Page 97 of Broken Pieces
“But don’t burn the place down.”
Her smile tilts. “No promises.”
I shut the door behind me and take the stairs fast, feet heavy, breath tighter than it should be. The air shifts as I step into the workshop. It’s quiet, too quiet. Rainer’s not even in yet.
I’m never here this early. But I couldn’t stay up there. Not with her in my hoodie, looking at me like I’m something worth trusting.
I needed to get out before I did something fucking reckless. The kind of mistake I’d taste on her mouth and feel in my bones.
I drag a hand through my hair, jaw clenched, muttering curses under my breath, every one of them aimed at myself.
I’m in trouble. Real fucking trouble. And every part of me knows it.
And I just told her to stay with no fucking clue what that’s going to do to me.
Fuck me. What the hell was I thinking?
My body moves on autopilot, hands buried in grease and busted engine parts, but my mind is still stuck in that apartment, on her.
Skylar.
I told myself not to look when she left for school. But I saw her go.
One bag slung over her shoulder. The school one. Which means the other one with all her shit is still upstairs.
Every time I spoke to Rainer, she was the only thing on my mind. My focus was fucking shot, and I knew it. I wasn’t present, not with the tools in my hands or the job in front of me.
Rainer noticed, I know he did. He saw her leave this morning. Watched her walk out while I stood there, pretending I wasn’t watching too.
I waited for him to say something. To call me out and remind me that hook-ups aren’t supposed to be crashing in the room he gave me.
But he didn’t say a fucking word. Just wiped his hands and slid back under the old Chevy he dragged into the workshop this morning.
He slides out from under the car, grease streaked up his forearm, a rag already in hand. The concrete under him is stained from years of engines bleeding out.
“Give me a hand with this,” he says, voice rough from age or smoke or both.
I move toward him.
The metal frame is rusted to shit, but there’s a curve to it. That kind of old-school shape that’s more muscle than shine.
“Who owns it?” I ask, running my hand along the edge. “It’s rough, but it’s got that vintage thing going on. The kind I’ve always had a soft spot for.”
He snorts under his breath. “This old guy was cleaning out his shed. Said it hadn’t been touched in over twenty years. I gave him a hundred bucks and towed it in this morning.”
“You planning to flip it?”
He wipes his hands and shrugs. “Nope. Do you want it?”
I don’t even think. “Yeah.”
Rainer nods, as if he knew I’d say that.
“Keep it here if you want. Tinker with it in your spare time.”
Most people see me as a fuck-up first and never look past it. But Rainer never has. He doesn’t treat me as some fucked-up foster kid. He just sees me. And for once, it feels like I’m not being measured against all the shit I came from.
I brush my hands off on my jeans and hold out a hand. “Appreciate it.”
