Page 15 of First Chance

He scoffs. “No, he took full accountability for what he did. I think he was kind of proud of it, honestly. He lived by a code, and I liked that about him.”

“He said that you saved his life.”

“I spent two years with him before I got out. There’s a bond that can’t be broken when you go through something like that with someone,” he mutters.

“10 years in prison…” I mutter in disbelief.

“Your father exonerated me a year before my sentence was up. Cleared my record.” He registers my unchanging expression. “You knew that, though, didn’t you?”

“I did know, yes.”

“And, you still wanted to work here.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I hesitate, staring back out across the yard for a moment. “I saw the job posting online, and I don’t judge people before I know them. I did my share of research before I applied, and I knew what I was getting into.”

His eyes narrow imperceptibly, and unconvinced, but he doesn’t question me further. He’s looking at me so closely, and I’m almost afraid he can see straight through to what I’m hiding.

“I need to run to the junkyard to find a part,” he states suddenly. “Will you come with me?”

His dark ocean eyes carry a depth of wisdom beyond his years. He’s trying to call my bluff, to see if I really trust him or not. He’s testing me.

When I don’t respond right away, though, he relents. “I’m not willing to leave you here unattended. Either come with me, or you can take off for the day,” he adds.

“No, I’ll go with you.” Going home for the day is absolutely not what I want to do.

He seems surprised as he gets up to go get his truck. He pulls the green Bronco right up to the porch steps, leaving it idling as he gets out and comes to my side. When he offers his hand, helping me step over the damp dirt at the bottom of the porch and opening my door for me, heat creeps up my neck at his gesture.

The car is well-kept and the engine runs smoothly, but it’s like stepping back in time. The front bucket seat has slightly worn leather, and the stick shift juts straight up out of the floor. It almost feels silly to only buckle a single lap belt inthe front seat of a car in this day and age.

“How long have you had this?” I ask halfway down the mountain to break the silence.

“It was my grandfather’s baby, he bought it to surprise my grandmother for one of their anniversaries. I don’t think she really gave a shit but he would have been buried in it if he could’ve,” he admits in amusement, but with licks of sorrow.

There’s a beat of silence because I honestly don’t know what to say. I’m not always great at figuring out the right words. “What do you need from the junkyard?” I ask, changing the subject instead.

“One of the tractors needs a new seat.”

I’ve never been to a junkyard, and I’m not sure how it works, but I imagine a fenced area with rottweilers like in the movies.

And, when we arrive, I’m not far off. We walk into a tiny little building with a single countertop and a couple of tires hanging on the walls, and an old TV mounted in the corner. There’s a thick smell of gasoline and sweat.

I keep my hands clasped together so I don’t accidentally touch anything.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Dane?” The man behind the counter is most likely the culprit of the smell. His clothes are stained to the point of filth, and his hair is slicked back, not likely with gel.

“Any Ferguson tractors back there?” Lochlan asks the guy whose name tag says ‘Jerry’ scrawled across it in Sharpie.

“Might have a few. Tractors are parked in the far back corner.” He nods his head to a side door that I assume leads to the actual “junk yard.”

“Thanks.” Lochlan starts that way, glancing briefly to makesure I’m following.

“Your girl can keep me company though,” he winks at me, and I’m not sure I stopped my face from twisting.

Lochlan turns to him, eerily slow, and Jerry balks. “It was just a joke, man.”

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