Page 16 of Savage Lover

Later, when I was in high school, we heard that my mom was working at Exotica. I never went to see her. I think my dad did, to try to figure out what the hell was going on with her. I don’t think he got any answers. He just said Vic would be staying with us permanently. By that time Vic was seven years old, firmly ensconced in second grade and t-ball. He didn’t remember our mother at all.

So we’ve all lived here ever since. It’s my home and I love it. I love the smell of oil and gasoline and industrial-strength detergent down in the shop. I love the worn-in feeling of my coveralls, and the perfect arrangement of my tools, where I can grab the right ratchet without even looking.

My dad zips up his own favorite coveralls, which used to be navy blue but have been washed so many times that they’re barely gray anymore. They’re hanging off his shoulders. He’s lost weight.

“You on a diet or something?” I say, poking him playfully in the side.

“No,” he says. “Just don’t have time to eat. I’m lookin’ good, huh?”

He grins, striking an Atlas pose like Arnold. He’s got no muscle, so his sleeves just hang off his arms.

I smile weakly in return. “Yeah,” I say. “Lookin’ great, Dad.”

My dad helps me finish up the transmission, so we can fit it back into place in the truck. It’s much faster with two people. He’s so quick and deft with his hands that it puts me at ease again. He certainly hasn’t lost his touch.

Still, I notice he’s breathing a little heavier than usual, and sweating in the heat of the garage.

“You want me to get the fan?” I ask him,

“Nah,” he says. “It’s like a free sauna in here. If it’s good for the Swedes, it’s good for us.”

Still, I grab us both a soda from the upstairs fridge.

While we’re drinking them, I hear the bell chime at the front of the shop. New customer.

“I’ll get it,” I tell my dad.

I hurry up front, setting my soda down on the reception desk. We don’t have a receptionist—the desk is just there for show, and for when my dad tries to sit down and muddle through all the bills and receipts we should have organized as soon as we got them.

I see a man in a tight white t-shirt and a Cubbies cap, looking through our stack of classic car magazines.

He glances up when he hears me. I see that square jaw and tanned face, and the friendly smile.

Shit.

It’s Officer Schultz. I was so distracted with the truck and my dad that I totally forgot about him.

“Camille,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”

Wish I could say the same.

“Officer Schultz.”

“Call me Logan.”

I don’t really want to, so I just nod stiffly.

“You and your dad own this place?” he says, looking around.

“Uh-huh.”

There’s nothing fancy about our shop. It’s cramped, dingy, decorated in the saddest way possible with a couple old posters and a single ficus tree we never remember to water. Still, I don’t like his condescending tone or the way he’s shown up here like he’s marking territory in the only place in the world that belongs to me.

“You live in that apartment up above?”

“Yep.”

“And your brother Victor, too?”

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