Page 23 of Welded Defender
CHAPTER 13
Marcy
It’s strange how quickly routine starts to feel like home. I’ve been working at the shop for two weeks. The days marked by intake forms, Wes’s constant chatter, and the low hum of the garage that seeps into my bones like background music. My car runs fine now—fuel line solid, brakes smooth, no more strange sputters. Becket even showed me the picture Joon took of the sock they found shoved into my tailpipe. A sock. That detail cuts sharp through my thoughts whenever Brett crosses my mind.
But here’s the thing: I could leave now if I wanted. The car runs perfectly. Nothing’s keeping me tied to Black Pines Ridge. Yet every time I picture myself packing up and driving away, something tightens in my chest. The garage, the little apartment above it, even the rhythm of the guys moving between bays—it all feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived in years.
I’m standing at the counter when Nova breezes in, blonde hair tucked under a knit cap, energy crackling around her like electricity. She doesn’t even glance at the clipboard Wes waves in her direction; she heads straight for me.
“There you are,” she says, planting her hands on the counter. “I’m stealing you.”
I blink. “What?”
“Day off. Girl time. You’ve been locked in here breathing grease fumes for days. You’re coming with me.”
“I can’t.” The refusal comes quick, automatic. “I’m working.”
“Not anymore.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Already cleared it with the boss.”
I look past her to Landon, who’s crouched beside a pickup in the bay. He straightens, wipes his hands on a rag, and catches my eyes. “She’s right,” he says simply. “Go.”
“But—”
Wes leans against the counter, smirking, his oil-stained uniform wrinkled at the elbows. “Please. You’re making the rest of us look bad. You’ve already organized half our filing system—color-coded and everything—and Joon’s still bitter about it.”
Joon, hunched over his workbench across the garage, doesn’t even look up. “Not bitter,” he says flatly. “Just resigned.”
The laughter that escapes me is small but genuine, bubbling up from somewhere I thought had gone dormant. I glance back at Landon, catching the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his dark eyes seem to absorb every detail. “Are you sure?”
He nods once, without hesitation, his broad shoulders relaxing slightly. “We’ll survive without you for a few hours.”
Before I can argue again, he crosses the floor with steady, deliberate steps, the concrete muffling the sound of his heavy work boots. He pulls a folded envelope from his back pocket—worn soft at the edges—and sets it on the counter in front of me. My name is written across the front in neat block letters, the ink slightly smudged by what looks like a fingerprint.
“What’s this?”
“Your paycheck,” he says simply. “You’ve more than paid off the car by now. Time you actually got paid for the hours you’ve worked.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I didn’t expect?—”
“You earned it,” he interrupts. “Don’t argue.”
I run my thumb along the envelope’s edge, the paper warm under my fingertips. My throat tightens as I remember the last paycheck I’d held—torn to shreds in Brett’s kitchen, scattered across the linoleum like confetti.
Nova’s fingers dart out and snatch the envelope away. “Perfect timing,” she announces, waving it overhead like she’s won something. “We’re going shopping.”
“What? No?—”
“Yes.” She tucks the envelope into her purse with a decisive zip. “That apartment has all the personality of a hospital room. You’ve got what—three shirts hanging in the closet? A toothbrush? Thrift store run, stat.”
I glance at Landon. His arms are crossed over his chest, eyebrows slightly raised as he waits. The corner of his mouth twitches with what might be amusement.
“Fine,” I murmur, my shoulders dropping in defeat. “But only for a little while.”
Nova’s face breaks into a grin. She loops her arm through mine, tugging me toward the sunlight streaming through the open garage door.
The thrift store in the next town over smells faintly of mothballs and lemon cleaner. The air hums with fluorescent lights and tinny music from an overhead speaker. It’s not glamorous, but Nova attacks it like she’s discovered buried treasure.
“Okay,” she says, sweeping a hand toward the aisles of mismatched furniture, clothes, and shelves of dishes. “Show me your vibe. What’s missing from your apartment?”
