Page 42 of Back in the Country

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WAYLON

Iwipe the grease from my hands on the shop cloth in my coveralls. Hank has his head under the hood of a ’67 Fleetside Chevy. The low crooning of “Carrying Your Love with Me”by George Strait plays through the garage, only to be interrupted by errant curses as my brother bangs around the classic truck.

It’s seriously the oddest thing. Hank has whole music moods, and it’s a mystery how the day is going to go until the first note plays. Old school country is Hank’s mellow music.

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Normally, being at the garage would be a welcome distraction—old school country aside—but unfortunately, that’s not in the realm of possibilities right now.

“Are you actually going to do any work today?” Hank’s voice is gruff, but he’s just giving me shit. He’stechnicallymy boss but I work my ass off for him when I’m here, so he can chill out for five fucking minutes.

“You not going to be a dick today?” I volley back.

He glares and then returns to cursing both the truck in front of him and me. My lips twitch, which I hide by turning my back to him and walking out into the sunshine.

The sign for The Rusty Fender hangs proudly above the three-bay garage. Its coppery color is in stark contrast to the painted white brick and the black bay doors. The shop was opened more than a few decades ago by Bruce’s father, Rusty. He’d worked hard to provide quality service at reasonable prices, and those values had been passed on to his son.

All my brothers, Sorren included, had worked here at one time or another. Hell, Otto still comes in every once in a while to help out. He calls it being acelebritymechanic—like it is a fucking prize to have him here. My smile grows.

Otto is something else. That kid is an absolute whirlwind, but he’ll give you the shirt off his back without a second thought. My brothers are good people, and despite Hank being a perpetual grouch, he is still one of the best men I know.

Bruce has been needling him about when he’ll finally take over the shop, officially at least. His kids didn’t want it, and Hank has proven himself with his loyalty and hard work. For some reason none of us know, Hank is reluctant to sign the papers.

He’s been different since coming home from prison, and it still makes my blood boil when I think about it for too long. He lost three years of his life and has been walking on eggshells ever since. Prison will change any man, but for an innocent man there are no words. Hank is closed off, private, hardened—and it fucking hurts not being able to change it.

There’ve been a lot of things I couldn’t change, but since Marlee came home, my world has been flipped upside down. She is better than I remembered, and our relationship is better than I ever imagined it could be.

My heart squeezes. We are in for a shit storm as soon as Sorren comes home, but we’ll get through it—together.

My phone has been buzzing all morning with messages flying back and forth. We all agreed to handle Marlee with kid gloves as they say concerning Sorren’s return. She is soeverythingabout his return and the condition he’ll be in once he is home. I am already exhausted.

I’ve been talking to him every day—partly in preparation for getting my best friend back and partly on how to keep his sister from driving everyone to the edge of insanity.

There is also the fun little tidbit I’ve been omitting—the fact that I am very much in a relationship with Marlee. I don’t think telling my best friend via text that I am having sex with his sister will win me any favors.

My phone pings again.

OTTO:I picked Marlee up. She’s with me and Case at the greenhouse.