Parts & Wreck

by Mark Henry

  “Rough day?” He smiled.

  Luce was in no mood. She pulled out the jawbreaker she’d quickly shoved in her mouth the minute the doors had closed and it looked like she wouldn’t end up sacrificed to a goat-headed god and cut to the chase. “Just because I made it out of there alive—barely, I might add, by the skin of my teeth—doesn’t mean they weren’t evil Satanists!”

  “It doesn’t.” He nodded his head, but the smirk was too cocky.

  “No! Did you hear that laugh?”

  “It was indeed maniacal, but I’ve heard the same sort of cackle from you.”

  Ignoring him, she blew the candy as dry as she could, shoved it into her purse and continued, “What that laugh was was diabolical. There’s a difference. One is inherently evil.”

  “The other is merely schizophrenic,” he finished.

  Luce rolled her eyes. “Where the hell were you anyway?”

  Hitch pulled a little spiral notepad out of his breast pocket and, flipping a few pages, began to read. “The Schooner Building has six parking levels, each with one hundred spots dedicated to tenants and monthly rentals.” He pointed to the last notation, reading, “P6.”

  Luce glanced up at the buttons and seeing that they were, in fact, plummeting into the parking levels, nodded smugly. “Duh. Obviously.”

  The man huffed. “I like to dot my I’s and cross my T’s. I am in service, after all.”

  Slowing to the bottom floor, Luce struggled to her feet, straightening her outfit as best she could before the doors opened again onto a dank concrete lot, empty except for a few cars. Her footsteps echoed around her, the sound bouncing back and forth and coming around for seconds until she could have sworn there was a second pair of shoes clicking out a tune on the cement—and not Hitch’s; his didn’t make a sound at all.

  Go figure.

  Each of the spaces was numbered. P626, 27, 28. But beyond pillars pegging the large hall, there didn’t seem to be any other doors and certainly no bustling city mechanic’s garage on the level. Luce checked the text again.

  P667.

  The numbers passed beneath her. P664, 65, 66.

  She stood in the space with her hands on her hips. She’d seen a film once where a man ran his business from the back seat of his Lincoln Town Car—surprise, he wasn’t a gigolo—and for a second, she’d thought maybe that’s what would greet her, but instead the space was barren, but the wall behind it, that was another story.

  Not immediately noticeable against the concrete, and it took Luce a moment to recognize it for what it was, a gray rectangular outline was set into the wall like a crime-scene chalk outline. No handle, just the suggestion of a door. On closer inspection, she could just make out its gray hinges.

  “Seriously? Does one interview have to be so difficult?”

  Luce pressed her palm against it and pushed, but nothing happened.

  “It opens out,” Hitch said. “Look at the hinges.”

  “I looked at the hinges,” she hissed. “I swear to God, I’m giving Thorwald hell right after I’m done here.”

  “Sounds like a great strategy.”

  “Shut up.”

  Luce rapped her knuckles against the door and was surprised that it thudded, wood, not concrete. She knocked again, but didn’t need to. Midrap, a small door opened within the door and a man’s face peered out into the parking garage. A very familiar face.

  One she’d been mashed up against just last night.

  Luce could still taste his mouth.

  “Wade?”

  “Christ,” he said and slammed the little door shut.

  Chapter Three

  Hitch breezed past her and sagged next to the door, tapping the peephole. “Do you ever wonder if these kinds of things happen to you for a reason?”

  Luce sighed, in no mood for bullshit, particularly of the hallucinatory variety. “You know I try not to dwell, Hitch.”

  “I’ve begun to think you’re not just unlucky. It’s something else.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you believe in curses?”

  “I have a few choice ones for you.”

  Luce moved to knock again, building up the confidence to go through with the interview, despite Wade. Despite his startlingly blue eyes and voice that sounded like it’d been aged in a bourbon barrel.

  Hitch blocked her. “I’m going to change your life right now.”

  Luce threw up her yawn hand. “Really?”

  “You bring all this on yourself. You create it.”

