by Finn, Emilia
So, leaving a whole lot of faith in Jess, Kane, and a therapist that I don’t know, I stepped back and kept up only with updates via text.
Surprisingly, Kane’s kinda chatty via text. Or maybe after our shared experience with Graham the other night, he trusts me now. He trusts my willingness to do anything for her, so he figures I deserve updates.
Kane normally has a housemate – Eric, his handler from when he was a cop – but with Laine temporarily moving in, Eric volunteered to move out.
It would seem Eric knows battered women, too.
He packed his shit up before Laine’s discharge papers were signed, and with a fast phone call and a handshake, I now have a brand-new tenant in the apartment above my garage, and I can sleep knowing the only man inside that house is both capable and willing to lay his life down for those girls.
The fact Kane’s so stupidly in love with Jess that hitting on Laine would never register in his mind, is a tidy bonus that helps me keep my shit under control.
She’s as safe as she can be, short of me forcing her to move into my house.
But now, on the third day after discharge, I’m going to see her. Because I want to. Because I need to. Because I can’t stay away.
I’m not looking to take advantage of a girl in pain, I’m not here to manipulate her into a damn thing, but she’s been my friend since forever, and I miss her the way I’d miss my leg.
I drive up to Kane’s house in the tidy suburban street and pull the revving Buick soft top Super straight into the already open garage.
I have a surprise for her.
A project.
Pocketing the keys and exiting the garage, I move up the front steps and stop at the door. I’m so unsure of myself, I don’t even know if I should knock. If it was Oz’s house, or Marc’s or Scotch’s or anyone else’s, I wouldn’t knock. I’d just let myself in like we’ve been doing since school.
But this isn’t one of the regular guys.
It’s Kane.
And it’s the home Laine is staying in.
I open the wire door and knock on the solid timber. They’re home. A truck and two smaller cars litter the street out front, but Kane had the driveway and garage emptied on my request.
That asshole never asks questions.
He’s been conditioned into a life of, once you trust a guy, you don’t ask questions. You just do. And by the time I was done with a blowtorch and a pair of balls, he trusted me like he trusts Spence.
Footsteps move around inside the house. A TV drones in the living room, and music floats down from an open upstairs window. We’re sitting in perfect seventy-degree weather – shorts and tank weather, flip flops and sitting outside with tea weather – but when the door cracks open and stops on the chain, I frown at Laine’s head to toe black hoodie and sweatpants.
She’s in mourning.
And she’s scared.
“Ang?”
“Hey.” I muster the most convincing smile I can manage. “Just me. Open up?”
“What are you doing here?”
I don’t let it get to me; the rejection, the wariness. I don’t let it hurt, because this isn’t about me, it’s about her. It’s about her healing, her recovery, her mental wellbeing. And if she wants to wear sweatpants and a hoodie in this weather, if she wants to watch me like I maybe tortured someone a few days ago, then I’ll let her.
“I wanted to visit.”
“With Kane?”
I shake my head. “No. With all of you.”
Still peeking through the gap in the door, she watches me like I’m the enemy. “I’m probably going up to my room now. I’m pretty tired.”
It’s eight in the morning. “That’s a shame. I brought something I wanted to show you. It’s kinda exciting.”
Before Graham came along, Laine would’ve been all over that already. She sucked at surprises, because she wanted to know everything, and she wanted to know it now. She didn’t believe in delayed gratification. She was the girl who’d flip to the back of a book to get spoilers, or fast forward to the end of ‘Homeward Bound’ just to make sure Shadow was fine. She would always rip a corner off wrapping paper to get a peek inside, and she’d peek inside a birthday cake box just to see the design.
Me saying I had something exciting to show her would normally have track marks on my face as she ran over me to get there, but this new version of her, this scared version, simply bites her wobbling lips and pretends she’s not peeking at my hands.
She wants to know.
But she refuses herself freedom.
“Wanna come out to the garage? You still have a thing for cars, right?”
