Page 17 of Grease Monkey
“We were. Until…” She lets the sentence die, and we listen to the song transition to the bridge until she adds, “He calls me on my birthdays, but that’s about it.”
I hate how sadness lines her voice as she speaks of her brother, and I want to know more, but I’m learning my lesson about pushing too hard, too fast with her. Turning onto our street, I purposely slow down the car. Now I’ve got her speaking, I want to keep going. Learn more about my little mystery and I’m not sure if once she leaves my car, I will hear from her again.
“You got any graduation plans? I mean, you’re eighteen, right? So it must be soon?” I might also have done a little googling of Mr. Adler’s campaign to learn more about his daughter at some point in the last two weeks.
I told you, I’m conflicted when it comes to Ana.
“I turn eighteen on the day of graduation.”
“Ah, sweet. You doing anything nice for it? Double celebrations and all?”
She’s quiet, even more so than before, which I would have thought impossible.
“I would have liked to have gone to New York for a night, maybe see Skip,” she admits. So, Skip must be the brother. I’m quiet as I wait for her to continue. “But Dad’s got a fundraiser for his campaign that day, so we won’t be celebrating.”
“Birthday or graduation?”
“Both. Campaigning comes first.”
“That’s shit,” I say, my tone harsher than I mean it to be. Ana turns her head to look at me, her eyes dropping to where I’m strangling the steering wheel. My blood simmers. Every part of that sentence is all sorts of fucked up. Her parents aren’t celebrating her graduation, her goddamn birthday, because of some fucking campaign?
I swing into my driveway and turn off the car. Ana glances toward her house, where her yard sits empty, and lifts her bag onto her lap. She rummages for several seconds, pulling out her purse, phone, and other crap girls carry in oversized bags, before hanging her head in defeat.
“Shoot,” she sighs and repacks her bag.
“Everything okay?” I ask, watching intently as her small fingers curl around a cylinder pencil case. She is definitely trying to kill me. Not only has the fantasy of her being the one getting me off in the garage been the image I’ve replayed in my head when in the shower or lying in bed, or pretty much any time it’s me and my hand, but now—as she runs her thumb over the end of the pencil case—it’s painfully obvious how oblivious she is to the little movement that’s far too erotic for a fucking pencil case. My dick unhelpfully agrees and wants to volunteer as tribute to swap places.
“I forgot my keys.” She clasps her hands over her closed bag, pencil case safely stowed away inside. I smile broadly and thumb up to my house.
“C’mon, you can wait inside until your folks get back.”
She hesitates. “Are you sure? Your parents won’t mind?”
“Nah, they won’t. Anyway, they aren’t here.” Her eyes widen, and she shivers as the cool air from the storm slowly floods the car now that the warm air has stopped since I cut the engine. I shift in my seat, my face serious as I run my gaze over her. “Ana, you’re freezing and wet. Come inside, and you can use my shower while you wait for your mom or dad to come home.”
Chapter Seven
Teddy
Why did I ask her to come inside? Not only that, why did Iinsiston it when she was clearly hesitant? This is a clusterfuck. It’s not my fault she wasn’t prepared for rain, and now I’m playing knight in shining armor by inviting her into my house—the first girl to ever come into my space. I’m waiting for the usual feeling of unease to creep its way across my skin, but as I remind myself she’s not here for us to hook up, I find it doesn’t come. If anything, I’m almost disappointed that’s not why she’s quietly following me up the stairs.
I briefly check over my shoulder and catch Ana observing the photographs my brother has taken throughout the years as we walk through the hall. The whole house is like a shrine to Bowie. Not that anyone minds. He is talented as fuck, and it makes everyone happy whenever they pass a candid photo they didn’t know he’d taken.
“These are beautiful,” Ana says as we climb the stairs to my room. Pausing at a cupboard, I turn to pass her a towel to find her staring at a photo hung right at the top of the stairs. Coming behind her, I stand close to her back. With her damp hair flattening her curls, she’s a couple of feet shorter than me, and if I wanted, I could easily rest my chin on the top of her head. Instead, I reach forward, my arm brushing against her shoulder as I point out everyone in the photo.
“Every picture in this place was taken by Bowie. Mom begged him to take this one—” I brush the tips of my fingers along the mirrored frame, “with his tripod so he could be in it too.”
“I did notice he wasn’t in very many,” she said, pointing to Bowie in the picture.
“Yeah, he’s a diva when it comes to his art.” I chuckle and gently guide her toward my room. “Hates staged photographs, always says he wants his art to flow, be organic, authentic, to really capture the subject’s spirit.” I put on this phony Englishprofessoraccent as I mock my brother.
“He’s very talented,” she muses as I push my room door open, allowing her to go inside.
“He’s alright,” I tease.
Ana smiles and slowly walks across the room, eyeing everything as she reaches the center. The space isn’t much, a king-sized bed taking up most of the room, a desk and chair over in the corner, and a heap of old car parts decked out on a bookshelf. The walls are still the same color of blue the old occupant had.
I watch from the doorjamb, noticing things I wish I wouldn’t about my pretty neighbor. Like how her eyes sparkle with interest as she scans over my assortment of brake pads, carburetors, and an air cleaner on my shelves. Or the tiny smile on her parted lips when she notices a picture of my dad and me standing outside our old house, his arm around my shoulder, the pair of us covered in grease and motor oil, noses red from the sun after standing out too long working on my car when I first got her—a picture taken on my mom’s iPhone rather than Bowie’s supped-up Canon.Or how my room feels warmer just because she’s in it.
