Jesus. I’m so screwed.
Chapter 8
Felix
TheLittle Treesair freshener dangles from the rearview mirror, filling the black car with an overpowering vanilla scent. I sit in the back, looking over the children’s book I’ll be reading at the elementary school in the Patch. Father’s re-election campaign will be ramping up soon, and, now that Mother is gone, he’s asked me to fill in on his behalf when he’s unavailable.
He’s totally available, but he hates the Patch, so naturally, he sent me. I’m happy to do it, though. I like kids and would much prefer to read to them than deal with the assholes on the wealthier side of Belmont.
The route to the school reminds me of my journey toMaggie’s, and I kind of wish that’s where I was heading right now. At least then I could talk to people. I was instructed to say almost nothing other than to read the book. My father’s chief of staff grilled me on how the day would unfold, as if I’d never read a book before.
Maggie put me on the afternoon shift for my second week on the job, which means I haven’t seen Torren since he nearly grabbed my throat.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t seen him in my dreams every night.
I need another morning shift, stat!
I press the button to lower the window and take in a breath of fresh air. The security detail in the front says nothing, and I don’t feel like being glued to my phone right now. The only thing I can do is look at the neighborhood to distract myself.
The car makes a left, revealing a garbage truck that’s crawling. We need to be at the school in about 10 minutes, so the driver attempts to sneak past it, but there isn’t enough room to get by. So, he reverses down the street and takes another route.
We cruise down side streets with potholes the size of moon craters.
Father’s security makes a call, letting the aides know we’ve run into traffic and might be a couple of minutes late for the reading. Then the driver turns right, and we come to a stoplight right in front of a car repair shop.
My gaze travels inside to see the goings on—someone wearing a black hoodie kneels before a vintage motorcycle.
Or at least I think it’s vintage.
They rise, and I see that it’s…
Gabe!
Then Torren walks over, rubbing his forehead with a rag.
It’s him. This is his shop!
“Where are we?” I call out to security.
“The Patch.”
No shit, Sherlock.I pull out my phone and open Google Maps to pin this location. The light turns green, and I look up once more to see Torren inspecting a hunk of metal—
Oh, my God.
It’s a carburetor.A CARBURETOR!
Goddamn, she’s good!She said it would all become clear soon, and here it is, clear as day! I knew I felt something when I saw him. Thismeanssomething. It feels divine. What are the odds of our car needing to reroute only to stop right in front of his shop? And there he is, holding a carburetor!
The light changes, and I crane my neck, watching him as we drive away.
I’m literally shaking with excitement because I know how to find Torren, and I have proof that the dream wasn’t just a dream.
She’s trying to tell me something. This is real.
Torren
The most beautiful thing in the world rolled into my shop today: a 1969 Honda CB750.