She shrugs. “Not really.”
Liar. “Please? I picked up an old clunker, but I’m not sure if it’s a genuine classic or a total write off. It didn’t cost me anything but a tow job and a favor. You’re still into classics, right? You could tell me if it’s worth something.”
Okay. So maybe I’m here to manipulate her a little bit.
She chews on her bottom lip, but that chain remains in place, and the white bandaging on her wrist peeks through the gap. “What did you get?”
“A nineteen-fifty Buick Super. It’s old as fuck and kinda busted up, but it’s a soft top – minus the actual soft top, ‘cause it rotted out on someone’s farm for the last thirty years.”
“So it’s a permanent convertible?”
There she is!
“For now, but I got a parts supplier on speed dial, and he’s got three-hour delivery. I just don’t wanna hit that buy button till I know what I got on my hands.”
“And you want me to look?” Her curiosity turns to distrust. “You know cars more than me. Everything I know is because you taught me.”
Yeah, I did. “I know engines, but I don’t know makes and models like you do. It wasn’t me sitting in the garage with those heavy ass books in your lap while you studied classic muscle. I dunno…” I drop my face forward until my hair hides my twitching lips. “I thought you’d like to look.” The old Laine would’ve already taken it for three laps around the block. “I could go though. It’s fine.” I step back. “Sorry to bother you.” And another step.
“No, wait.” She slams the door closed, flips the chain, and swings it open again to reveal sloppy sweatpants and a stained hoodie. Long blonde hair sits knotted high on her head, and her cheeks are still pale, but she’s never been more beautiful. “I wanna see.”
“Yeah?” I watch her slide her feet into an oversized pair of men’s flip flops. “You don’t have to. If you’re tired or whatever, I can go.”
“No.” Without waiting for me, she steps off the porch and heads toward the garage.
Movement at the door stops me from following straight after. Instead, I turn back to the grinning couple and smile when Jess lifts both thumbs.
“You did it, Ang!”
“She hasn’t stepped outside once since she got here,” Kane adds quietly. “Not one single time, so good job. Now go fix that piece of shit or get it out of my garage. The neighbors are gonna file complaints.”
I flip him off and step off the porch. “Have fun. We’ll be awhile.” I follow the path Laine took and stop at the entrance to the garage. Standing back, I watch in silence as she marvels at the not-a-piece-of-shit classic. It’s messed up, it’s dented and needs a little love, but it’s as strong and beautiful as its new owner.
“Did you really get this for free?”
“Uh-huh.” I lean against the garage door frame and fold my arms. “I saw it when I was driving around the other week. It was sitting at the back of a property near the fence line, but I forgot about it again, then I just so happened to meet the owner the other day. He said he bought the property as is; it was a working farm, but he’s not a farmer. He cleared out a bunch of trees so he could use the place for his work, and the Super was right there. The soft top was still on it, weathered and almost dust. It protected a lot of the inside, but as soon as we moved the car, it basically dissolved.”<
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“Now you gotta keep it inside till you replace the roof.”
“Uh-huh.” I kick my left ankle over the right. “Kane said I could keep it in here, since my garage is full.”
Her eyes come back to mine. Icy blue and so fucking scared. “So you’ll be here a lot?”
Don’t let it hurt you. This is about her, not you.
“I’ll stay in here. I’ll be quiet. You won’t have to see me.”
Nodding, she runs her fingertips along the faded red paint and slowly circles the rundown frame. “What are you gonna do with it when it’s done?”
Give it to you.
“Depends. What do you think I should do with it? I could sell it if you think it’s worth something. I could show it. I could keep it for myself.”
“And sell the Charger?” Her face pales. “You can’t get rid of the Charger, you’ve had it since high school.”
I shrug. “It’s just a car. They come and go. I built one, I can build another.” I nod toward the one between us. “You think it’s done and ready for landfill, or is she worth building up again?”
