Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

When I’m sure they’re gone, I slink back out of the supply room and approach the Mustang. It’s ugly and beat to hell, but in a weird way, that’s almost its best feature. This lady was a sweet-ass ride back in her day, but no doubt about it, she’s seen some real shit. This isn’t some fancy little show-car. This girl has lived. I unlatch the hood and lift it up, assessing the engine.

“Close the hood, Bass. I need to take it off the lift and put it out back. She says she’s coming back tomorrow, but we’ll see.” I let go of the hood and it slams shut, sending a shiver of rust to the ground. He echoes my thoughts, “It’s too bad. Was probably a real beauty back in the day.”

I nod in agreement and stare pensively at the car. Something twisted and complex squirms inside me at the thought of her rotting away in some junk yard.

“What if—” I start, then stop. I take a breath, both aching to commit and all at once wary of doing so. “What if I work on it. For free.”

He looks at me like I just offered to stick my dick into an electrical outlet. “Why the heck would you do that?”

Because I’m bored. Because Jasmine is out of flaws to silence this black, sick thing roiling inside of me. Because I can’t stand the thought of casting aside something so broken and sad. Because it has a brave little toaster smile. Because the girl who owns this car sort of resembles it.

I answer, “I’m renting the bay, so I’ll put it there. My car is in good shape. I could use a new project.”

Merle gives me a curious glance. “You got a crush on this girl or something?”

“No,” I say firmly, then give him a patented Wilcox grin. “You think she looks like my type?”

“I think a dumbass like you would be lucky for a girl like that to give you a second glance.” He throws up his hands. “You rent the bay, you can do whatever you want to with it.”

“Okay,” I say, but quickly add, “will you tell her you worked something out? Just say you got a deal or something, but it may take longer. I don’t know. I just don’t want her to know it’s me.”

“So, you do like her.” When I narrow my eyes, he shakes his head. For some reason, I can’t ever seem to impress this guy. Merle isn’t afraid of me and he doesn’t buy into my bullshit. “What’s with the secret, then? Why can’t she know you’re her fairy godfather?”

“Because if she finds out, she won’t accept it.”

His laugh sounds as old and rusted as the Mustang looks. “So. It’s like that. Should’ve known. Guys like you always go for the complicated ones.” He waves me off and heads back to the office. “I’ll come up with something. She’s not really in the position to complain.”

Merle is right. It is complicated, but not in the way he thinks. It’d be easy to say that I fucked up—that I hurt her—and it’d be true. I could call this penance, a clearing of conscience. That’d look pretty good.

But I look at that sad, broken car and think that, even despite all the work it needs, it’d probably be the easiest thing to fix in either of our lives right now. It’s a cop out, more than anything.

I can’t deny how calming it is to settle into the focus of planning. The body is shit, but it’s least urgent. Most important is the engine. What’s beneath this hood is Frankenstein’s monster. I kick around under there for a good hour, just marveling at the weirdness happening. Non-original parts for cars decades newer than this beast, hoses held together with clamps and electrical tape, a radiator cap that used to belong to a Gatorade bottle—it just keeps getting fuckier and fuckier.

“No one respected you, did they?” I ask the car.

It doesn’t answer back.

Before long, I confirm Merle’s initial assessment. The alternator is toast. But if it weren’t, the solenoid’s going to kick the bucket any day now, and the ignition switch is dry-rotted and falling apart. In conclusion, there are probably a dozen different forces conspiring to make this car not start.

Whoever worked on this lady before me was happy just putting any old thing in her, but I’m never satisfied with anything but original. Ridiculously, I decide to rebuild the alternator and starter myself.

Merle pulls a face. “Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot, boy. Buy one for a few hundred, slap it in there, and call it a day.”

“Nah,” I argue, dipping back beneath the hood to take off the belt. “There isn’t much left in here that’s original.”

“This isn’t a show car. It’s a beater. It’s just gotta get her from point A to point B.” This is where Merle and I butt heads. He’s pragmatic, all about the practicality. To him, a car is transportation. It should be dependable and secure. I’m guessing forty years in this business, dealing with hard-up customers who need to just get to work will do that to you.

Dependable and secure is important, but so is character. “I get it, I do,” I assure, walking around him to get a wrench. “But why not? Come on, Merle, like….” I gesture to the car. “Come on.”

He just shakes his head. “It’s your life.”

Only sometimes, I think.

4

Sugar

“What did he say?” Georgia asks when I walk back into the room. I’d stepped into the hallway to take the call from the garage, which I was fully expecting to come with a new slew of charges. I know what kind of condition my car is in. It doesn’t make it any easier to let it go.