Backwards

Somewhere before the bridge, my car decided to crap out on me. After raising the hood and assessing the damage, I had no other option but to call to get it towed somewhere. Sucky thing is, I knew the belt was about to go, but I didn't fix it. I just kept putting it off and putting it off and after several attempts of trying to find a garage that was still open this late, I lucked out and found one that was closing in thirty minutes.

Thank you karma. However, I was now more than likely going to be late to the show. Damn you car. If it wasn't the most valuable thing I owned, I'd drive it off a cliff. Luckily, it's hooked up to the back of this tow truck and is saved from my impulsive need to destroy everything in a sweltering rage. I crack my knuckles, as if this will help ease my tension and send my best friend Regan another text. Officially exhausting the socially acceptable amount of apologies, I sit back in the crumb laden seat of this rig and hope that I can get to the club in time to actually see my best friend perform.

The driver that jumps into the front seat is polite. Too polite. Like the kind of polite that really means I want to make a mask out of your skin and wear it around my house. He cracks a joke about my bad luck and smiles with a tinge of yellow streaked across his teeth. Trying not to smile too much, I nod and pray he doesn't get any weird ideas. I tell him which garage and hope it isn't far.

"Yeah I can bring you there." He says with a husk in his voice. "You know, it's dangerous for a pretty girl like you to be out here this late." He sucks on his teeth and I'm pretty sure I might die tonight.

"Thanks for the tip. Are we almost there?" I pull my phone out and have my finger ready to dial, just in case. The tight quarters of the cab would make it difficult for me to kick him in the balls if he tries anything, so being prepared doesn't seem like such a bad idea right now.

"Just a few more miles."

And counting.

"Chances are they'll be closed. I'll take you home if that's the case."

Well, if he drives any slower.

"They close at seven." I scoff at his meager attempt at offering to take me home. Yeah, right. Cara, and her harem of men, didn't raise no fool.

The entire rig smells like old Chinese food and I'm sure I'd find a dozen empty cartons under the seat but I don't feel like retracting a disease so I sit as still as possible and count down the minutes in my head. Regan is going to kill me for being so late. The track marks on the inside of the driver's arms are bruised purple - a telltale sign that I'm clearly in great company. Of all the tow companies in the city, I had to get the perverted tweaker. He keeps peering out of the corner of his eye to get a better look at my legs and I'm about to crack him in the nose, but the truck starts to slow down and I sit up instead to make sure he isn't taking me to some abandoned warehouse with the intention of making me into a meat-suit.

He pulls the rickety truck in front of a tiny garage, barely lit by street lights. There's no name outside the building - that I can see anyway. But we're here, and with ten minutes to spare. One bay door is still up, lights are on and I can almost hear the angels singing as I've reached my destination.

"Are you sure there's nothin' else I can help you with tonight?" The driver asks and I answer as nicely as I can with a loud door slam. I would love to give some bitchy retort, but I don't have the time. If I could run into the garage I would, but the loose gravel in the lot is not exactly stiletto friendly. I manage though, and make enough noise doing so, blurting out every curse word in the book.

A tall figure stands underneath a lifted car making just as much noise as me but hasn't noticed the noise coming from behind him. I almost eat it at the very end of the driveway, but save myself with a move that must have made me look like a bird taking its first flight. The mechanic under the raised Chevelle isn't paying me any attention though. Unsure as to how he hasn’t noticed me yet, a clear my throat as if that will get him to turn around. But no, he’s completely oblivious, despite my entrance. I swear a bull in a china shop made less noise than I just did.

"Hi. Yeah. I need you to fix my car." I try to be as well-mannered as a girl in my position can be, but really, it's not my forte. I throw in a really nice smile for effect. Unfortunately he doesn't bother turning around to see it.

"We're closed." He says in a deep, clipped voice, clinking away underneath the car.

"What?" I ask in disbelief. I made it in time. I know I did.

"We're closed. Closed an hour ago."

No. No. No.

"But you're not. The bay is open and you're working. I still have eight minutes!" Trying to keep my composure is a lot harder than it should be and this asshole isn't helping. He tugs on a wrench, sending a piece of metal clanging to the floor.

"Eight minutes for what?" He clinks, and clanks and clinks some more.