She stops at the top of the hood and goes in search of the latch. Closing her eyes and searching with her fingertips, she makes a vision – a slightly disheveled, homeless vision – as she nibbles on her bottom lip. Taking pity, I move toward the driver’s side door and lean in, and as soon as I pull the latch, the hood pops open and she grins like she thinks she did it.
I haven’t seen her smile in so long, it distracts me as she lifts the heavy metal and grits her teeth at the mess underneath. “Jesus, Ang.” Her eyes scour the engine I’ve already spent two days studying. “It’ll cost you a fortune to fix.”
“Nah.” I lean against the door and pretend not to watch her. “I get parts at wholesale, and labor is free. Shouldn’t cost much at all. You think it’s worth something?”
“Yeah.” I lose sight of her when she leans into the engine bay, but I see her foot poking out to help her balance. “Did it have a fire once? Because there’s a lot of burned wiring under here.”
I shrug and move along the side of the Buick to catch sight of the platinum blonde hair again. I can’t stay away. “I didn’t ask the car’s history. I figure she had a shitty time, but I took it as is, and here we are.”
Nodding, she hovers toward the opposite side of the car and increases the space between us. This isn’t about you. This is about her healing.
Leaning back, she taps the wheels with her toes. “Gonna need new whitewalls, these are all cracked. I’m surprised you could drive this here.” Her eyes come to mine. “You weren’t scared it might explode with you inside?”
“Nah.” I lean on the car frame and catch her eyes from across the bay. “Nothing much scares me. An exploding car is nothing to me.”
Her eyes shutter. She was here. She might’ve been guarded and wary, but she was here nonetheless.
And now she’s gone.
“You’re lucky, Ang. Being scared is…” She clears her throat. “Scary. And everything scares me.” Her bottom lip quivers. Using the sleeve of her hoodie, she wipes a hand over her face to push loose hair away. “I’m going inside now. Have fun with your car. I probably won’t see you around, I like being in my room.”
“Laine. No. Come back.” Out the door and inside the house before the words leave my mouth, I pick up a wrench and turn away from the doors. “Fuck! Motherfuck!”
Shadows fall over the door at the back of the garage. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. “Fucked that up, dude.”
“I fucked it up! I was trying to help, and I made it worse.”
“Mr. I’m-not-scared-of-anything. Tried to make your balls feel big at her expense?”
“No.” I turn. “No. I was just…” I sigh. “I was trying to let her know she’s safe with me. Because nothing scares me, so I’ll always protect her.”
“But shit does scare you, and any real man can admit that. Brass balls don’t mean shit if we’re too stupid to admit our fears.”
I let out a long breath and scrub my hands over my face. I can’t believe I fucked it up. Pausing with my thumbs in my eyes, I bite off a ‘Fuck!’ when I realize the damage I just did. “What scares you?”
Kane steps into the garage and leans over the hood of the Buick. Like a propulsion no one can fight when near an open hood, he starts tinkering with the engine. “Jess scares me.” He looks up. “Losing Jess fuckin’ paralyzes me. And since Laine’s pain hurts Jess, I’m gonna do everything I can to help them.” He looks to the open garage door to make sure we’re alone. “Because you’re stupid in love with Laine, I figure keeping you around will help her. I trust you to be gentle with her, but you only get so many chances before I send you on your way with a claw hammer jammed up your ass. I know damn well those girls are upstairs in a ball of tears while Laine calms down from her big adventure with the idiot in the garage.” Standing tall, he points a stained black finger in my direction. “That’s strike one. Two more and I try a new plan.”
“Fuck you, Bish. You can’t keep me away.”
His brow lifts. “I know damn well your garage ain’t full. I’m letting you use mine so she can hang with you on her own turf. That’s the most comfortable for her, but when you strike out a third time, I’m towing this piece of shit back to Spence’s, then you can argue with him about getting it back. I’ll put my money on him rotating the hammer. He’s savage, Ang, and he likes to watch people bleed.”
