Page 23 of Rhodes

Walking inside, I change into old jeans and a tank and throw a flannel on over it. I roll the floor jack out of the garage, grab the socket set and a pair of stands, then chock the Cruiser’s back tires.

At least the driveway is flat. I slide the jack beneath the front.

The jack finds the front crossmember, and I pump the handle until the nose comes up. Slower than a dirt bike. A hell of a lot heavier.

I slide a stand under each side of the frame, lower the Cruiser onto them, then leave the jack snug beneath the front end as backup. I grab the frame and give the whole thing a hard shake.

Nothing moves. It's good enough.

Dropping onto the creeper, I shove the socket set beside me and roll underneath. The cold pavement comes through my back almost immediately, but five minutes of fighting for leverage takes care of that. The flannel starts pulling tight across my shoulders every time I reach overhead, and by the third time the sleeve catches against the creeper, I've had enough.

I roll back out, strip it off, and toss it onto the lawn before going back under. I find the starter and work the ratchet into position. The first bolt fights me hard enough to burn through my forearm before it finally gives. Grease works under my nails and into my knuckles. The socket slips once and takes skin off my wrist.

I reset it and keep going. My hands remember this better than they should, but not from dirt bikes. Under here, I'm back working on the old Corvette with a man who used to make room for a kid everybody else seemed too busy to notice.

Vin’s hand reaches through the memory, unwelcome, guiding mine deeper into the engine bay of his sixty-something Corvette.

"Not that one, the one behind it," he would guide me, teaching me how to know my way around an engine.

I can almost smell that garage again. Oil, metal, whatever ancient shit he kept stacked on every shelf because Vin never met an antique he didn’t think needed saving. I remember both of us wedged over the same wheel well, greasy to our elbows and cussing a bolt neither of us could break loose.

When it finally gave, he laughed and so did I. It's one of those good memories from my childhood, and I hate that he's connected to it. My hand stops on the ratchet.

That is the part that turns my stomach. It's not remembering him, but that I can’t control when my brain drags him up. I fucking hate that some piece of me still remembers what it was like to love the bastard after what he did to Dad, after what he did to all of us.

My grip tightens until the ratchet digs into my palm. He doesn't get to live in my head like this.

I break the starter free, drag it out, and shove it onto the pavement beside me. Then I grab the replacement and get back to work.

I'm running the last bolt home when I hear an engine slowing out on the street, a truck I don't know coming down toward the house.

I slide partway out from under the Cruiser as an old pickup pulls up behind me. I push the rest of the way out on the creeper, my elbows scraping concrete, and get my feet under me.

The passenger door opens, and Tallulah steps out, hours before she's due. On the other side, a guy climbs out of the driver's seat. He's young, wearing work boots, canvas pants stained at the knees, and a hoodie shoved up his forearms. He comes around the front of the truck.

Tallulah gets three steps in and stops dead. Her eyes drop off my face to the jack, the stands, the sockets thrown across the concrete, the old starter lying in a puddle of grime by my boot, and then back to me, grease black to the elbows and more of it dragged down my shirt.

"What are you doing, Rhodes?"

"Had the day free, figured I'd take a look at your truck." I drag a rag off the fender and wipe my hands. "Starter's a starter, same as a bike, mostly."

"So you just decided." Her chin comes up. "Of course. God forbid a Stone lets a problem sit five minutes when he could throw a wrench at it. Or money. Or whatever's handy."

The money part rubs me the wrong way. I drove to that parts store myself so I wouldn't do the exact thing she's standing there accusing me of, and I open my mouth to say so.

"This is Trey." She cuts me off before I can get it out, tipping her head at the guy. "He runs the engines on the reef boats. I talked to him about it on Friday. We’ve been planning on him coming out here today to look at it."

And the bottom goes out of it.

She had it handled. She made the call, set the time, waited on a working man's one free afternoon. The Cruiser dead at my curb was never her letting it rot. It was her plan sitting on a shelf until Trey, or whatever the fuck his name is, could get here. She never mentioned it because there was nothing to mention. It was her problem to solve, and none of my business.

Trey lifts a hand, easy about it, but he doesn't bother shaking my hand. Neither do I. “You get it tested? Is the battery holding?”

“The battery’s fine.” My voice comes out dry. “Lights are strong, but it won’t crank. I’m getting one click from the starter.”

His eyes drop toward the Cruiser. “You already put the new one in?”

“Almost.”