“I’m good.” I wipe my dusty hands on a rag and shove it into the back pocket of my jeans. “See ya tomorrow.”
“I’ll bring ya a bagel.”
After he leaves, I do a quick sweep of the job site to make sure nothing’s lying around, then toss my tools in the back of my pickup. The telltale sound of an engine struggling to turn over comes from the school parking lot and I’m not surprised to see the blonde girl banging her fists against the steering wheel of her Corvette.
Hopping in the front seat, I light up a smoke and throw the truck in reverse. My rearview mirror gives me a glimpse of the girl prying the hood of her car open.
Does she even know what she’s looking for?
She leans into the engine and pokes around for a few seconds, then stands back and crosses her arms.
“Shit,” I mutter, swinging my truck around. I can’t just leave a teenaged girl in a parking lot with a dead engine. Dark storm clouds are creeping across the sky and a warm breeze is whipping through the trees. It’s gonna pour any minute.
I pull my truck into the lot and park next to her. “Need some help?” I ask from my open window.
Her mouth opens and then immediately shuts when she’s interrupted by two high school jocks approaching.
“Hey, Skylar! If you need a ride, I got one for you right here.” The kid grabs his junk and laughs hysterically.
“That’s a little small for me, Michael,” she yells back. “I’d rather ride your dad and make you call me Mommy.”
Ah. She’s a little firecracker, full of spark—which can be good and bad.
The guys aren’t laughing anymore. “Fuck you, whore.”
When they see me jump out of my truck, they immediately start walking in the other direction.
“You shouldn’t provoke those punks,” I say.
Her eyebrows rise. “Seriously? I can take care of myself, dude.”
“I can see that, Sparkles. What’s wrong with your car?”
“Sparkles?” she repeats.
“Yeah. You gotta lot of spark. Like a firecracker.”
Her eyes turn a brighter shade of turquoise and the corner of her mouth slowly lifts.
“My grandfather used to call me smartass, so I guess Sparkles is a step up.”
I let out a laugh and walk around her to look under the hood of her car. “So, what happened?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure. It was fine this morning, now it won’t start.”
“Get in and try to start it.”
She does, but the engine still won’t turn over.
“I think it’s your fuel pump,” I say when she steps back out of the car.
“Oh.” She chews her lower lip and stares at the engine. “Can that be fixed?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to get it towed to a mechanic.”
“Shit.”
“Might be hard to find parts for this car, though. What year is this? ’75?”
“Yeah. It was a gift.”
I gently close the hood and wipe my hands across my jeans. “Nice gift, but it’s probably gonna start costing you money. It’s an old car.”
She looks up at the darkening sky and lets out a big sigh. “Just great,” she says.
“Do you or your parents have a local mechanic you use?” I ask.
Tilting her head to the side, she blinks at me. “No, um… we don’t. My mom doesn’t drive.”
“I use the guy over on North Main. He’s good and he won’t rip you off. If you want, I’ll call a tow and have them bring it over there for you.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She looks down at the ground and then slowly back up at me. “Is a tow expensive?”
The worry in her eyes tugs at my heart. “It’s only about five miles so it’ll be cheap. Maybe twenty bucks.”
Visible relief washes over her face as I pull out my phone and arrange for a tow truck to come. Holding her purse and her backpack, she stares at her car with a forlorn expression.
I wonder if she can’t afford to get it fixed. The car’s older than dirt, and her clothes, which come off as hippie chic, may have been bought at Goodwill to save money, not to make a fashion statement.
I shove my phone into my back pocket. “The tow truck should be here in about fifteen minutes.”
She nods and smiles. “Thank you for doing that for me.”
“No problem.”
Fat raindrops begin to fall, splattering onto the asphalt around us. Her eyes go wide as thunder growls in the distance.
“Do you need a ride home? I can wait with you until the tow truck comes.” There’s no other high school kids lingering around, and I’m gonna feel bad just leaving her here alone.
Her gaze roves over the tattoos covering my arms and hands. Takes in my shoulder-length, shaggy hair. Doubt flickers in her eyes.
Am I a nice guy doing a good deed? Or an ink-covered, longhaired scumbag with a rap sheet a mile long?
Maybe I’m both.