Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 49348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
I finish putting the flooded car up on the bed, hitting the lever to flatten it so it’s not an incline, and shake my head. A damn good thing tomorrow is my last day on this job, then I can head home. Though, if I can’t clean this damn wound out myself, I’m gonna be even more behind and unable to leave once the last of my slips are fulfilled. Then I’ll be on my way to help the shop out. As it stands, it has four bays, only two of which have lifts, and one tow truck. It makes it damn hard when I’m the only auto repair shop as well as tow truck driver within a thirty-mile radius. The money I’ve been making for these the past few weeks while leaving the shop to my best friend, Travis, and another guy who’s newly hired, Danny, will go right back into the business. When I took this side hustle, I was only supposed to be on it for a week, but one week turned into three, and now I’m at the end.
Once the car is on the flatbed and strapped down, the gawkers disperse. A good thing because my temper can’t handle too much more today. I’m tired as hell, my body aches, and I’m about over drinking coffee for the energy alone. Not to mention it’s getting colder out every day. I walk to my driver’s side door, open it with my good hand, pull the lever to the seat up, and locate the first aid box. The elbow on my bleeding hand pushes the seat back in place while I open the lid once the kit is on the seat. A bottle of water sits untouched in the cup holder, another one in the cooler I’ve got in the passenger seat. I try to make as few stops as I can in order to get everything taken care of during the day. Working through the night isn’t a whole lot of fun, and I try my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.
“Shit.” Uncapping a bottle with your non-dominant hand is a pain in the dick. I end up using my teeth while holding the water with my left hand. Meanwhile, my phone stops vibrating only to start up again. My lips curl into a smile even while dealing with my bleeding hand, knowing that the old man gets impatient and worries like an old lady. He’s got ample reason. He’s buried his wife, his daughter, who was my mom, and then finished raising me. The man hasn’t had an easy day in his life. He’s worked hard, watched me bust my ass to earn my shot at McCoy’s Auto Repair, and when Grandpa Bernie was ready to retire, well, he didn’t give it to me without strings attached. Every dime I saved went right into an agreement. I’d given him a lump sum and made monthly payments. There were contingencies. If I defaulted on a payment, he’d take the shop from me and sell it. All my money would go down the drain. I knew what Gramps was doing—he was molding me into the man I am today, one who doesn’t go back on his word and works his ass off to prove his worth.
I clean up the gash, noticing it’s not deep enough to warrant a hospital or walk-in clinic. It doesn’t take me long to clean it up, wiping the wound with antiseptic, grabbing the gauze, wrapping it around my hand to hold it tight, and then using the brown ACE bandage to go over it. The skin on the palm of your hand is impossible to use a Band-Aid on, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna fuck with it while I’m knee-deep in horse shit.
My phone starts vibrating as I finish dealing with putting the supplies back in the first aid kit. I grab it out of my chest pocket, not bothering to look at the display screen. There are only a few people who would be calling me on repeat: Gramps, Travis, or the sheriff’s department regarding good ole Grandpa Bernie. Usually, because he’s out trying to do something he shouldn’t, pulling someone out of the ditch if I’m not available, digging some hole for God knows what, and the last time it was for Gramps hot-rodding a little too fast down the main highway.
“Can’t a man work in peace, old man?” I answer the phone, not an ounce of annoyance in my tone. There’s no way he could ever piss me off, even when he calls my phone repeatedly until I answer.
“Can’t you answer a man on the first call? And you’re damn right old. Older than you, that’s for dang sure. Which means you should pick up the phone when I call. What if I was on the floor, saying ‘Help, I can’t get up,’ or needed advice on wooing a lady?” I’m trying to hold back my laughter. The day he makes me get him a damn device to wear around his neck is the day he’ll put my ass in the ground. As for flirting with a woman, yeah, right. He’s full of shit, so deep I need hip waders to get out of the pile of manure.