his sweat would be a daughter’s justice. The thought is fleeting. I need the car to return to work, and as angry as I am with him, finding the strength to hate him and stop taking care of him isn’t happening. Not today.
Carter
“Hey,” her muffled voice says as she nudges at my calf with the toe of her shoe. I yank out my earbuds and roll out from beneath the chassis of the pickup I’ve screwed around with all afternoon. “Coach Dolino called.”
“And?” I spare her a glance. Her hands land on her hips as she peers at me, an impression of our mother’s glare on her face. Damn, she’s good. She’s like an angry giant hovering over me. Unhappy with that image, I level the playing field by sitting up. The wrench resting on my stomach clatters to the garage floor, and she retreats a step.
“Carter.”
“Cha-a-ase.” I mimic her resigned tone while holding her glare. She is the only person who manages to string my name out that way. As usual, the first fold goes to Chase, and I smirk. A small victory for the big brother.
“Whatever.” She huffs, her eyes rolling as they tend to do whenever she speaks with me. “Why do I bother with you?”
I chuckle at her red-faced glowering and lift a brow. Good question. Why does she bother with me? Why does Coach? Why do Mom and Dad? I’d ask, but no matter the line of shit they feed me, nothing changes. What’s done is done.
“How is this place so quiet?” I change the topic while leaning sideways for a glimpse of the clock Chase is blocking while lording over me. “Wait, it’s after five? Did the guys head out without telling me?” I straddle the creeper and push to my feet. The awkward movement sends a knife-like slash of pain from my right knee down my leg, and I hiss at the jolt. Chase observes my clumsy maneuvering with pursed lips, but she’s smart and keeps her big mouth shut.
She ignores my question until I’m on two feet and stretching toward the ceiling, trying my damnedest to cover my discomfort. “The twins are hanging about, and Owen’s in the office on the phone.”
“Huh, okay.” My spine pops and cracks as I work the kinks out and survey the shop, taking in our current projects, “the rent,” as Owen prefers to call them. They are the jobs we do to keep the garage cash flow positive. The work we suffer through so we can afford our passion—restoring and customizing cars.
The Chevy I’m installing a lift kit on appears to be the last unfinished job of the day. The twins’ customized WRX sits in her bay shiny and ready for her owner to drool over in the morning—a day in advance. A win since fast turnaround time is vital for repeat business.
“Where’s the Z Owen was working on?” I ask Chase while walking toward the office.
“Finished. He’s on the phone with the paint shop.”
How did those three finish their shit without me noticing? Metal clinks behind me, and I check over my shoulder and find Chase straightening my workspace. Typical.
“Hey, go on, sis. There’s no overtime in your employment contract.” I wave my hand like she’s a bothersome fly before pushing through the glass doors to the reception area. She shoots me a scowl and continues messing with my tools. I let her be.
Owen’s voice floats my way as I walk around Chase’s desk and down the short hallway to our one office. “Yeah, Meteor Gray Metallic”—he hums in agreement with whatever is said on the other end of the line— “it’ll look sharp. Yup, I’ll drive her over if you’re willing to hang for twenty.”
I prop my shoulder against the doorframe.
“Hey, man,” he says when his call ends.
“Did I lose consciousness? How the hell did you three finish your jobs before me?”
Owen scratches his jaw and declines in his chair. “Beats me, you had the pansy job today.”
“The pansy job?” Installing a lift kit sounds simple, but there are a million things to consider when jacking up a truck beyond factory build. I sink into the chair opposite Owen’s desk and prop my boots on the edge. “You know damn well it takes a long time to re-gear and get a vehicle ready for lift. Shit is tedious as hell. I’d work on wing and hood installs all day every day.”
“Yeah, yeah, stop picking the short stick, and you’ll stop landing the pain in