by Meghan March
Buckshot holes puncture a rusted yellow sign showing a black arrow. My designation is just around the next sharp curve.
There’s another reason it’s not as simple as going to find a welder and scrap metal. Coming here to create also involves asking for favors, something I’ve never been good at, and facing some painful, bitter memories.
Should I have called first?
It’s not like I could truly forget the number, even though I’ve long since deleted it. Then again, it’s not like Elijah Devereux has probably started answering his phone on the regular. Some things never change.
Gravel crunches under my Bronco’s tires as I brake and make the right-hand turn down the dirt road that leads me to a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Moss blankets the old No Trespassing signs, but Elijah has added a few new ones.
We Don’t Call 911. Beneath the metal sign hangs an old AK-47.
Classy, Eli. Also, very truthful. Out here, people don’t trust the police as much as they trust their own guns and ammo.
Authority is always met with suspicion, and it’s much easier to get rid of a body in the swamp than to explain to the sheriff what happened after the fact.
The gators in these parts are well fed, and not just by fish.
Shockingly, the chain-link fence is partially open. Though, I suppose it is early on a Saturday morning, which means that folks around here are working on their cars and might need parts from the local scrap yard.
Devereux Recycling, formerly Devereux Junk, is where I welded that piece that sold for fifty thousand dollars.
Looking at the rows of cars with busted windshields and flat tires, it’s hard to believe this place is even worth that much. But it is. Elijah has made damn sure of it.
I drive through the fence and note the dogs in the kennel alongside the trailer where, if things haven’t changed that much, Elijah still lives. The lights in the trailer are off, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could be anywhere. Elijah doesn’t exactly follow the rules of polite society, including when one should sleep versus be awake.
The dogs stand at attention, salivating as they watch me drive by, and there’s no way in hell I’d want to face one of them out in the open. I doubt they remember me, if they’re even the same pair of Cane Corsos I remember from a few years back. Mean as hell, but twice as loyal.
Once upon a time, the dogs that ran free through here at night listened to me when I gave orders. But I’m not that girl anymore, even though a sense of belonging grips me as I drive farther.
The rays of the brilliant sunrise glint off the partially stripped cars for as far as the eye can see as I maneuver my Bronco toward the big multicolored metal building about a hundred yards away.
Strangely enough, I’m still more comfortable in scrap yards and around chopped cars than I am at charity events toasting with champagne. It’s the hard truth I’ve been trying to whitewash from my life, but I guess your soul always knows where it comes from.
I’m definitely tripping a few different early-warning systems as I drive through, even though it seems like this place is deserted.
Elijah is too paranoid not to know everything that’s happening on his property at any given time. He also doesn’t care if people call him a conspiracy theorist or a crazy motherfucker. Basically, he’s never given a single damn what people think of him. Something I wish I’ve been able to embrace.
Instead, for me, I equate people liking me with caring about me. And if they don’t care about me, somehow that makes me worthless. I’ve had enough feelings of worthlessness drilled into my psyche for years that I’m not sure I’ll ever shake it.
And all of that worthlessness comes from out here, where the scent of decay is more homey than apple pie.
Finally, I reach the metal building and find the massive overhead doors are down, but that doesn’t mean a whole lot either. I park my Bronco and throw the emergency brake. I’m not sure why, but if he gets it into his head to try to tow my car out of here, it’ll at least make it a touch more difficult. Not much, considering how good Elijah is with a slim jim, but it’s something.
This is the kind of people I come from. The kind who can steal a car in less than sixty seconds, and with fewer incidents than in that Nicolas Cage movie.
I wait for a few minutes, wondering if the door will open or someone is going to come out with a shotgun, but it doesn’t happen.
Elijah must be up and about, at least I assume, based on the faint whiff of hot metal in the air. I shut the door quietly and practically tiptoe to the overhang of the building before gripping the silver handle and easing the door open.
He’s waiting for me with an angle grinder in his right hand. “And here I’d given up hope on you ever showing your face here again.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“I got more cameras than Fort Knox, but your exhaust gave you away first. You’ve still got a leak.” He shoves his safety glasses up into his sandy-blond hair. “Should’ve let me fix it when I offered.”
“I was—”
“Too busy. I remember. You’re too busy for a lot of things, Tempe. Including anyone that doesn’t fit with your new life.”
The stab of guilt slices clean through me like my brother’s buck knife through a gator’s hide, but I cover it with defensiveness.
“Excuse me for trying to make something of myself.”
His navy gaze turns dark, almost black. “I thought you already were something, but I guess I was wrong.”
Another stab.
I knew this was going to be hard, but I didn’t expect to once again have to armor myself for battle. “I didn’t come here to argue, Eli.”
“Then what the hell did you come for?”
“I want to work.”
His brows go up, and he sets the angle grinder on the partially chopped car. “Never thought I’d see the day. Thought you were too good for that stuff now that you’re living in the Quarter and drinking that fancy whiskey.”
