Page 5 of Insta-Love

THREE

Ava

Mum left an hour ago for her shift at the nursing home, and Dad is still a good four away from knocking off for the day. I place my hands on my hips and stare own at the useless hunk of metal under the hood of my truck that masquerades as a starter motor.

“Traitor.”

I’d hoped to head out and get a second set of sheets for the airbed before it was time to go get Lily. We need extra pillows too—Mum’s lounge cushions don’t quite cut it—and Lily’s school shoes probably wouldn’t mind being replaced. Ugh. Mum had offered to buy everything we needed when I mentioned my plans for the afternoon, but poor as Lily and I are, we’re not desperate… yet. I’ve lost ninety per cent of my pride by having Glen walk out on us and then failing to make it on my own. I need this, I need the validation being able to do this one thing brings.

Probably better off saving the cash for the new starter motor, though. Probably. But then I’m also just as likely to win the Lotto as I am saving the other two thirds the repairs to my car would cost.

A distant rumble perks my interest and I look up from the engine bay to see the approaching Jeep. He tears around the final bend in the street like a damn rally driver and pulls into his driveway with enough speed that I’m literally holding my breath while I wait to see if he’s about to take out the garage door. The Jeep’s driver’s door is thrown open, and a grey duffle is hurled out onto the concrete. The haste in which he exits the vehicle has me spinning on my heel to avoid being busted spying. Man sure gets pissed off, it seems.

Cursing echoes through the garage from next door as I pull Dad’s toolbox drawers open one by one until I find what I’m looking for: a sturdy large spanner. I put my peripheral to full use as I head back to my useless truck and note the neighbour paces his driveway, phone to his ear.

I should wait, be polite considering he’s holding a conversation, but then again I’ve only got an hour before I need to be down at the school to collect Lily. Fuck it. I’m on my own property—at least Mum and Dad’s—and if he wants peace and quiet he can go inside his house.

Twang, thwack, thwack. I slam the spanner down on the starter motor, trying my best to shock the pieces inside into submission like I have a thousand times before. Heaven only knows how this works, but it does. Satisfied my bashing has to have been enough, I round the vehicle and crank the key. The sad groan of a useless motor resonates off the house. Damn it. I march back to the front, angrier than I was when it first refused to start, and lean in to bash the hell out of the starter again. I always knew one day this temporary fix would stop working, but today?

Round two of reminding the car who’s boss proves to be as unsuccessful as the first. I glance down at my phone and check the time. I could walk to the mall. If I kept up pace it might only take twenty minutes each way. Fifteen more to fly through the shops and I’ll still be back in time to head down for Lily.

Gym Boy leans his sinfully hard ass against the side panel of his Jeep and thumbs through the phone. I sneak a few furtive glances as I retrieve my bag from the front seat of the SUV and watch his thumbs fly as he presumably messages someone. Probably organising tonight’s booty call. I roll my eyes and head inside to change into clothes more suited to a brisk walk—jeans and sandals aren’t going to cut it. I’ve got no idea why the hell Mum thought I’d be interested in a jackass like the new neighbour. He’s cocky, clearly in love with himself—although who could blame him—and probably the kind of jerk who has a new plaything every week.

Making assumptions, Ava.

Yeah, I am, but this is one stereotype that, so far in my unsuccessful love life, has proven to be true. Nothing like getting shot down or plain laughed at by a few hot guys to really dampen a girl’s confidence. I’ve never assumed to be the best looking woman in the room, or even what I would class as “beautiful.” Hell, my figure is nowhere what it was pre-Lily, but being a teen mum, I never had the chance to fully develop into my adult body before pregnancy took over. What would I even look like now if I hadn’t had her? I’ve got no idea.

So I make do with what I have, and like Mum taught me when puberty took hold and started to alter my frame, I look for the bits I love when I look in the mirror, not what I’d want to change. Which is why now, standing in a pair of gym leggings that I spent three times what I would normally have on, I’ve got to admit the investment was worth it: my ass looks great. Something to be said for a healthy mix of spandex and lycra.

Pink and black runners on my feet, and a hand-me-down hot rod singlet that never fitted Dad on over top of my sports bra, I head back out to my next to useless SUV and decide to give it one last shot in the hopes I can save myself a slow, sweaty death. The sun-heated handle of the spanner echoes my warming anger toward the vehicle as I lean in to give the starter motor one last reminder of who holds its future in their hands.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

My head collects the latch on the hood as I straighten out, and I bring my hand holding the spanner up on instinct to rub it, smacking myself in the jaw with the tool in the process. Smooth, Ava.

Gym Boy laughs.

The asshole actually laughs at my predicament.

“Are you here, interfering, to be of any use? Or am I merely your amusement for the afternoon,” I snap, pride wounded and flailing on the ground at my feet.

I’ve met assholes like him a million times over; they only want one thing, and that’s fun at my expense.

His eyes roam my exercise attire, and I curse the warm flash that runs straight from my centre to my suddenly sensitive nipples. You’re so starved for sex it’d be comical if it weren’t so sad. “I’m just wondering what kind of bush mechanics it is you’re practicing.”

My gaze settles on the sharp hook of his jaw as he talks, the muscles in his neck fascinating me as they work. Snap out of it. Look, don’t touch. The pretty ones are always the worst—you know this, Ava. Damn, girl.

“It’s a legitimate temporary fix,” I protest feebly. I wonder if YouTube or Google would back me up on this?

He pockets his phone in the back of his gym shorts, the thickness of his arm seeming to double as he twists it around himself. The man’s constructed from pure sex and testosterone. Builds like his are what stare back at you from the cover of Men’s Health, reminding you of your own shortcomings when it comes to fitness.

I bet he doesn’t skip a single day.

“What are you actually hoping to achieve?” he asks, peering into the engine bay. “What’s wrong with it?”

I chastise myself for wondering how his black hair feels straight after a shower, and stare in as well … at nothing in particular. “The starter motor is on the way out.”

“And thrashing it is the answer?”

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