  “So, your life-changing epiphany-gift to me is that I create Satanists and have a magnet for inappropriate men?”

  “Right.”

  She pinched her chin in faux-consideration. “This is life changing, Hitch. Can I knock again now or are you about to blow my mind with some other magical quip?”

  He ducked his lips in distaste. “It’s that kind of dismissal that gets you in trouble.”

  “Whatever. I’m not going to accept that I seek out weird interactions and trouble. It’s just not realistic. Couldn’t I simply be more observant than most people? And by ‘most’ I mean everybody? Thereby putting me in a position where I’d experience these types of things at a greater frequency.”

  “Nope. That’s not it. That’s what the doctors call magical thinking.”

  Now it was Luce’s turn to slit her eyes angrily. They didn’t have many rules between them, but Hitch was not allowed to bring up her doctor, medication, or any of those things from her past.

  “You know, Hitch. If you were a real person, I’d suggest you avoid the helping professions.”

  Hitch smirked and glanced off into the parking garage.

  Luce pounded on the door with the side of her fist. The thuds were determined-sounding and she was proud of them. She stood back and waited for Wade’s face to appear again.

  Instead, she got all of him. A larger door released from the wall in a rectangular-shaped puff of concrete dust. It grated and shrank into the wall before sliding to the side. Wade stood before her, chest barreled and nostril’s slightly flared. Her original impression that he looked like he could be a bouncer, seemed to be a distinct possibility. If so, she was going to have to talk her way past his velvet rope.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Wade filled the doorway, leaning on one side casually, barring the opening with his massive arm like a crossbeam. “It isn’t? ’Cause it looks like you might be stalking me.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  Wade arched over her, casting them both in shadow and whispered huskily, the words sweet with his breath, cherries, coffee beans. “Because I rocked your world and you needed another taste?”

  Luce stalled a moment, fumbling for a response. Wade’s smug grin brought her back to where she needed to be. She clasped her hand over her mouth as though she might heave up her breakfast.

  “Uh…one, gross, and two, what you did was remind me of what I don’t want in my life. So thanks for that.”

  Wade’s face crinkled, quizzically. “Okay, then why did you follow me?”

  “I didn’t. It’s a coincidence, dumbass. I’m here for an interview.”

  Wade groaned. “Makes perfect sense.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Lucid—” He began, those mysterious blue eyes fading to gray.

  “It’s Luce.”

  “Luce, then. It’s not going to work out.” Wade reached for the door to put it in between them.

  Luce felt the tables turning before Wade even began to shut her down. She needed to do something to keep the ball rolling, to salvage this mess. This job. She slammed her palm against the door.

  “You have Satanists on the sixth floor.” The words came blurting out in a ridiculous gurgling mess.

  “Excuse me? Did you say satin-ists?” he asked, emphasis on the fabric rather than the devil.

  “Satanists,” Luce corrected. “Like instead of lingerie or fine linens. And yes, on the sixth floor. Black robes, chanting, looming. The whole shit show.”


  Wade pinched the bridge of his nose, deep in thought or the beginnings of a migraine. But the gap in their conversation was long enough for Luce to consider the possibility that satin-ists might actually exist, collecting sheet sets, men’s Valentine’s Day boxers or those puffy jackets roller-derby girls wore.

  She could certainly see the appeal.

  Wade seemed to be considering his next step carefully, glancing uncomfortably back into The Parts Department, and then moving toward her, pushing her out into the parking garage.

  “Listen. If we go through with this. If.” He accentuated the word. “Then our relationship must be completely professional. What we do here is…dangerous, to say the least. An inappropriate connection between the two of us could spell death, or worse, for you.”

  Luce rankled. “Why are you telling me this? I’m not the one with the gropey hands. Also, did I hear a threat in there? Why just death for me. Why not you?”

  Wade shrugged. “You were a little gropey.”

  “Not as gropey.”

  “Whatever. I’m sure death’s coming for me at some point. We’ll talk about it later. If there can be a later.”