"Until you close. I called." This doesn't sound like the guy I talked to earlier. At least the guy on the phone was nice. This guy hasn't even looked at me.

"And spoke to who exactly?" Clink. Clink. Clink.

"Um, I don't know. You're the only guy here." I scan to make sure my statement is true, and it is.

"But I wasn't half an hour ago." Clinkclinkclink.

"Okay, does that even matter?"

"Not really. I'm still closed." He grunts, wrenching away. I can't believe this is happening. I turn to see the tow truck driving away and my poor little car sitting all alone in a desolate parking lot.

"Dude. It's just a belt. I'm sure you have them in stock. Just... please." I have half a mind to get on my knees and beg here but he's lucky he even got a please.

"Dude?" He wipes his head with an oily fist and only half turns to give me even less of his attention as he picks up a new tool to attack the car with.

"Would you prefer Sir? Seriously, can you help me or not?"

The socket he wields clicks against metal, ticking away at my nerves. Each turn is a second that could be used to fix my car and send me on my merry way. But apparently he could give two shits about the seconds I need. He runs a dirty hand through his black hair and I almost think he's going to say yes with the sigh that follows, but he doesn't.

"Can't." He says instead.

Ass.

"What kind of fucking mechanic can't replace a belt? Even I know how to do that." Before I can stomp away in a thirteen-year-old tirade, a loud clang comes from his direction. The socket is on the floor and he's brushed past me, nearly getting sweat on my dress. If I have to go home and change, Regan will never let me hear the end of it.

"Keys?" The Ass asks behind me. I turn to see him holding a giant palm out in front of me. He's tall. Really tall. Like I have to look up to glare back at him tall. Except, he isn't glaring. He's staring right at me with wide eyes, probably surprised to see that the person who was just bitching him out is almost half his size. But there's a glint of something in his eyes...

I'm sure he just asked me something but I've completely forgotten what that was. His chest moves with a breath, and out of sheer girl instinct, my eyes dart straight forward to stare. My head is the same height as the pocket on his dirty gray shirt and suddenly I feel remarkably insignificant. All I see are muscles spreading a shirt thin, dotted with sweat and oil and…

"Hey." He snaps when I don't answer him right away.

"Hi." I say back.

Hi? Jesus.

One of his dark eyebrows rises up at my reaction to his rousing but I quickly snap out of the strange reverie. "What?"

"Keys." He repeats. I guess he's only speaking with one syllable now, but this must mean he's going to fix my car, so he won't hear anymore attitude from me. I hold out my keys gingerly, if that's even possible, but he snatches them away thwarting my attempt at being nice.

He pushes the car inside of the garage, steering with one hand as the other holds the car door open.

Struggling is something that I do when I need to open a jar of pickles at work or that time Regan suckered me into going to one of those obstacle course things. The running part was fine. Hell, even trucking through the mud was a breeze, but climbing? Eh, not so much.

This guy, however, is not struggling. At all. He looks like he goes to the gym everyday and yet I feel almost guilty, like I should jump behind my car and help him push. But then I remember he's an ass and I'm wearing all of Regan's clothes so I absolutely, positively can't get dirty. He parks the car then leaves me in the middle of the oil saturated garage without a word. A door slams from across the space and returning with a slick, black belt, he grunts and complains in his strides all the while.

"You know what this is?" He glares at me with the fiercest green eyes I've ever seen and I swear if he wasn't such a jerk, he'd actually be attractive. A strong jaw, covered in day old scruff screams masculinity and even though his voice is too deep to match, I can see the hint of boyish charm in his face. He holds the belt out in front of me and raises his dark eyebrows like he's talking to a child.

"Yes." I snap, "I'm not an idiot."

"Good. Tools are back there. Knock yourself out."

"I'm sorry. What?" My jaw is about to hit the floor.

"You said you knew how to do it. And since I'm a little busy being closed, go right ahead."

"You're fucking with me right?"

"Nope." His forced smile beams down at me and for a second, he's gorgeous. Bright green eyes that haven't left mine contrast against his fair, but dirty, skin. "Better get on it. I'm locking up in thirty."

The.
Fucking.
Nerve.

"Okay, wait. There's something wrong with this picture. Your garage, your tools, your work." Am I wrong? I mean, really.

