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Ick. I’m pretty sure I threw up in my mouth just thinking about it.
Hayden chuckles and ambles up to the counter that separates us. His gaze flickers to the parts I have waiting for him in a box. “Same price as last time?”
I brace my palms on the counter. “That’s right.”
He pulls out his wallet and rifles through some bills before handing it over. I shove the money in the cash box below the counter and rip off the receipt I’d already written, leaving the yellow carbon copy intact for my records.
No doubt about it, I suck at bookkeeping. It kills my fucking soul, so I legit have piles of receipt books and other paperwork sitting on a bottom shelf at the far end of the counter. Tax time’s a bitch each year, and I always say I’ll be on top of things the following year.
Lies. All lies.
Hayden takes the box. “Thanks, Mac.” He shifts his weight from side to side. “I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d wanna—”
“Take a listen to that misfire in your truck’s engine?” I wink. “Absolutely.”
Hayden’s sweet and all—there’s no arguing that. And you might think I’m a bitch for shutting down his potential offer for a date, but I’m not about to waste my time on a guy who can’t bear the sight of me.
“Uh…yeah.” Not at all is what he really means, but he’s too damn polite to say otherwise. His smile is small and brittle at the edges, but he plays along like the gentleman he is. “If you don’t mind.”
He knows I love trying my hand at diagnosing vehicle issues almost as much as I love finding new homes for salvaged car parts. Deep down, I like the idea of those otherwise discarded parts getting a second chance.
I wonder if maybe that’s something that got lost in the mix of my memories. Maybe because I was “abandoned” and left to be raised in the orphanage, I’m drawn to that aspect of this job—giving those car parts a purpose yet again.
“Not at all.” I round the counter and lead the way out the door to where he’s parked. “I live for this stuff.”
* * *
Today’s been pretty slow, so I decide to lock up at three.
After washing up and changing into a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I grab my keys and lock up behind me. I could drive my car, but these days, I prefer to walk. It makes me uneasy as hell to run the risk of having one of my episodes while I’m behind the wheel.
I head to the local library, and as soon as I pull open the heavy oak door, it creaks, alerting everyone to my arrival.
As if that’s not enough, the sound of my boots on the shiny, freshly waxed floor is nearly deafening. Why can’t this library invest in thick carpeting, for Christ’s sake?
The head librarian, Karine, squints suspiciously at me like she thinks I’m plotting to steal a prized edition of Don Quixote or The Odyssey or some shit.
Just because I don’t wear frilly dresses and bat my eyelashes at men like the majority of Southern belles here doesn’t mean I’m a thief on the prowl. But Karine didn’t get that memo.
Obviously.
Off to the far side of the room are a few rows of computers with a teenage boy wearing wire-rimmed glasses and two college-aged guys sitting behind the monitors. Fingers typing furiously, the boy sits in the very front row, wireless earbuds in place, head bobbing to whatever music he’s listening to.
The two college guys sit in the second-to-last row. One has dark brown hair and a silver spike piercing in his lip, and his buddy has messy chin-length blond hair. The guys sit with one computer separating them, and for fuck’s sake, I will never understand the odd male aversion to sitting directly beside another man.
Nearby them, affixed to the wall, is the community bulletin board, and I veer toward it, drawing to a stop between it and the rear row of computers. I scan the papers affixed to it and rip off a few expired yard sales, dropping the papers into the trash bin off to the side.
Most of the time, this board consists of babysitters offering their services, meeting announcements, or upcoming yard or garage sales, but occasionally, I’ll luck out and land some vehicles being sold off.
People sometimes inherit old vehicles from their parents or grandparents and don’t want to—or can’t—do anything with them. In some cases, the vehicles might not even run. Many times, they’ll sell them for next to nothing, and I’ll end up with a shit ton of still useful parts.
“It can’t be tracked. And it’s encrypted.” In my periphery, the pierced guy speaks in a hushed tone. “So, you can get to a layer of the web that’s not accessible for everybody else.”
“Like the dark web?” his blond buddy hisses.
“Shh.” This comes from the pierced-lip guy. “She might hear you.”
His friend immediately responds with a whisper-hiss, “Dude. I doubt she’s the type who would snitch. With that kinda body and that face?” He makes a derisive sound. “She’s more likely to be raking in the bucks on OnlyFans.”