  “You mean if I can refrain from impaling myself on your penis.”

  Luce’s gaze was unconsciously drawn to what we’ll call Wade’s “crotchal area.” Normally, she had very little interest in the size of a man’s, well, manhood—there were certainly other areas that were more appealing to look at, but, in this case, it could not be ignored.

  His jeans were tight, and to her credit, Luce only stole the slightest glance at his bulge—she was classy like that, plus, they were midconversation.

  “Do you have an erection?” she blurted out, disgust staining her tone. “Right here, in public?” She was going to add, “With children present?” But after a quick glance around her, there didn’t seem to be any—or anyone else real, for that matter—that didn’t mean there weren’t impressionable eyes.

  Hers, for instance.

  “Wha-what?” He laughed, deep and guttural but nervous, his eyes cast down at his own “crotchal area,” with obvious surprise. “I do not. Nor do I have even the slightest impetus to be aroused.”

  Her eyes, in direct opposition to what Luce’s brain was telling them, darted in the direction of his package, one more time.

  Catching her, Wade brought his index and middle fingers quickly upward toward his eyes. “You can look at me up here, thanks. I’m not a piece of meat.”

  “Nice choice of words,” she spat. “You’re disgusting. It’s still bulging. Make it stop, or I’ll call—”

  “You’ll call?”

  Luce noticed the man was blushing, his brow furrowed and clearly moving from stoic to out and out embarrassed.

  “For assistance,” she concluded.

  He rubbed his eyes and threw his head back, shaking it back and forth.

  But Wade was already leaning in close, his lips close to her ear. Her breath caught in her throat as the heat of his proximity warmed her flesh.

  “Did it occur to you.” He sighed, breaking up what was clearly a tedious thought. “That I might just be well-endowed?”

  Luce scoffed but then considered. If that was the beast’s resting state, no pants seam would be safe. “Not really?”

  They stood there a moment. Silence settling in like an unwelcome houseguest. Luce stole a quick glance at Hitch, exceedingly busy thrusting his index finger through a hole in his other fist while making disgusting orgasm faces.

  “Okay, this is pretty weird.” Wade jerked his thumb in the direction of the open door. “I’m just going to go back inside and we’ll call this good.”

  “No way.” Luce grizzled. “I think I’ve just proven that I’m disgusted by your anatomy, so we should be good, right? No inappropriate relationship possible.”

  Wade’s brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”

  Luce wasn’t sure where she was going with the thread either, but she figured she’d better wing it if she was going to fake her way into a job. Keeping up a ruse that she wasn’t attracted to this man was going to be hard enough. She needed to lay it on thick.

  “I’m not really into you. I thought I made that clear last night.”

  Wade’s eyes narrowed. “It only felt like that at the end. But before that, it was pretty fevered.”

  “Fevered. Hmm. Well before then I was under the influence?” Luce didn’t intend the sentence to come out sounding like a question, but it did.

  “What is wrong with you, exactly?” Wade had begun to smile.

  “I have a limited capacity for appropriate social engagement.” Luce was happy with that delivery. It came out deadpan. Professional.

  “No, that’s not it,” Wade said, cocking his head.

  “Is too. Promise.” She nodded vehemently.

  Wade stared at her a moment, presumably debating whether he could resist his own urge to snatch her into an embrace and cover her with kisses, to ravage her. Obviously, Luce thought. Her crazy-talk should have helped to alleviate his enthusiasm, a little. At least it did with most men.

  But something told her Wade wasn’t like most men.

  “Well then. If you promise, then what could possibly go wrong?” Wade sighed as he stepped back and gestured for Luce to come in. “My name is Wade Crowson and despite any reticence I might have—and I have reticence—you are very likely my new assistant.”

  Luce gawped. “But the interview. Shouldn’t we do that?”

  “The interview is really more of an informational thing. If, after hearing what we do here, you don’t run screaming out the door, then it’s contract time.”

  She glanced past Wade’s shoulder at Hitch, his arms crossed huffily. “I don’t run from weird stuff. I welcome it.”