"Your car, your problem. Not mine." He says walking away from me.

"That's the whole point of having a garage! To fix other people's problems!"

"Not when I'm closed." He flashes his damn smile again and I want to scream. He really isn't going to help me. He's dead set on being an asshole and I'm running out of time. Luckily, I wasn't bluffing and actually know what I'm doing. My mom might be clueless but all the men she brought home to be pseudo fathers taught me a thing or two and not just about self defense. While other girls were learning how to French braid and add rhinestones to pieces of clothing, I was learning how to change oil on a beat up truck and how to hustle people out of money. My mother could care less about what I did in my spare time and her boyfriend's cared too much. Maybe they felt sorry for me. I don't know. But whatever the case, I'm glad for it now.

My phone goes off and it's Regan.

Where r u?

Damn. I don't waste time with a reply because time is of the essence here. Better put those skills to use. I kick my heels off and pop the hood.

I should've stayed home tonight. I should have binge watched something on Netflix. I should've built a house of cards. I should've done anything but leave my apartment. The Ass isn't paying me any mind even though I've been cursing ever since I've started. I'm trying to be delicate as to not ruin this outfit, but delicacy and automotive repairs don't really go together. Throw my temper and impatience in the mix and it’s a recipe for disaster.

"There has to be some sort of law against this." My fingers are black and I try not to touch my face, but my hair is getting in the way. I flick my head around awkwardly to get the loose strands over the back of my shoulders but it's not working.

"See that sign over there? It says EXIT." He's so smug I just want to throw this socket at him.

"Do you give this same fabulous treatment to all your customers?"

"Just the ones that come in here demanding things from me." I can hear the smile in his voice and I don't even know him.

"I'm going to assume that no one has been nice enough to tell you how much of an asshole you are today."

He laughs and sweet Jesus it's even more of a killer than his damn smile. "No, but I have a feeling you'll happily take that on."

"You better fucking believe it. You're an ass. Big time." This time I grunt. I can't get this stupid belt on. Why me? This is supposed to be easy. At least that's what it looked like whenever Bobby did it. Or was it Ken? Who the hell knows. I’m about to pull up a video on YouTube when I hear his footsteps behind me.

"Move." He says, nudging me with his elbow. And we're back to one word. He takes the belt from me and slips it on in a second. Why the hell didn't he do that in the first place?

"Are you trying to prove my asshole assessment wrong?" I ask, wiping my hands on a red rag.

"Nah. It's just too painful to watch. I thought you knew what you were doing here, talking all that shit. But looks to me like you just like to run your mouth."

I scoff. He has a set of balls on him.

"I do, for your information, know what I'm doing but I can't exactly do it in this dress now can I?" I curse at myself for saying something so blatantly suggestive, knowing that any guy in his right mind would take that as an open invitation to ogle the goodies, but he doesn't.

"Can't do a lot in that dress but stand there and look pretty." He holds his hand out asking for what I can only assume to be the socket. I oblige by dropping it heavily into his large palm.

"Easy. I'm helping remember?" His tone has become less severe, almost playful. I wonder if he's bipolar.

"Helping isn't the term I'd use, but okay." Thankfully, his hands move quickly and effortlessly, almost like he's done this over a hundred times. And by the look of this place, I believe it. There are years and years of rusty old parts strewn about, cluttered in every corner. Posters of cars from the eighties brightly colored with half-naked models straddling hoods in matching bikinis. The Ass over here can't be a year over twenty five, so this place must have been in his family. His father maybe? Not that I care.

He makes me feel tiny, almost inadequate just standing here beside his sizeable body, and he's only hunched over the hood. I slip the heels back on, not getting even close to his height, but I don't feel as small so it'll do.

"You know you have to replace a few hoses soon, right? And it smells like you're burning oil." He unscrews the cap and wipes the remnants off the dipstick on a rag.

"If you're trying to secure a customer for life, I can assure you that it won't happen." I smile, tilting my head to the side. This guy has surely lost it if he thinks I'll ever come back here.

He shrugs, still eyeing the parts underneath the hood. "Just letting you know."

"Thanks for suddenly being observant, but if you're done..." I swish my arms to the side so he can get off my car and I can get out of here but he only shakes his head and chuckles. He shuts the hood with a slam, and then leans into my compact car to start it up.

