Page 101 of Strange Lad

“The spark plugs are shot,” I tell Manuel, who grunts beside me, halfway into the hood of an old El Camino.

“Why are you telling me, Pendejo?”

I snort, wiping my hands on the rag in my back pocket, and say, “Because you’re supposed to be watching me, according to Tommy.”

He grumbles, lifts his head, and squints toward the Toyota I’m working on. “If you say they’re shot, they’re shot.”

“You’re not even going to check?” I goad him.

“No. I’m trying to get out of here on time.”

Chuckling, I shake my head and go over to the tiny waiting room built into the front of the shop facing the parking lot. I’ll have to give my diagnosis to the customer, print out an estimate, and then get to work. I step out into the heat, blistering rays of sun slamming into the top of my head and covering my eyes. Despite everything that’s happened as of late, I feel okay today.

I know what I have to do.

Sure, it won’t be easy, and Iamdreading that part, but I think what will come out of it could be the start of something better. For all of us. If I am honest with myself, Jorge, my family—even Phoenix. Because deep down, I do want the permanent cloud of hate to float away. It’s been following me everywhere I go for so long that I’m ready to see the light again.

Snorting at my thoughts because I’m currently being melted alive byliterallight, I push open the waiting room door.

“—bullshit! The transmission is shot! I came in for a timing belt, and now this?”

My eyes slam into the body, raising hell. Tommy stands behind the counter where our POS system and computer sit. My boss isn’t the kind of guy to blow up over an unruly customer, but the tension in his face, the hard set of his jaw, and his widestance tell me he’s close. I’ve only ever seen Tommy pop off a few times since I’ve been working here.

The storm cloud I was just thinking about opens up over my head, a torrent of toxic rain slamming into me, reminding me that I’ll never be free of it. My limbs lock up as I hover in the entryway, too afraid to move a muscle. Morgan slams his hands on the counter, snarling curses at Tommy.

“None of my guys would ever—”

“—fucking illegal pieces of shit. Yes, they—”

“—get out of my shop!” Tommy roars, throwing his hand out to point right where I’m standing.

The few people waiting, including the nice lady with shot spark plugs, look to me for help. They want me to step in, but I can’t move—I can barely breathe. When he came to the shop before, I ran before I got a good look at him. Manuel and Logan filled me in on his car, but I tuned most of it out to avoid an episode. Never in a million years did I think he’d come back. The racist spewage isn’t new for him; he’s always been a fucking monster.

I start to back out of the waiting room, but the bell on the door rings loudly above me, prompting Morgan to spin. His blue eyes burn with menace—with disdain and contempt. I feel it like a strong grip around my throat, squeezing and suffocating.

“It was fucking him,” he growls, stomping over to me, and I stumble backward.

Tommy is screaming at him to leave, hot on Morgan’s heels.

“You little bitch,” Morgan grabs a wad of my jumpsuit, his hot breaths hitting my lips and cheeks. Tears well in my eyes as I go limp.

I can’t fight him. Ican’t.

“It was you, wasn’t it? Couldn’t fucking let it go, could you?” He shakes me, and Tommy screams for Manuel.

I’m hyperventilating, so stiff it feels like I’ll shatter under the slightest pressure. “I knew something was fucking weird. Knewthat I was taking a risk having a fucking fag working here,” he spits in my face, pushing me back into a parked car.His, I realize.

“Stop,” I rasp, wishing with all my might that I could summon the strength needed to pry him off me.

He laughs, cruel and demented. Dropping his tone lower, he says, “You and I both know that meansmore.”

I whimper.

The loud cock of a shotgun echoes through my ears, and I jump out of my skin. “Get your hands off him,” Tommy’s deep voice booms.

Morgan releases me, and I trip, landing in Manuel’s awaiting hands, but I scream, damn near blinded by the fog overtaking my vision. I scramble away from them all, tears streaming down my nose, my bile rushing up my throat. I don’t know how, but I manage to get around the back of the shop before I vomit all over my shoes. Endless chills ransack my body while I tremble and cough. There’s more shouting in the distance and a siren approaching. Someone called the cops.

Pointless.

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