My phone buzzes then and I grab it with one greasy hand while the other pats for my pack of cigarettes.
It’s a text from Georgia.
G: Leaving PP with Sugar. She’s coming to the garage.
Just fucking great.
S: Thanks
I grab a rag and wipe my hands, easing away from the car. After that scene last night, I have no doubt she’ll throw a fit if she finds out I’m the one working on the car. Jesus, that girl is a mess. I’ve never chased a tail this hard before and got back nothing but soreness and disappointment.
I thought about her all night. It was hard not to, what with the slap still ringing in my ears. It’s part of the reason I got to the garage so fucking early on a Saturday morning, annoyed at myself for digging her so hard. That shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. Sebastian Wilcox is hot for a girl who wants to cut his balls off? A girl who recoils at the mere thought of me touching her? A girl who has made it unilaterally clear she’s not into him? Sounds perfectly on brand. I mean, why go for one of the girls at school ready and willing? Nah, that’d just be too easy. A hard-on for a girl who hates me sounds perfectly sane.
Ten minutes later, the crunch of gravel announces Georgia’s arrival.
Bracing myself for impact, I lean back against one of the toolboxes and light my cigarette. Which version of Sugar will come through that door today? Pissed off? Moody? Sad? Timid? Hot for me? Cold for me?
I hear her footsteps echo off the concrete walls and a moment later, her tiny figure is in the doorway.
She stares at me blank-faced for a beat, and then lets out this deep, “Oh.” The disappointment is evident in her tone.
I flick the ashes from my cigarette. “Good morning to you, too, Sunshine.”
Her face puckers disdainfully. “Is Merle here? I realized I left something in the car when I dropped it off.”
“He won’t be here for a few hours.”
Her eyes ping around everywhere; the ground, the bay, the cracked ‘Exit’ sign, her own scuffed boots. After a moment, she decides, “I can come back later.”
I rake my hair back, sighing. “That’s ridiculous. Your car is in the bay. Go ahead and check it out if you want.” She gives me another one of those blank looks and I gesture to the ‘Stang. “Go on. I’m not going to touch you.”
She looks skeptical and vaguely annoyed, but she passes me anyway, keeping a wide berth. Her sweet scent still carries over to me. That damn smell was the first thing that hit me when I got in Jasmine after driving her home from the car show. It’s been in my head ever since.
Sugar opens the passenger door and leans inside, giving me a real nice view of the curves of her ass. I get this crystal-clear vision of me steeping up behind her and putting my hands there, skating them to her hips, pulling her back into my hard dick.
I wince and turn away, rubbing my forehead. My concussion probably couldn’t afford that shit. I don’t look back until I hear the door close. “Find everything okay?”
“Yeah, I actually left my license in the car.” She tucks it in her back pocket. “Would’ve been a shit show the other night if the cops picked me up and I didn’t have it.”
“Nah,” I say, “you were with me. I wasn’t going to let you get arrested.”
She rolls her eyes and walks around to the front of the car. She bends and peers inside. “Any idea what he’s doing in there?”
“Hmmm,” I say, pretending like I’m not completely aware of every single thing going down under that hood. I keep my distance as I approach, staying on the other side as I prop my elbows on the body and study the interior. “The carburetor is shot. The engine needs a lot of work. Spark plugs, timing chain, hole in the oil pan…” I glance over and see her paled face staring back at me. I assure, “It sounds like a lot but it’s really not a big deal. Basic stuff.”
“That’s way too much. That’s not all vital, right?” She wraps a hand around her slender neck, giving it a kneading squeeze. “What’s the bare minimum he can do to make it drivable?”
“Eh, let the old man have his fun,” I say, pushing off the car to take a better peek inside. “A car like this isn’t a job, it’s a privilege.”
I don’t miss the way her eyes track my cigarette as I bring it to my lips. “Getting people to do free work for me isn’t okay, Sebastian. I’m not a charity case.”
“Of course, you’re not. But seriously, a car like this doesn’t fall into a mechanic’s lap that often. Believe it or not, this is Merle’s idea of fun. Gives him an excuse to go to the scrap yard to bicker and trade with the old guy who runs the place.” I lean back on my heels, and this time, I don’t miss the way her eyes follow my cigarette when I gesture to the office. “Really, you’re doing him a favor.”
She still looks unsure, and I’m not sure if I’m reading her right—fuck, as if I ever have—but I take my pack of cigarettes and broadcast my throw with a couple bobs. She catches it aggressively, hard like a punch, and raises an eyebrow.
I nod at the pack. “Go ahead.”
Mistake.
Holy shit, what a mistake.
She plucks one from the pack and puts it between her plush lips, igniting it with the lighter I’d had tucked in the cellophane. Then she sucks a long, dragging inhale from it, eyes sliding closed for a suspended moment. She lets out a slow, “Fuck,” when she exhales, lips pursing. Transfixed, I watch as she leans back against a cluttered workbench, dark eyes inspecting the cigarette’s ember. “I haven’t had one of these in months.” She says it softly, like she’s talking more to herself than me.
Even still, when she goes to toss the pack back, I shake my head. “Keep it. Only place to do it on campus is out by the dumpsters, though. Out back, where the cats are.” Instantly, I’m reminded of the photo I saw a few days ago hanging in the lobby of the arts building. I’d notice Abbadon anywhere, so I’d stopped and inspected the name of the student who’d taken it. Sugar Voss. Fuck, the picture was good, too. It was moody and sharp-edged, just like the subject.
Just like the girl who’d captured it, too.
She doesn’t pocket the cigarettes, however. She just holds my gaze and places them neatly on the bench behind her.
Well, now that my dick is hard from watching her suck on that cigarette, I should be expecting some sort of harm on my person. I take the strategy of distraction, running my hand over the Mustang’s back panel. I touch the spot where a decal used to be. “I don’t know what you or your dad did to this car, but it sure looks like it lived a full life.”
The cigarette must have leeched more tension from her than I realized, because that comment actually brings out the hint of a smile as her eyes rove over the chipped paint. “My dad loved this car. My grandfather brought it home when he was fifteen—not even old enough to get a license. It was in rough shape back then, and they spent the whole year getting it road ready. He took it to college where he joined ROTC. That’s when it began its life journey all over the world.”
I rest a hip on the car and ask, “Where all was he stationed?”
Her eyes shift heavenward, face pensive. “Germany, California, a two-year stint in Australia, then Hawaii.”