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CHAPTER1
Tunes rockedthe garage as I worked on my newest project: a 1958 Plymouth Fury. A sweet ride, most famous for being the psychotic car in Stephen King’s thriller,Christine. I’d found the rusting—yet surprisingly good-condition—vehicle strategically buried under a mound of metal scrap at the back of my junkyard. Almost as if someone had wanted to hide it without causing too much damage.
I’d squealed louder than I ever did any Christmas morning when I uncovered it because it was mine. All mine. My divorce settlement fromThe Jerk—the only name suitable for my ex-husband—had bought and paid for the junkyard. Married for twenty-three years, starting right after we graduated college, where we’d dated on and off for two more. A good partnership for the most part until he hit his forties and suffered a midlife crisis that didn’t just involve buying a sports car, getting hair plugs, and waxing his chest. It also came with a young girlfriend, who wanted the wife gone.
Mebeing the wife.
In a sense, I should thank The Jerk for freeing me from the most mind-numbingly boring existence on Earth. I’d not realized how much I hated my life until he told me I couldn’t have it.
I celebrated by setting his shit on fire. The flames were really pretty, and I might have roasted marshmallows if the firemen hadn’t ruined my fun.
In the end, I got the last laugh. Eric, a young stud of thirty to my forties, had stayed behind on the pretext of making sure none of the embers reignited. The only thing that caught fire was my pants, which he adeptly removed before showing off his hose skills.
Good time. And the only time Eric got to show me his hose. I wasn’t looking for a full or even a part-time man. Didn’t need one. What Ididlike was a good, hard fuck when the mood hit, something The Jerk couldn’t manage, not without a bunch of prep and a pill.
Putting aside my grinder, I pushed up my goggles to eye the metal I’d been sanding to ensure I’d removed all the rust. Clean and smooth, or was that my aching shoulders talking?
I’d check it over tomorrow and buff any remaining spots before sending it to Danny, my custom paint guy, for a fresh, glossy look—color pending, despite the most obvious choice of red.
Did I want to be a copycat or give it a look that popped on its own merit? I’d have to decide soon.
If the parts I’d ordered arrived, I’d finish it and be able to put it up for sale within the month. Or I might keep it. After all, I didn’t hurt for cash, and it spoke to me.Drive me, Allie. You know you want to hear me roar.
Hell, yeah, I did. I’d always loved cars—even from a young age when other girls played with Barbies. I’d only stopped playing with motors when I moved to Toronto with The Jerk. Big, expensive cities like Toronto came with some sacrifice, like no room to park a car to fix at my leisure. No time either, with my job clocking fifty hours of my life a week, plus the subway commute, which I hated.
If I never rode public transit again, I’d be just fine. Happy. Ecstatic, actually. Getting puked on once by the happy hour crowd was too much. It had happened three times.
Never again. I lived outside of Ottawa now, far enough away to avoid the congestion of people. And did what I loved.
I’d forgotten the calming pleasure of working with a beautiful vehicle. Of watching an old wreck return to the glory of its past.
Clang.
A frown creased my brow as something metallic crashed outside. Probably raccoons playing in the towers of metal again. Literally towers that defied gravity. I planned to compact and sell some of it to make room and reduce the hazards, but the crusher was waiting on parts, and had been since I’d bought the place. Showing the city inspectors my many emails asking the parts company when they’d arrive was the only thing keeping the city from fining me.
But they wouldn’t be kind forever.
Jingle. Jangle.More tumbling metal. Were the raccoons fighting? I’d seen those furry, masked fiends get violent. Spats outside my bedroom window had woken me numerous times. Not the most pleasant thing since it resulted in barely any sleep as I hugged my shaking dog for the rest of the night. My fur baby didn’t like strange and scary noises.
If the raccoons were fighting in the junkyard, at least they wouldn’t be outside my house. Thinking of which, I should get to bed. I’d worked later than planned. I rolled my shoulders as I headed for the garage door. Past midnight, and my forty-seven-year-old ass would complain about it in the morning. Staying fit didn’t make me immune to the effects of aging. I’d pop a few Tylenol and ignore it.
Before exiting, I shut off the switch that controlled the power for the garage—lights, outlets—which meant the radio abruptly silenced.
Outside, the night was quiet, and the yard mostly dark as the quarter-moon did little to illuminate the place. As for the motion sensor lights? The bulbs appeared to have burned out. Again. Had to be some kind of short because in the almost-year I’d owned the place, I’d replaced them three times already.
I heard a thump as I headed for the path to my house, situated conveniently next door to the junkyard. My head swiveled to the trailer I used as an office—a blocky rectangle with a few windows and a single door. I kept most of the junkyard paperwork, an old computer, and a safe inside—nothing of real value. Most of the transactions I processed were online and went right into an accounting program that handled everything for me. Locate the part requested, invoice, pick up by the client once they paid. I’d even deliver for a little extra.
My business did okay. I would probably need to do a bit of marketing to let people know of my existence. Place a few ads on Kijiji and social media.
A sudden flare of light in my office trailer, followed by some noises, halted me and changed the direction of my feet.Someone is fucking robbing me.
They’d be disappointed. The office didn’t have much to steal, but that didn’t mean I’d let them get away with it.
“Fucking asshole. I’ll teach you to fuck with my shit, you fucker,” I swore. Fuck being a curse word I used often. Verb, adjective, noun. It fit into a lot of my speech these days. Call it catching up for the years I’d kept my words clean so as not to offend my husband, the uptight yuppy. It wasn’t until after we’d split that I realized just how much I’d repressed the real me.
The real me being a beer-drinking, foul-mouthed, take-no-shit kind of girl.I am woman. Hear me fucking roar.
Whoever thought me an easy mark would get an earful before I handed them over to the cops for a proper eye-opener on their choices in life.
