Page 8 of Egg Me On

At first, I’d told myself I’d take the Subaru into the shop when I got tired of riding on the bike, or when I’d saved up a little more money, but the thrill of it still hadn't faded, and money, was, well… always tight. So here I was, back on his bike again, kinda wishing I’d asked him to take me for a longer ride so I could spend a little more time with him.

There was no good excuse for that, though, so I reluctantly peeled myself away, swinging my leg over the seat, way less awkwardly than my first few attempts at dismounting the bike, one of which had resulted in a caught shoelace and me on my face on the pavement.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, removing my helmet and running a hand through my hair. The late afternoon sun accented Cash’s high cheekbones as he stared at me for a long moment, saying nothing.

Silas had been right — Cash was a man of few words. Almost none, really.

He grunted, and instead of backing out of my driveway, he dismounted, swinging his leg over the bike with a grace I found stupidly hot. For a minute, I wondered if he had to pee, but his gaze shifted to my piece-of-shit Subaru, which somehow looked sadder by the day.

"We're fixing that," he announced, the words not a question but a statement of fact. I wasn’t sure Cash knew how to ask questions.

I blinked. "We're what now?"

"Your car." His jaw tightened as he stared at my rusted baby. "It's a fucking embarrassment."

"Hey now," I protested, feeling oddly defensive of my vehicular disaster child. "She may not be pretty, but—"

"Where’s your garage?”

I pointed to the small detached garage at the edge of our property, a structure nearly as ancient as the bungalow itself. Usually, Mira parked in the garage, because her car was nicer, but it was empty now.

“Open it.”

I unlocked my car and reached for the visor, pushing the opener button and watching the garage door slowly rise. “But how do we get it in there?”

Cash ignored me and strode over to my car, grabbing the keys from my hand and opening the door. When he looked like he was about to climb in, I dove in front of him.

"Hold on," I said, hurrying ahead of him. "Let me just..." I frantically gathered the fast food wrappers, orphaned napkins, and random receipts littering the front seat, stuffing them into an old grocery bag I found in the back. "Sorry about the mess." I was meticulous about my kitchen, but somehow, everywhere else in life, the messes got away from me.

Cash watched me with something between amusement and judgment. "You live like this?"

"Not all of us can be meticulous gearheads," I shot back. "Some of us embrace the chaos."

His expression softened imperceptibly. "Open the hood."

I reached in and pulled the hood release, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the interior of my car. The hood popped with a sad little creak, and Cash raised it the rest of the way, propping it open.

But instead of immediately diving into the engine, he returned to the driver's side and waited for me to get out, then slid into the seat and connected something to a wire under my steering wheel. It was a small electronic device with a screen that lit up when he turned the key partway.

“What’s that?”

His eyes fixed on the screen as numbers and codes flashed across it. "Diagnostic codes."

I leaned against the garage doorframe, trying not to stare at the way his broad shoulders filled the space of my driver's seat, or how his large hands looked wrapped around my steering wheel. Why was that so fucking hot? A guy's hands on a steering wheel? I was losing it.

"So," I ventured, "did Silas put you up to this?"

Cash's eyes flicked to me briefly, but he didn’t answer. His attention returned to the device. "Your transmission's fucked. PCM’s throwing a bunch of codes.” He rattled off a bunch of numbers I didn’t understand. “When's the last time you changed the fluid?"

"Uh... what fluid?"

Cash closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience. "Transmission fluid."

"Oh. That." I shuffled my feet. "Never?"

"Jesus." He shook his head, then continued reading codes, then typing them into something in his phone. After a moment, he pocketed his phone and disconnected the diagnostic tool, standing.

“Is that like a universal tool thingy and it works on motorcycles and Subarus, or what?”

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