“I don’t drink whiskey,” I snap back.
“I remember one night that you did.”
He tilts his head to the side, and the memory assails me. Elijah and me in the backseat of a car . . . the night I lost my virginity.
“That was the last time.”
He grins. “I got a bigger backseat these days. You’re always welcome.”
“I’ll pass. Now, are you going to let me work?”
He looks me up and down, taking in every inch of the jeans I barely have time to wear anymore, and the old LSU T-shirt that I have tied up in back.
“Help me finish up this car, and the welder and workshop are all yours for as long as you need them.”
My mouth drops open. “I’m not committing a frigging felony today.”
“Damn, you’ve got that self-righteous act down. Wouldn’t be the first time. Remember how you helped me boost that car the night we fucked in the backseat?”
“I was young and stupid. Clearly.”
“Well, you don’t seem to have wised up all that much if you’re back here asking me for favors. Seems like you’ve decided to go slummin’.”
I want to punch him in the face, but I don’t do stuff like that anymore. My misspent youth is long over, and I’m respectable now.
I spin on the heel of my scarred work boot, intending to march my ass right back to my Bronco. I don’t need this. I can find somewhere else to—
“Aw, come on, Tempe. You can’t even take a little ribbin’ anymore. When’d you go get all delicate? That ain’t the girl I knew.”
“I’ve changed.”
He grabs the angle grinder and fires it up again. “Guess we’ll see how much.” He flips down his safety glasses.
I’m two steps from the door when he says something that stops me cold.
“The girl I knew wasn’t a quitter either.”
Chapter 18
Temperance
I turn and face Elijah, anger boiling my blood.
“I’m not
a quitter.”
“Sure looks like it. You quit on everyone else in your life except that fancy job of yours. I’m surprised you troubled yourself to come all the way out here, and now you’re just gonna walk away because you can’t stand to get your hands dirty anymore.”
I fist those very hands he refers to on my hips. “I’m not afraid of anything, especially not of getting my hands dirty. And certainly not of you.”
He jerks his chin. “Then get your ass over here and put on some safety glasses. We got a car to chop, and then you’ve got some shit to weld.”
My teeth threaten to crack with how hard I’m clenching my jaw.
I don’t like being told what to do. I don’t like being told who I am and who I’m not. And I really don’t like backing down from a challenge.
That’s how I ended up stealing that first car and ending up in the backseat. My brother threatened to beat me black and blue when he found out, but it didn’t stop me.
No. It took something a hell of a lot more than that.
I square my shoulders and cross the stained concrete floor, my heavy boots pounding as hard as the vein in my forehead.
I whip a pair of safety glasses off the nearest workbench and put them on, not caring if they’re clean. I shed the perfectionist part of my persona when I drove away from downtown and returned to my past.
Here, I’m not worried about trying to fit in or what someone’s going to think if they see the facade I’ve built slip. They’ve already seen the real me anyway.
“Give me a grinder. Let’s get this shit done.”
Once I have the tool in hand, I get to work. I don’t need instructions on where the VINs are that need to be ground off, or where we need to cut. As the saying goes, this ain’t my first rodeo.
Working together with the only sound in the building coming from metal on metal, we finish in record time.
When Elijah finally turns his tool off and steps away, I do the same. He tosses me a rag.
“Good to see you haven’t lost your touch.”
“You’re going to let me use the workshop, your metal, and your tools as much as I need, and you’re not going to give me any shit about it.”
He crosses his arms and leans against the workbench behind him. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“And what are you gonna give me in return?”
“Not a damn thing.”
His chest heaves with laughter. “Funny. You know that ain’t how shit works around here.”
He’s right, but I’m not about to offer what I know he would prefer to take as payment in a heartbeat—me.
“It’s called paying it forward, Devereux. Good karma.” I mimic his posture and cross my arms, leaning back on my heels.
“That sounds like some hipster bullshit to me. You want to use my shit, you pay for it.”
“How much?” I ask.
He shakes his head, a sly smile curving his lips. “I don’t want your money, girl. You know that.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell not getting anything else from me.”
He uncrosses his arms and walks toward me, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes my face. His boots halt only a few inches from mine.
“You got yourself a man these days? Is that the issue?”
I think of the man who has been haunting my thoughts for the last week. “Maybe.”
This time, Elijah’s forehead creases with shock. “Oh yeah? Who’s the lucky son of a bitch?”
“You wouldn’t know him.” It’s basically the only answer I can give without admitting that I don’t know him either. At least, nothing beyond the wild addiction I’ve developed.
“I know a lot more people than you think. What’s his name?”
A bolt of shame shoots through me at the reminder that I don’t know that either. “Doesn’t matter.”
Elijah steps back, and I’m not sure what does it, but he relents on the subject. “Then you’re gonna bring me a case of whiskey every time you come.”
“Fine—” I start to agree to what is a simple request, but he keeps speaking.
