Page 9 of Welded Defender
CHAPTER 5
Marcy
Iwalk down the cracked sidewalk, my breath clouding in front of me, and turn the corner where a flickering streetlamp casts long shadows. Ducking into an alleyway that smells of wet cardboard and yesterday's garbage, I press my back against the cold brick wall, waiting for Landon's truck to leave the garage parking lot. The minutes crawl by as his engine idles, the low rumble echoing between buildings. He's lingering there, headlights cutting through the darkness, like he's waiting for me to give up this stubborn game and run to him for help.
But I don't.
My fingers grow numb inside my pockets as I wait. Finally, his taillights flash bright red before shrinking to pinpricks that disappear down the empty road. Only when I’m sure he’s gone, do I peel myself from the wall and head back to the garage.
I didn't lie. There is a single Airbnb around here—a renovated farmhouse with a wraparound porch and rustic charm that the listing describes as "quaint" but the $300 per night price tag screams "luxury." It sits on the outskirts of town, past where the streetlights end and the road narrows between looming pines. Even if my car was working, I can’t afford to stay there. But there's no way I'm staying with a total stranger either.And kind or not, with his calloused hands and eyes that seem to see right through me, that's what Landon is. A stranger.
The parking lot is a sea of snow covered asphalt, broken only by the harsh yellow glow from the shop's front security lights that cast long, distorted shadows across the ground. I hurry around back, my footsteps crunching on loose gravel, and spot my car—a faded blue sedan with a cracked taillight—parked close to the garage's corrugated metal wall, nestled between a rusted pickup and a sleek SUV. The shop's hours are posted on a weather-beaten sign: opens at nine. That will give me plenty of time to slip out of my makeshift bed and pretend I've just arrived for my appointment.
I've slept in my car many times since setting out on this trip—curled up at rest stops with sunlight warming the windows, or pulled over at scenic overlooks with a paperback splayed across my chest. Never at night with frost creeping across the glass like skeletal fingers. I already have a sleeping bag and pillow wedged in the back seat, the nylon fabric slippery against my palms as I slide inside. The leather seats creak beneath my weight, cold enough to bite through my jeans. I quickly shrug off my coat—the zipper's teeth chattering in the silence—and pull on two more sweaters, their wool scratching my neck before I tug the coat back on. This will have to do. I curl up with the sleeping bag yanked over my head, my breath creating a humid pocket of warmth against my face, hoping and praying for sleep to find me.
CHAPTER 6
Landon
The phone buzzes against my nightstand. I crack one eye open, groaning when I seeJoonflashing across the screen. Seven a.m. Nothing good happens when Joon calls me before I’ve had coffee.
I swipe to answer. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s here,” he says without preamble. His voice is low, like he’s trying not to wake someone. “Marcy. In the lot. Sleeping in her car.”
I’m sitting up before my brain even processes the words. “What?”
“I was bringing in the parts delivery and I saw her, huddled in the backseat. There’s frost on the inside of the glass, Landon. I don’t?—”
“I’m coming.”
I shove my bare feet into ice-cold boots and snatch my coat off the hook, not bothering to zip it. Outside, my breath clouds in front of my face, the January air burning my lungs with each inhale. My truck's engine groans in protest when I turn the key, and I back out of the driveway too fast, gravel spitting under the tires. My fingers drum against the steering wheel, the heat still blowing cold air as I drive. It’s usually a fifteen minute drive butI make it in eight. I pull into the shop’s parking lot and skid to a stop.
Her little sedan is parked near the side of the shop. The windows are clouded over, the outline of her curled up in the backseat is barely visible through the frost. I can't swallow. My hand freezes inches from the door handle, fingers trembling.What if she doesn't move when I touch her?The thought thrums through my mind, sharp and uninvited.
I shake my head and rap on the glass. "Marcy!”
She jerks upright, eyes wide and unfocused, brown hair sticking out in all directions. There’s a beat where her grey eyes blink at me like she’s not sure if I’m real, then she reaches for the handle. The door creaks open.
“Landon?” Her voice is rough, sleep-clogged. “What time?—?”
"It's too damn cold to be sleeping out here." The words come out like gravel, and I clench my jaw, trying to soften the edge. I exhale, watching my breath cloud between us. "Come on. Let's get you inside."
Her eyes drop to her lap as a flush spreads from her neck to her cheeks, turning the tips of her ears pink against her tangled hair. Her fingers tremble as they search the seat beside her.
"I was fine," she mutters, yanking at the strap of her bag where it's wedged beneath the driver's seat. But even as she speaks I can see her teeth chattering, her fingers shaking.
"Your lips are blue.” I grab her bag, the canvas strap cold against my palm, and jerk my head toward the shop. "Come on."
She curls her shoulders forward as we cross the lot, each step hesitant. The January wind tosses strands of her hair across her face. She tries three times to push it away, her fingers trembling so badly she can't tuck it behind her ear. The door is unlocked, and when we finally step inside, the blast from the old wall unit hits my cheeks like needles, making me realize how numb my own face has become. If I’m cold, she must be freezing.
Joon’s behind the counter, his brows pinched. “I made tea.”
I lead Marcy to the couch in the break area and pull one of the thick shop blankets off the back. It smells faintly like motor oil and cedar. She hesitates before letting me wrap it around her shoulders, her hands clutching the edges tight.
“Thanks,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
I hold out the steaming mug. Her fingers stretch toward it, blue-tinged and trembling, but when they brush the ceramic, they curl back like burnt matches. Without thinking, I capture both her hands between mine. They're small ice blocks against my callused palms. I bow my head, exhaling in long, steady breaths against her knuckles. A hiss escapes through her teeth, her shoulders hunching forward as pink creeps painfully back into her fingertips.
