Page 88 of Rebel Summer

“It’s a…roller…scooter. At least, that’s what my friends and I always call it.”

He laughed, placing the small box of tools gently onto my stomach. “Down to nineteen hours now, Books.”

He rolled under the car before I could stop him. I carefully followed suit, moving backward at a snail's pace until I reached his side.

“Hey! My answers don’t change the hours. We agreed on twenty.”

“No, we didn’t. And your answers very much reflect your hours. You offered to help me, and I need somebody who knows what they’re doing.” He stopped rolling and looked at me. “Unless, of course…you don’t.”

Though it was dark underneath the car, it was light enough to see the humor lacing his eyes.

“Of course I do.”

“Great. Now move your roller scooter over here. I’ve got a driveline for the car here, and I need you to help me hold it steady while I bolt it in.”

“Hold the driveline,” I repeated. “Obviously that’s what we’re going to do.” I inched my way closer to him, aware of his low breath of laughter, but soon, all thoughts fled as he grabbed one side of the long pipe from the ground behind us, and raised it up.

“Hold it steady for me,” he mumbled. I did as he asked while staring shamelessly at the man lying next to me. I had been cursing the appearance of his shirt only moments ago, but now it stretched taut across his body, giving peeks of skin and tattoos as he leaned and reached and deftly moved his hands, aligning the driveline just right.

“Pop quiz, Books. If I were to ask you for a socket wrench, what would you give me?”

I carefully turned the container of tools my way and peered inside. It was dark under the car, and though I could feel him watching me, seeing the tools was difficult. Good thing a socket wrench was one of the few tools I actually knew. I locked my fingers around the heavy metal wrench and passed it over to him.

“Twenty hours,” I said proudly.

I felt his smile more than I saw it but to my confusion, he handed it back to me.

“What about a 9/16ths socket wrench?”

I peered back into the box of tools and debated. There were several sizes inside. I took a guess and handed it over.

When he took the wrench without a fuss, I declared my victory. “Twenty-one hours.”

The veins in his arms bulged as he tightened the bolt. I swallowed, trying to think of something to push my thoughts in another direction. I wasn’t going to be manipulated by manly arms and hands that could bolt drivelines.

“Phillips screwdriver.”

Again, I breathed a sigh as I fished it out awkwardly and handed it to him with a confidence I was beginning to feel. “Twenty-two hours. You act like fixing cars is hard.”

I was rewarded with a grin, but the punk didn’t do anything with the screwdriver but place it on his stomach.

“Vise grip.” He held out his hand expectantly.

“You can’t just make up names.”

He laughed. “I’m not.”

After a long moment of rummaging, I confidently handed him a random tool I didn’t know, praying I was right.

“And we’re back. Twenty-one hours.” He leaned over and placed the tool back in the box on my stomach. “Let’s see…I’m going to need a punch next.”

“I thought you needed a vise grip.” I held up my fingers in quotations.

“Just wanted to mess with you. Now I need a punch.”

“I can do that.”

Before I could try a fumbled attempt at boxing, his left arm shot out, pinning my hand to my side.

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