Pieces of Summer

I groan while getting out of bed, peeling Whit’s arm off my chest as she mutters something in her sleep about aliens and crocodiles. Snorting out a laugh, I rub my hand over my face and head into the living room.

Ah hell. I have to be at work in thirty minutes. I’m going to make her ass sleep on the couch if she doesn’t stop fucking with my alarm clock.

I practically rush through a cold shower, getting out by the time it’s heating up, and I toss on my clothes. Whit is still face-down in the pillows when I walk out, and toss my cooler in the back of my truck and head out.

My eyes scan over the dirt road off to the side, and as always, my grip tightens as my fists try to clench. I sure as hell don’t miss living on that shitty dirt road. My truck stays a hell of a lot cleaner these days. Yet that house still stands. I wish they’d tear it down or burn it.

Just as I pull up to the shop, someone walks up. Holy… shit. What guy dresses like that in Hayden? Is he really wearing pants above his ankles? Are they really so tight he has a moose knuckle going on?

Must be tourist season.

A sharp pang of anger hits me, and my jaw tenses.

Must be summer.

Fucking summer.

I hate it worse than anything. The humidity is the worst, and the bugs are relentless. The lake house owners fly in or drive in from whatever state they’re from, taking a break from their horrible rich lives.

Yeah… I fucking hate summer.

It used to be my favorite time of year.

Just like every time I think of what summer used to be, a bitterness creeps into my mouth. I swat away a few flies as I get out of my truck, and grab my cooler. The shop isn’t much to the rich asses who crash town for two or three months a year, but it’s a hell of a lot more than I grew up with. And I love it.

I have a house that has an actual floor, and I have full windows instead of broken shards. I also have an actual bed—a nice one—instead of a mattress on the dirty floor. Most importantly, my house is clean—messy at times, but always clean. There aren’t lines of mold and animal pellets anywhere. I’ll never live like that again.

And I earned it all myself. Had to.

Unlike the rich bastard who is sweating profusely in front of my shop. You can always tell when someone grew up with money.

“You lost?” I ask the guy.

He sighs in relief when he sees me.

“Please tell me you work at the auto repair shop.”

He does realize he’s not in front of the garage, right? Sun must be getting to him.

“Nah, but I know the guy who owns it,” I tell him, leaning against my truck.

“Thank God. My rental car gave out just down the road. I’m helping my friend move in today, and I can’t get ahold of her. It’s hotter than the devil’s ass crack, and I had to walk at least two miles to get here.”

With all the sweat and heavy panting, you’d think he’d walked twenty miles across the desert instead of two miles down Main St. The guy looks a little too fit to be acting so out of shape.

Blowing out a breath, I head over and unlock the door to my shop about the time Blake rolls in on two wheels. As soon as he gets out of his truck, I motion to the drenched guy with too-short pants.

“Richie here needs his car towed in and looked at,” I tell Blake, motioning to his garage.

“It’s Hunter,” the guy corrects.

“That’s irony if I’ve ever heard it,” Blake says, eyeing the guy who has probably never went hunting a day in his life.

“Is there a cab service around here?” the guy rattles on.

Blake snorts out a laugh while walking in and coming back out with tow truck keys. Beth walks up, strutting happily toward us, but her eyes roll when she takes in the guy wiping the sweat away from his brow. She heads into my shop, while a few others drive up and head into the garage next door, everyone getting ready for their morning.

“Where’s the car?” Blake asks.