  Hitch flipped her off.

  Luce offered her hand for Wade to shake and when he slipped his big mitt over her much-smaller hand, she felt his heat again and something else. A frisson of memory, the comfort she felt in his, a stranger’s, arms. She shook it off quickly, focusing on the job at hand. Her mission. “And I’m Luce Montgomery. Since we’re actually introducing ourselves. I really must apologize for my twin’s behavior, Mr. Crowson. She’s delusional, also hallucinates.”

  “Your twin?” His eyes narrowed, with the amount of suspicion suitable for her bold-faced lies. “Yes. She’s constantly making a fool of herself. I’ve tried to have her institutionalized a number of times but they won’t take my word for it.”

  Wade laughed uncomfortably through gritted teeth, gaze darting toward the space between them. A space filled with their still clasped hands, Luce jacking hers up and down frenetically, his gone slightly slack as though she’d lulled his arm into sleep.

  “Oh shit,” she said, releasing him.

  “Where’s your twin now?” he pressed, leading her into the cavernous lobby of The Parts Department. “Is she your ride?”

  “Oh God no, we don’t let her drive, not since…”

  “Not since?”

  “Not since?” Hitch prodded, gleefully from behind them.

  “Not since the accident.”

  “Oh,” Crowson said, the suspicion replaced by a softer expression, sudden interest, she hoped. “Was it terrible?”

  “Very.” Luce had a way with small talk and if she could turn something into a joke, she figured she was doing pretty well. Plus, the room Wade had led her into was distracting her from what she was saying. People in business-casual attire scurried back and forth. A woman carrying a large jar of what looked like the stuff that came out of the turkey before you cooked it squeezed between them, smiling nervously.

  His eyes widened and though Luce was certain he was expecting a further explanation, she thought it best to stop digging before she broke through to China.

  “I’m terribly sorry to be late for the interview. Mr. Thorwald was very slight with the directions and, well, the Satanists on the sixth floor weren’t forthcoming with information, unless they were chanting it in Latin. I don’t
speak Latin, personally. Do you?”

  “Not since childhood.”

  “Were you an altar boy?” Luce tried to imagine Mr. Crowson in one of those white robes carrying a candle, but found that she couldn’t fit his mammoth adult body into a childlike image and so there he’d pop, full grown with a huge bulge in his altar-boy outfit. Completely inappropriate and obviously something Luce should never discuss openly. Even Hitch, in her peripheral vision, was wide-eyed with horror.

  “Uh, no.” Wade shook his head.

  “Italian?”

  “No.” A crease dented his forehead and if she wasn’t seeing things, his fingers were drumming against his pant legs.

  “Were you possessed?”

  Wade arched his eyebrow intently. “No. That’s an unusual question, though. Why do you ask?”

  Luce shrugged. “Only that if you hadn’t had a chance, I’m certain there are some folks on the sixth floor who could arrange a bang-up possession, a real split-pea-soup-spewing good time. Did I mention the Satanists?”

  “You did, and if I gave you the impression that I wasn’t interested, then it’s me who should apologize.”

  “Oh no. I’m certain I’m the one who should apologize.”

  “For Satanists?”

  “Well, no. For…” She gestured to his crotch. “For not…um…recognizing…”

  What could she say? For not noticing his sizeable assets. For not curtsying to his gigantodick? How do you even bring something like that up, or further up, because really, if it wasn’t erect, it must have been caught up in the waistband of his boxers or something, its head peeking out like a drowning victim.

  Bubbles on the corners of its mouth.

  Foamy.

  She needed to stop thinking. That’s what she needed to do.

  Wade glanced down at his pants and bit his lip as he locked eyes with Luce. Then he reached into his pocket, as though to readjust his massive…and removed a spray can of insect repellant.

  Luce gulped and caught some saliva in the back of her throat, forcing a coughing fit that almost covered up Hitch’s uncontrollable laughter. She heaved over, gripping her knees for support and instantly felt a hand on her back, stroking.