Page 4 of Mechanic

“Do you want fries with that?” she calls out while pouring my beer.

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. Being unable to have home-cooked meals is not helping my body at all, but living out of a hotel room and working sixteen- to eighteen-hour days, beggars can’t be choosers.

After setting the glass down on the napkin, she walks away, presumably to the kitchen.

Taking a pull from my glass, I let the bitter taste coat my tongue. Surprised by the flavor, my lips tip up on one side. The icy beverage goes down easily. So easy that by the time my food comes out, I am on my third glass.

As I enjoy my lunch, my mind runs through the overwhelming list of things to do. It took a while to sift through the fixtures and furniture the previous owners had ordered. The arduous task of cataloging the inventory and deciding what to keep, return, or sell fell to me.

Aymond stuck around for about a week after we signed the paperwork to complete the sale before returning to Las Vegas.

“Do you want another one?” Gypsy asks, nodding her head at my empty beer glass.

Letting out a humorless chuckle, I rise to my feet, shrugging into my coat and tugging on my gloves.

“As much as I would love to stay and have another one, nothing is getting done. Thank you for lunch,” I tell her, tossing out another twenty.

“Thanks,” Gypsy mutters, picking up the empty dishes and money.

Stepping out of the warm bar, my body shivers as the frigid air hits me in the face.

Damn, this is going to take some getting used to.

Chapter 4

Antonia

“Hey, Gram,” I say, stepping into my grandmother’s room at the nursing home.

Her head turns toward me at the sound of my voice, a soft smile gracing her lips.

“There’s my girl,” she says.

As I get a good look at Gram, my blood pressure hits the roof. Her hair doesn’t appear to have been washed in a week.Are these people not taking care of her?Tears well in my eyes, frustrated at my own incompetence. If I could be in three places at once, she would be comfortable in her own home.

“Gram,” I start, softening my voice so as not to upset her. “When was the last time your hair was washed?”

She waves me off, turning back to look out the window. Putting away the snacks that I brought, I check her drawers.

All of Gram’s bras are missing. There is one sock and no underwear at all. Checking for the rest of her clothes, my blood pressure spikes again. I can feel a migraine coming on, but I ignore it.

Pasting a smile on my face, I squat down in front of Gram.

“Is there anything you need right now?”

Gram just blinks in response. Giving her a few moments to answer, I stand back up, patting her hand after no response.

Checking through her room, I find her laundry bags stuffed into the corner of her closet. Upon closer inspection, my nose wrinkles. The smell coming from the soiled clothes and linens is overwhelming. The stench is clinging to my nose.

Reaching the door, I quickly glance at Gram, my heart breaking as I fight back the tears threatening to fall. This woman took me in after my parents’ death. A distracted driver crossed the center line, hitting them head-on. The result of the crash was the unnecessary demise of all three people. The twenty-something girl behind the wheel was on her way to a party, texting the friends she was supposed to pick up.

All of the sacrifices this woman has made for me and this shithole is the best I can do for her. What’s left of the insurance money from my parents’ death is helping to pay for this place. Even that, added to the social security check they already receive, is not enough. The tears that were threatening to fall start to escape as guilt swamps me. My inability to do better for her has tears tracking down my cheeks, sobs trying to break free.

Pulling the door closed, I lean against it, focusing on my anger and getting my tears under control. Swiping my hand over my cheeks, I take a deep, cleansing breath, pushing back the sadness and guilt. Squaring my shoulders, I stand straight and stomp down the hall.

Approaching the nurses’ station, I tamp down some of my anger. Trying to adhere to the phrase “You catch more flies with honey.”

Coming to a stop, I wait for the nurse behind the desk to acknowledge me. Her gaze is focused down at the desktop. Peering over the edge, I see her playing with her phone. After waiting several minutes, my annoyance reaches its limit.

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