Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 63

Chapter 63

It’s Friday mousing, and I look like something that was dragged through a hedge, insulted by a mirror, and then tossed back into bed. My eyes feel like they’re filled with shattered glass. My hair is an abstract sculptine of alliance, And the dress? It’s still hanging in front of my closet like n smug little sectet, In a show of half–hearted defiance, I give it the finger before heading downstairs and into the kitchen for coffee that tastes like spite.

I haven’t slept. Again. That makes what? Four nights, five nights in a row? Not that I’m keeping track. It’s just that every cell in my body feels like it’s been individually microwaved, I spent most of last night staring at my celling, making deals with the universe and then unmaking them just as fast. By this morning, my eyes burn, and iny soul feels like it’s been sanded down with emotional–grade sandpaper,

I tell myself it’s not about him. Or the gals. Or the fact that my apartment still echoes a little too loudly every time I came home to it.

Nope. It’s totally about the tire. Which, by the way, I still haven’t fixed.

The thought of walking to the store again makes my knees ille n formal complaint, so I finally give in and decide to call the mechanic Gemma nner swore liy–saying he’s cheap, fast, and doesn’t leer too land if you bend over in front of him.

1 call him around nine, after standing in my kitchen with a half–made coffee and the kind of self–pitying frown that would put sad indle songs to jshame, I meant to do it Wednesday, then again yesterday, but apparently, spiraling takes up more mental handwidth than I thought it would

The guy says he’ll be here in thirty minutes, so I quickly head upstairs to toss on whatever passes for human attire–jeans that might’ve once been fashionable and a t–shirt with a coffee stain I strategically cover with a cardigan–and head outside.

It’s already too hot for May. The sun glares down like it’s juiging me as my car still sits sulking next to the curb, the back tine sagging like it’s given up in life. Sume tire, some, I crouch down beside it, muttering threats at it under my breath, when I hear a truck that is kud and confident pull up, with the kind of engine rumlile that says 7 drink off and break hearts for four!

I straighten jint in time to watch a guy hop out of the driver’s seat, the naine ‘Miller’s Auto Works‘ emblazoned on the side door. He’s tall and tanned. Has Inked forearms and a well–worn toolbell, Hasically, he looks like he stepped out of a calendar titled ‘Hot Mechanics Who Absolutely Know What They’re Doing?

“You Harley?” he asks, flashing me a grin that could probably melt glaciers.

“Unless you’re here for someone else’s bad decisions, yeah.“‘

He laughs, his eyes dragging down my frame in a way that somehow manages to be both appreciative and unthreatening. Then he stretches out his hand to thake mine, anil says, “Name’s Dean. I’ll have you back on the road in no time. Mind if I take a look?”

than I have

1 lean against the car door with my arms crossed, and in a dry voler, I say, “By all means. The tire has had a rougher week than I

He crouches beside the car, tossing me a glance over his shoulder, casually saying, “Hard to believe. You don’t look like you’ve had a rough anything.”

Oh, he’s that kind of flirt. The smooth kind. The kind who probably smells like leather, adrenaline, and “regret–you–won’t–regret–until–morning“:

I should shut it down. I really should. But I don’t.

Because it’s Friday. Because I haven’t heard a damn thing from Thane. And because I’m tired of feeling like a discarded page in someone else’s

So, I pivot my body towards his, my shoulder now resting against the side of the car, and ask playfully. “That line work on everyone or just the ones with flat tires?”

Dean chuckles as he works, his muscles shifting under the sleeves of his T–shirt like poetry with calluses. After a beat, he answers, “Only the ones who look like they need a good day.”

He talks while he works–tells me about his garage, how business is booming, and how people always assume he doesn’t read books just because he works with his hands. I tell him he should come by the store sometime, if only to prove the stereotype wrong. He grins at that and says maybe

Dean makes the job look stupidly easy. Fifteen minutes later, the fire has been replaced, his tools are packed up, and I should say thank you and

go back inside.

Instead, I linger. And Dean lingers, too.

“On?” he asks, cocking his brow as he slightly grins

He laughs again, and God help me, I smile back. Not the polite bookstore owner smile. An actual, startled “maybe–the–world–in–completely- termble‘ smile.

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