* * *
I need specialty parts, and seeing as this car was manufactured more than half a century ago, I need them sourced fast.
Just hours after I drive the Buick into Kane’s driveway and leave it in his garage with the hood up, I drive my Charger toward my bandmate and best friend’s newly renovated A-frame not so far out of town.
Marc’s fiancé stands on the front stairs with their new baby in her arms and long blonde hair cascading over her back. Meg is stunning in the traditional sense, as in, model perfect, even with a new baby attached to her chest and no time to work out or do her makeup.
And yet, I think of Laine and her sweatpants.
Laine and her hoodie.
Laine and her bruised eyes.
I climb out of the car and pocket my keys, since I need to use Marc’s truck to haul the parts. I glance over at Marc and his pet cow – also named Meg – as they crunch gravel beneath their feet over by the barn. Walking toward us, Marc watches his girl and baby, and snorts when she blows an air kiss – not at him, but at me.
“She’s trouble.” I meet him at his beat-up truck and climb in the passenger side.
He switches on the rumbling engine. “Hm?”
“Meg.” I nod in her direction and grin at her tinkling laughter. “She’s gonna send you to an early grave.”
He flashes a fast grin and clips his belt. “Don’t I know it. She’s a pain in my ass more often than not. She’s always flirting with my friends, and it’s hard to pretend I’m mad when it actually makes me laugh. So…?” He turns to me. “Where are we going?”
“City. I’ve gotta see a guy at a specialty dealership.”
Rolling forward along his driveway, he taps the steering wheel in lieu of having a radio in his old truck. “The Charger having troubles?”
“Nope. I’m rebuilding an old Buick.”
“Some old coot wants to revisit his heyday and rebuild the car he lost his virginity in?”
I grin and crank the old window open. Spring is in full swing, and the breeze is perfect. “Not some old coot. This one’s for me.”
“Yeah?” He turns to catch my eye. “What about the Charger?”
“I’m keeping both.”
“Jesus,” he laughs. “You’re ballin’ in your old age, huh? The life of a single man; no kids, no missus, no debt, no worries.”
“Yeah.” My best friends know nothing about me. For three decades, I’ve kept my trap shut and cruised under the surface. They don’t know my family life – not really. They know I c
ome from a shitty home; it’s hard to pretend you’re middle class when your clothes are dirty and you turn up late for school more than half the time. And years of stepping in front of girls to protect them – even girls we don’t know – has led them to catch on that maybe my mom was beaten more often than not.
But they don’t know I attended her funeral and never told them. I called out sick one school day – I forged a sick note claiming I had the flu – and on a rainy day in the fall, I sat at the cemetery and ate my packed lunch.
Eating a PB&J at the cemetery might seem weird, but it was my daily routine, and that day, I was at my wit’s end.
I couldn’t handle that much change in one day.
A funeral was my limit, so I kept everything else the same, including my peanut butter sandwich.
The guys don’t know that the little flower that now sits behind my rearview mirror – the fabric one with its wire stem – watches over me while I drive.
They don’t know that I found little fabric flowers scattered in the wind a few days after she was buried. They weren’t for her, I hadn’t brought them, but when one ended up sitting on the clumped dirt, I knew.
I knew the woman that was unable to look out for herself in life had been tasked with looking after me in death.
I’m not dead yet, so that means she’s either doing her job, or… its just not my time to go yet.
My friends don’t know what happened to my dad, they just know I moved my ass out of home before high school ended. If they noticed I hung out at The Shed – the place our band played every single weekend – more than usual, they never mentioned it.
The guys I consider my best friends have no clue I was already a killer long before Kane ever came into our world.
I told Kane I couldn’t kill Graham… but it wasn’t because I didn’t want to be a murderer. I already am one. I just don’t want to add to my tally. Some guys might enjoy adding notches to their kill list as much as they enjoy adding notches to their bed posts.