Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Come on,” he says, patting my shoulder lightly, like my old Little League coach—You’ve got it, tiger; back in the game!—like I did to Katie.
Suddenly, I’m so humiliated that I think I might puke again. Pathetic. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’m fucking fine, dude,” I say coldly. “I could’ve handled it.”
I jerk away from him and stagger down the alley. When I glance back, he’s still standing there, completely still, watching me.
Chapter 2
THE ORANGE BMW 320i rolls in just as I swallow the last bite of a mediocre hoagie. Next to me, my younger brother Brian lets out a low whistle. That is one ugly color. It was probably originally a bright orange, but it’s faded and patched and has been painted over a few times. The driver’s side door is maroon and the diving boards are spotted with rust.
I’ve been out of it all day. I took a bunch of Tylenol this morning, but my head is still killing me and my whole body aches. I don’t remember it happening, but there’s a deep scrape on my shoulder so I guess that’s where I hit either the brick wall or the ground in the alley last night. I keep leaning against it to remind myself of what an idiot I am.
“Eighty-one?” Brian asks me. Pop shakes his head in disgust.
“Naw, man,” I tell him, pointing at the elongated aluminum bumpers, “That’s the E30. In ’81 it would’ve been the E21.” I turn to Pop. “I’d go ’85.” He nods.
I actually love the early to mideighties BMWs. Underneath that shitty paint job and mismatched door, the lines of the car are pure, the boxy form sharp and perfectly balanced.
When that maroon door opens, though, it drives away any thoughts about the car. Because the long legs and broad shoulders that emerge belong to the guy from last night. My ears start to buzz and my heart beats unnaturally fast. He scans the garage, and when his eyes land on me, it’s like a physical force catches my breath and pulls it from my chest.
“What?” Brian pokes me in the shoulder. “You know him or something?”
I shake my head and walk toward him before Brian or Pop can.
“Um, hi.”
“Hi,” he says, his voice low.
“Uh, can I help you?” I’m trying to keep my voice steady and professional, but with my eyes I’m begging him not to say anything. To be just another customer.
He jabs his thumb behind him at his car and says, “I wonder if you could take a look. I think I’m leaking oil.”
I grab my clipboard and his key and take down his driver’s license information. Rafael Guerrera. He’s thirty-eight, two years older than me.
“Pop the hood,” I tell him, and I definitely don’t stare when he bends over to pull the lever, his hips twisting and his shirt rucking up just enough to show a sliver of light brown skin. I look at the engine blankly, taking in no information whatsoever. I close the hood and nod at Rafael.
“I’ll take a look, but you’ll need to leave it. That okay?”
“How long will it take?” he asks, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes me think he knows exactly what I’m doing. That I don’t want him to wait here while I look at the car now. That I want him gone, stat.
I shrug, trying to look casual, but it’s more of a twitch. “Tomorrow most likely.”
Rafael nods. He picks up my clipboard and writes something on it. Then he hands it back to me with a completely neutral look and walks out of the garage.
I look at the clipboard. He’s written a phone number and, below it, a note: Your sweatshirt is in the trunk.
Shit. I do vaguely remember dropping it on the barstool last night. For a second, it occurs to me that it was nice of him to bring it back. But then my stomach tightens and my skin starts to crawl with unease.
I CATCH up to him at the corner.
“Hey!” I reach for his shoulder, but before I come close to touching him, he whips around, looming over me, feet set shoulder width apart. “How the hell did you know where I work?”
“How’s your stomach?” he asks as if I haven’t spoken. His stance has relaxed slightly.
“Look, man. I don’t know what the fuck you think is going on here, okay. But how did you know where I work?”
Rafael runs a hand through his hair and looks away.
I take a good look at him, trying to focus on not punching him. His thick, wavy brown hair is shoulder length, but neat, not like he forgot to cut it. There are freckles across his nose, barely darker than his skin. Judging by his skin and his name, I’m guessing he’s Latino. Is that the right term? I’m not sure. Hispanic? Shit, I don’t know. His lips are full, and his teeth are sharp and crowded, the left front one chipped. His long stubble looks soft, but his mouth turns down in a snarl. I shake my head to clear it.