Plus he’s a Mason… of Mason Enterprises. Based on the research I did into their company back when Tate Marshall was out here, I already know that Mason Enterprises is one of the largest players in Houston’s business community with yearly sales in the hundreds of millions. So, I’d bet the Mystery Machine (estimated value: priceless) that Alec Mason has also never worried about money. He’s probably never paid an overdraft fee on his checking account or held his breath when he checks his bank balance. I’m sure that money just magically appears in his world, ready for him to spend it on whatever he likes, no matter how stupid.
With his smug little go-ahead-and-enjoy-the-view grin at the front of my mind, I hammer down on the pitman arm with three unforgiving wallops, one right after the other. The last one slips a little, just enough to knock the wrench into the index finger on my other hand. With a high-pitched growl, I toss the wrench across the metal worktable and stick the tip of my finger into my mouth. Sucking it doesn’t ease the sting, just makes it worse.
“Do not pick up that wrench again,” a gruff voice instructs. “I’m guessing you and Becca didn’t stop to eat this morning, am I right? So eat something before you lose a finger. There’s a sandwich in the fridge for you.”
When I turn around, all I can see is my brother Cody’s gigantic legs sticking out from underneath the late-model race car he’s working on.
My race car, to be specific. I’m not going to be the next Danica Patrick or anything, but running my own car in the local late-model division is something I still get a kick out of—at least when I have the opportunity. But like everything else around here, my car always needs something fixed on it. And while I’m a passable mechanic, I have a tendency to take a few too many shortcuts. My improper use of a wrench two minutes ago is just one example of how I like to use what’s handy, which isn’t always what I’m supposed to use. Cody is a professional mechanic with his own auto-repair shop, and without him, my amateur-racing career wouldn’t have survived as long as it has.
“Thank you,” I mumble from around my throbbing finger.
Cody grunts, which his way of saying you’re welcome. He’s only eleven months older than I am, but he takes his big-brother role seriously. Even if he’s not the most forthcoming guy with his words, he makes up for it with all the other ways he looks out for me. Today that means he’s going to make sure I eat a sandwich before I end up hurting myself while fixing things.
We’ve had nearly twenty years to learn how to look out for one another, ever since our mom up and left. We quickly figured out how to take care of ourselves, each other, and to a certain degree, our dad. The poor guy had been left with a nine-year-old daughter and a ten-year-old son to raise on his own, plus a struggling business to manage and a broken heart to mend. It took all of us pulling together to make it through, especially in those first few years. For Cody’s part, he became a rock. Strong, steady, and impenetrable. True to those traits, Cody immediately starts in on a topic that’s about as emotionless as it gets.
“This leak is definitely in the transmission, but it’s coming from up at the bell housing. Might need to swap the rear seal.”
I let out a sigh. “Peachy. I’ll add it to the list along with everything else we need at the parts store. At this rate, we may need to sell an organ to pay for it all. How are your kidneys feeling these days? Do you think you can get by with just one?”
“Sure. I’ve been trying to lose some weight anyway. Giving up one of those should move the scale by at least a pound or two,” Cody deadpans. A snort escapes me. Cody is a big guy, at six feet five and nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, he’s basically all muscle and always has been.
I make my way to the back of the shop and yank open the ancient refrigerator we keep back here. I quickly spy the sandwich Cody mentioned, along with a big bottle of my favorite cherry soda and a bag of Cheetos. Cody knows my order at the local deli as well as he knows his own, so I know the sandwich will be what I always order: an Italian grinder on wheat bread, topped with shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and the world’s best giardiniera relish.
When I start to unwrap my sandwich, I remember how hungry I am. I’ll have a better chance of eating slowly if I sit down, so I set my food on the old metal desk sitting in the corner of the shop, the spot that also serves as my office. Shoving aside a few papers and my laptop, I flop down into my chair. Sticky notes line the outer edge of my laptop screen, reminders of everything I need to do in the next few days, and when my eyes run over all those nagging little squares of paper, it becomes harder to resist inhaling the sandwich in as few bites as possible. There’s always too much to do, so much that chewing my food properly feels like a luxury that I can’t afford.
Today is worse than usual because I arrived at the track so late. Even if I love being able to help Becca whenever she asks, modeling clothes for her style blog always takes a lot longer than I think it will. Thankfully, she knows better than anyone does how tough things are at the track, so even though we didn’t get shots of everything she is hoping for, she shoved me out the door before I lost the whole day. I might have left looking like I was headed to a bachelorette party in Vegas, but delaying my costume change and the triple rounds of face washing required to get all that makeup off meant I was able to avoid rush-hour traffic on the way here.
During race season, every minute saved counts. What happens between Friday night and Sunday afternoon determines our entire year’s success. To say that we’re working with thin profit margins is a joke. That implies we have profits. Plus the past few years, we’ve had to deal with more than just staying in the black—we’re also dealing with noise complaints and zoning issues from the upscale housing developments that now surround us. Those same subdivisions are the reason we constantly have real estate developers skulking around like ravenous coyotes, smirking and patronizing us with whatever sales pitch they’ve come up with this week.
From this spot in the shop, I can see the edge of the Thunder Ridge subdivision, which sits on a rise just east of us. I still remember the way that lonesome yet beautiful vista looked when I was a kid. It looked like nothing. Nothing but sage grass and scrub brush, broken up by T-posts and barbed wire, all reminders of how rural our location is.
Now it’s million-dollar homes all crammed together, one built right next to the other until it’s become impossible to ignore the way so-called progress is looming over our little track. Some days I wonder what it would be like if we gave up and walked away, leaving all the headaches in the rearview mirror. But for me, that would mean walking away from the life I’ve always imagined for myself. Without this place, I’d have no clue who I am.
I let out a heavy sigh and take another big bite of the sandwich, then another, until I realize it’s almost half-gone. I switch over to the Cheetos and scoop up a big handful, then chase the artificial goodness with a long drink of my soda.
“Hey, nobody’s going to take that from you. You’re hitting that sub like a catfish on the right bait. Don’t make me set the hook.”
I know Cody can see my face from his spot under the car, so I roll my eyes at him. “You wanted me to eat, so I’m eating. Now I’m eating too fast?”