“And you’re gonna owe me a favor. Consider it payin’ it forward,” he says with a wink.
A favor isn’t something I want to owe Elijah, but it’s the quickest way to get what I want.
“Fine, but it has limits.”
He shrugs. “We’ll see about that. Now, go make something. Show me you haven’t totally buried your magic under a pile of boring paperwork.”
* * *
I’ve lost track of time, but I know hours have passed. When I step back and survey my work, my lips stretch in a smile. It’s a phoenix rising out of the flames, and it’s incredible.
I’ve still got it.
I tug the shop rag out of my back pocket and swipe it over my forehead to catch the dripping sweat my worn bandana didn’t.
My arms and shoulders are sore from cutting, hammering, and welding, but it was worth it. Even the scrapes on my arms that my gloves didn’t prevent are badges of honor. A sense of accomplishment floods my system, along with pride and satisfaction.
It took coming back here and seeing it through new eyes to realize I don’t care what some stuck-up old asshole like Standish says. My art is not junk.
It’s revitalization in the most basic way. Taking the old and unwanted, and refashioning it into something new and beautiful that will make people stop and stare.
The copper flames—hammered pieces of tubing and wire, torched to take on a red patina—look like they’re actually burning brightly beneath and alongside the bird.
To create it, I used car parts. Plumbing components. Pieces ripped off of old appliances. It was a mad dash through the scrap and recycling yard, grabbing anything that looked promising, a wild process of piecing together the vision in my head, and a flat-out sprint to bring it to life.
But I did it.
I really did it.
“Well, fuck me, that’s cool as shit,” Elijah says from the garage door, which I heaved open in an attempt to stop myself from shedding a few more gallons of sweat.
I yank the bandana off my head and swipe it over my forehead. “Thanks.”
He closes the distance between us. “I didn’t think you had it in you anymore. Proved me wrong.”
I shift my gaze in his direction without moving my head. “Does that mean you’re going to drop your conditions on me using your space?”
He snorts a laugh. “Not a fucking chance. You pay to play here. That’s life, girl. Should know that by now.”
My stomach gnaws at my backbone and releases a loud growl.
“You want to grab something to eat?” Elijah says. “Crawfish boil already started at Rickety. Bet a few people would love to see you.”
By Rickety, he means the Rickety Shack, one of the only restaurants within ten miles and a staple in these parts. The crawfish boil is a Saturday-night tradition. And me going with Elijah would send the wrong message on every level.
I’m not going backward in life, only forward.
“Sorry. Can’t. I’m busy.” I pull off my grimy gloves and look down at my hands. I’m impressed with the limited number of cuts, scrapes, and broken nails. Totally worth it. Now I just have to clean myself up and decide what I’m busy doing tonight so I don’t feel like I just lied.
Elijah’s voice turns hard. “Hot date with a guy who expects you to be some perfect little princess?”
I wish, is the first thought in my head, but I don’t voice it. My stranger hasn’t surfaced again, even though I’ve kept my eyes open, expecting to see either him or one of those magic little cards, but I’ve been totally SOL on both counts. Every day that passes has me thinking about it more. The craving keeps growing stronger. But that’s not something I’m going to say to Elijah.
“None of your business.”
“Bet I could do you better.” He knows me well enough to taunt effectively.
I shoot him a killing look. “Doubtful.”
Elijah
crosses his arms over his chest and instead of being cowed, he postures. “Is that so? You think you’re the only one who’s changed over the years, Tempe? You think no one else has learned a damn thing new or moved out of the little box where you want to keep everyone in your past?”
I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of arguing. “Are you going to help me load this into my Bronco or what?”
Elijah glances back to the phoenix. “Maybe I want to keep it. Use it as yard art.”
My gaze snaps to his. “Someone paid fifty grand for one of my sculptures in the last week, and you think I’m going to let you keep it as yard art? Not a chance.”
“Whoa-ho-ho. There she is. There’s the fire and sass you’ve been hiding beneath that prim attitude. Fake attitude, I might add. Does your man know the real you, Temperance? Or does he just know the perfect little shell you show the rest of the world?”
“He knows how it feels to have me coming hard on his dick, so I’m pretty sure that’s all that matters.”
As soon as the bold words are out, I know I’ve made a mistake. I’m not going back down that road with Elijah, no matter how easy it would be. Time to get out of here, because this place is wearing off on me.
Elijah stalks forward until we’re practically nose to nose. “So do I. Maybe he and I could compare notes.”
Chapter 19
Temperance
I flip from radio station to radio station on my way home, but every damn song sets me on edge, making me want something I can’t have.
Him.
I never realized exactly how frustrating this could be. It’s not that wanting what I can’t have is new to me—because it certainly isn’t. But normally I’m able to bury the craving deep beneath all the other feelings I don’t want to face.
I’m failing this time.
Going home to spend Saturday night by myself just won’t do tonight, but going out to a bar by myself doesn’t sound like fun either.