Series: Peach State Stepbros Series by Riley Hart
Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I’m on it.” I tug my gloves on and head over to where the new delivery waits for me. I’m the lowest-level yard and wash tech they have, so if there are shitty jobs to do, I’ll always be the one who gets them. Since Troy works as a mechanic, every once in a while when we get old cars, I see something he might want or need. I’ll set it aside for him, which usually includes holding it over his head for one reason or another until we end in a bet about it. We really need to stop playing this game at some point, but I don’t see an end in sight at the moment.
I’m still trying to work through our spontaneous trip to McDonald’s last week. Sometimes our relationship confuses even me. One minute we hate each other, and the next we’re able to bond over the fucked-up situation we’re in because of our even more fucked-up parents. I still have my issues with Troy. I don’t know how to make that go away when he’s tied to the worst shit that’s ever happened to me, but there are moments I remember he has it bad too.
I get my ass in gear and start sorting. I have to tag each item and make sure everything goes where it’s supposed to. With my earbuds in, I lose myself to the monotonous job. On Wednesdays I only have my Sociology of Food and Food Injustices class, then work, but I also volunteer at Activate Kindness, something my family and friends don’t know about. All it would do is make them ask dumbass questions I don’t want to answer or look at me with pity in their eyes that makes my skin crawl. The whole time I’ll know they’re thinking about my mom, how my dad left her for Ellie, left us for Ellie and Troy, and then one day, her car ran into a tree, and we won’t ever know if it was an accident or not. And now, look, her son is softhearted just like she was. He volunteers and actually gives a shit about someone other than himself. Spare me. I don’t want to hear it from anyone, partly because it’s not true and partly because that’s not how I work. No, thank you. I’d much rather people see me as the asshole I really am.
I finish up sorting one of the piles, and then they send me over to start working on a car. My gaze falls on the smashed-up vehicle, lingers on the spiderweb windshield and the busted airbag, making my skin tighten.
My memories flash to another vehicle—not a Toyota like this one, but an older Honda Accord, the one Mom drove and loved but Glen was forever trying to get her to sell.
I always fucking see her car when I have to do shit like this, which immediately makes my head throb and my heart implode. Working here is a form of torture I inflict upon myself.
I’m a couple of hours into ripping into the Toyota when I realize that the alternator is in perfect shape. Haven’t I heard Troy mention needing one for a Toyota?
I tug out my phone, snap a photo, then tag the alternator the way I’m supposed to. I’m pretty sure it has the specs Troy needs.
During my small break between work and Activate Kindness, I’m gonna have to find time to make a stop.
*
The first thing I see when I walk up to the garage is Troy’s ass sticking out of the hood of a car. “Waiting for a date?” I tease as I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my T-shirt, then toss it over my shoulder and let it hang there. I’m dirty and probably smell like shit from work, but I figure it isn’t much different for Troy.
It’ll be a miracle if I don’t get shit from him for driving with my shirt off, because he always has to nitpick at something. He’s complained about it before.
Troy turns his head to look at me but doesn’t move or stand up straight. “That’s homophobic.”
“Why? Straight men also have anal performed on them. I had this buddy whose girlfriend used a strap-on with him.” Plus, Troy knows I’m just giving him shit.
“Have you ever had it done to you?” This time he does move out from under the hood of the car, a little grease smudge on his cheek that is fascinating me for a reason I can’t explain.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I pump my brows, then tug my phone out and show him a photo of the alternator.
Troy’s eyes go wide, his musky, mechanical scent invading my senses. “Holy fuck. Is that still there?”
“Who knows.” I shrug.
“What the fuck, Atlas. You know I need one. Why didn’t you text me? I could have had you buy it for me.”