"You're all set." He says after I hear my car come to life. Finally. Maybe I misjudged him. "That'll be fifty bucks."

And my jaw is most definitely touching the floor. "Fifty dollars? For what?!" Yep, I definitely misjudged him. He's even more of an ass than I thought.

"For making me work after hours."

"I didn't make you do anything!"

"Well you certainly didn't stop me."

"No. You told me to do my own work after you refused to do work that I would have gladly paid you for."

"Work that I ended up doing."

"Ohmygod." I say, my frustration pushing an alarmingly high level.

"We take cash and checks." He flashes that smile again. That damn smile. I'm so over this night.

"Checks? What are you eighty?" I grasp onto any and all aggression that is ripping through my body and tear through my wallet.

"This," I close my eyes briefly to try and relieve the pressure in my head, "is so fucked and you know it."

I pull the bills out of my wallet and throw them at him. Then immediately regret it, because if I would've balled them up, they might have hit him harder. He looks almost surprised but then backs up when he realizes that I'm about to goose the hell out of this car. I kick gravel up in my wake and burn tire once I hit the street.

What a fucking asshole.

"Where have you been?" Regan whines into my ear once she's got a hold of my arm. It's like a death grip, clinging on for dear life because I kept her waiting for so long.

"I'm sorry. Car trouble." Asshole trouble. Jerk trouble. Douche-bag trouble.

"You need a new car." She pouts. Stupid, jerk face, asshole trouble. Okay, I'm done.

"Tell me about it. I didn't miss your set did I?" I ask, raising my voice over the man on stage strumming his guitar like he's petting a cat.

"No. I keep letting people go ahead of me." She finally releases me and lets me sit. I'm suddenly exhausted, completely ready for bed and this guy on stage might just put me to sleep. It's very odd, this song. I don't even know if he's singing actual words. All I hear are murmurs and then the random tapping of wood as he hits the face of his guitar. I'm waiting for the hook to extend and yank him off stage left.

The crowd is large for amateur night, tall round tables filled to the brim with fedora wearing patrons and an overabundance of PBR tallboys but Regan's here and she sticks out like a sore thumb, all glossed up, wearing her signature thigh length dress. She's braided her hair to fit the part of indie rocker, her alter ego - second only to her Malibu Barbie facade.

"Where's Adam?" I ask, suddenly realizing I'm the only one sitting at the table she reserved for her boyfriend and me.

"I don't want to talk about it." Which really means she does and will anyway. Talkative, open, energetic. Nothing like me. It's amazing we're best friends. "He's being so weird. He's the one that told me to do this in the first place, and now he's not even here. I keep expecting him to just pop up or be creeping in the back to surprise me." Her shiny lip suddenly turns upside down.

"I'm sure he'll be here. Traffic was a bitch." I lie. Traffic was a breeze. Even when I was stuck on the side of the road waiting for the tow truck, there was barely a soul in sight. She accepts it though, and bites the inside of her cheek. I know she's going through a million scenarios in her mind but all I can do is give her the sympathetic smirk because I don't want to keep lying to her. The obvious and unspeakable truth is that Adam is an idiot.

A man dressed in more leather than I own, comes up behind us and tells Regan it's time to get on stage. He slides a hand over his greased up hair with a twitch and a crooked smile. All he's missing is a pair of all black wayfarer sunglasses and his fifties retro look will be complete. I'm tempted to pull the pair out of my purse just to finish his look off, but I've completely run out of the nice gene tonight. Sorry dude, maybe some other night when I'm not feeling so angst-y against your sex. He nods at me, businesslike, and retreats to his corner table next to the speakers to watch Regan with approving eyes.

She looks perfect up there. It's where she was meant to be, glowing under the spotlight. Ever since we've known each other, she's been a magnet for attention and her talent is proof that she deserves every bit of it. She isn't shy about it either. Cool and confident as always, she waits for the music to play. Her voice sounds like silk through the microphone, demanding every ear to be aimed in her direction. The melody is her bow and her harmony, the arrow. It transforms the mood in the room, the temperature rising gradually with every note she hits. I feel the tension and anger from earlier, slowly melt away. The low jazz tones in her voice are magnificent and I'm suddenly relaxed and at ease forgetting all the assholes tonight.