.
Blue hair piles atop her head in a messy twist, and a grease-smudged flannel hangs unbuttoned halfway, revealing a thin tank top beneath.
Her hips sway with each lazy glide, and those honey-colored eyes flick toward me for half a heartbeat before sweeping away.
That game again.
I lean against a steel post, arms crossed, letting my breath slow as I watch her move.It’s not what she’s doing that enraptures me.It’s how.
She rolls through oil stains and shadows like a figure skater on ice.Bending over the open hood of a Mustang, she locks those skates in a mechanic’s stance, her balance impeccable.
Breathtaking.
She’s been doing this for a while.Like it’s normal.Like it makes sense.
Maybe it does.When it comes to Dove, strangeness isn’t a glitch.It’s her signature.
“When did you go shopping?”I push off the post and prowl toward her.
“I didn’t.”
“Shoplifting, then.”I fish out my smokes and light one.“No judgment.”
“I’m not a thief.”She plucks the ciggy from my mouth, sets it between her lips, and skates backward.
I stay with her, a wolf stalking a bird.“Where’d you get the gear, Rink Rat?”
