Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
The younger man snorts. “Listen, girl—”
“I’m thirty-two and could teach you a thing or twelve about fixing cars.”
“That so?” Curiosity flickers in the younger man’s expression. “I’m Chester. This here’s my brother-in-law, Taaq. He’s the owner. No offense, miss, but we don’t get girls just walking in here, outta nowhere, claiming to out-wrench two guys who’ve been doing this since before you got your hands greasy.”
“Test me.” I stand tall, lifting my chin and reining in my temper. “Carburetors, transmissions, brakes, electrical… Take your pick.”
Chester raises an eyebrow at Taaq, an unspoken challenge passing between them.
My heart quickens in the pause. I can’t miss this chance. This isn’t just about a job. It’s about proving I belong and being as competent as any man. Something I’ve had to do again and again since I grew boobs.
“All right, Dove.” Taaq grins wickedly. “See that ‘69 Camaro over there?”
I glance toward the corner where a dusty Camaro sits, clearly abandoned, its hood propped open as if it’s been screaming for attention for decades.
“You got it.” I stride toward it, a rush of adrenaline pulsing through me.
“That thing hasn’t run in years.” Taaq chuckles. “If you can get it started, maybe we’ll reconsider your application.”
They’ll be begging me to stay by the time I’m finished.
The men trail after me, curious but openly doubtful.
Tossing my jacket on a stack of tires, I bend over the engine and quickly assess the situation. Spark plugs corroded, distributor wires hanging loose, battery hopelessly dead. Typical neglect, nothing I haven’t fixed a hundred times.
“Wrench.” I reach my hand out expectantly, my tone cutting, betraying my urgency.
Chester grunts but directs me to the toolbox.
I immediately dive in, navigating the tools, replacing spark plugs, adjusting the distributor wires, repairing loose hoses, and tossing aside the dead battery.
“New battery?” I glance over my shoulder, impatient.
Chester silently hands me a fresh one, his skepticism melting into curiosity.
Within minutes, I’ve reconnected everything, tightened every bolt, and wiped the sweat and grime from my forehead with the back of my hand.
My pulse quickens as I slide into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition.
A harsh cough fills the garage, followed by a deep, rumbling roar as the engine catches, humming to life in a resurrection song.
I step out, cock my hip against the door, and wipe my hands on a rag, hiding my surging relief behind a bored expression.
Chester’s jaw practically touches the oil-stained floor, and Taaq looks like he’s about to piss himself.
“When do I start?” I hang the rag from my back pocket.
Taaq clears his throat awkwardly, exchanging a glance with Chester.
“Cool.” I crack my knuckles. “I’ll start now.”
“Uh—usually…” Taaq blinks rapidly. “We need to figure out—”
“No need.” I head toward the next waiting car, my chest swelling with triumph. “Just pay me cash.”
“That makes it easy.” He steps back, quietly impressed.
As I lift the hood of the next car, I let my eyes scan the corners of the garage, slow and deliberate, looking for security cameras. I know Jag. If he hasn’t already hacked the feed, he will soon. And I need to know what he sees and hears.
I spot only one camera mounted near the back corner, a dusty little dome overlooking the main bay. Subtle. Barely operational by the look of it.
“Hey, Taaq.” I loosen a bolt and move to the next one. “That camera work?”
“Yeah.” He looks up from a clipboard, brows furrowing like the question caught him off guard. “It’s old. I only check the footage if something goes missing.”
“Fair warning. I like to sing off-key when I’m working alone.”
“Oh, it doesn’t record audio. Sing your heart out.”
I duck back under the hood, pretending to accept the answer with casual indifference.
Jag and I went our separate ways long ago, but we always know each other’s locations. He knows mine because he’s an unapologetic stalker with deadly hacker skills. And I know when he changes residences because he tells me.
He never texts this information. No digital messages. Nothing that can be tracked. We have a system.
I visit our parents’ graves in Anaheim often. He knows that’s where I go when I need to feel tethered to something, even if it’s pain.
Whenever I find a new plant in their grave dirt, I know he’s been there. And he’s left a message for me.
A year ago, I found a black willow sapling rooted near the headstones. He always chooses a plant that attracts doves. He’s strangely into symbolism like that, probably just to fuck with me.
I dug it up and found a smooth white rock underneath with sharpie-inked words bleeding into the cracks.
Sitka Tattoo.
It’s always a rock. Always a new city or phone number.
But of all places, why Sitka?
He must’ve already owned the shop to launder money or something like that.
Doesn’t matter. I’m here now, but this time, I’m not running. I’m not hiding. I’m making damn sure he sees me.