Page 22 of Sugar Coated Secrets

As spring makes way into summer, the air is thick. The heat presses like it’s weighing down everything.

When I pull up the freshly paved drive, the Porsche’s exhaust growls as I pull to a stop. The garage looked brand-new compared to the historic town. Trent’s garage is upscale. It is a big white building converted into a warehouse with a vintage neon sign reading AMERICAN MUSCLE under it. Trent, Chris, and I would hit the track on the backroad and race to see whose car was the fastest. I was into imports, and Chris and Trent were into American muscle. Chris is more modern, and Trent loves the classics. Barracudas, ’69 Chevys, and his prized possession—an SS Camaro.

A couple of guys give me stupefied looks like I’m a little lost or stupid for bringing a German car into an American shop.

As I get out, though, the guys’ mouths drop open. They clearly recognize me.

“I’m looking for Trent.”

A blond kid with overalls and grease under his fingernails stares at me like I’m an enigma. “I didn’t think they were telling the truth in this town. You’re really from here.”

“I sure am. Is Trent here?” I ask.

The kid with the dark hair, mechanic’s shirt, and jeans that haven’t been washed since he bought them pops up and says, “Sure, I’ll get him.” He walks inside through the main entrance and shouts, “Yo, Trent! You have a visitor.”

“If it isn’t a girl with big tits and a nice ass, tell them to fuck off,” he shouts back.

Trent was always a sarcastic son of a bitch.

“This is better,” the kid shouts. “I bet he can beat you in a race.”

“Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

Trent walks out, squinting against the blazing sun. “Son of a bitch. You made it.”

“I promised I would.”

The last thing I said to Trent before leaving that night was that I would return, and we would open a garage together despite what our parents thought. We didn’t want to be part of the country club or be a CEO at one of their companies, trapped in a high-rise in the city fucking the secretary during lunch like our fathers did. We had dreams. Goals. His was a garage and, hopefully, pit crew at NASCAR. Mine was to drive professionally, and Chris’s was to go to college and figure shit out.

Trent has scruff on his face like he hasn’t shaved in days. “You look like you popped out of the set of a commercial,” he says with a smile.

“Is that your way of telling me I look good?”

“Shit, better than I do.” He looks down at his mechanic’s shirt and low-ripped jeans with grease smeared near the pockets. He has tattoos on his forearms and neck—I bet his parents loved that one.

He motions me to follow him.

“I bet you’re driving the ladies crazy,” he says with a chuckle.

I walk in and wait a bit for my eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lights gleaming on the garage floor. The garage is immaculate, filled with the nostalgic smell of rubber, oil, and gasoline. He has eight lifts in the center. All classic muscle cars with gleaming paint jobs like works of art. The back walls are fitted with tool cabinets and vintage road signs. Rolling toolboxes are neatly placed on the other two walls. I’m sure they have every tool needed to build a car.

“Hey, some girls dig the mechanic look,” he says, then looks over his shoulder as I follow him to his office. “I bet you’ve had more pussy than an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

He isn’t wrong. The first two years were wild. I bought more boxes of condoms than I did toothpaste.

“Trust me, it gets old after a while. Different cities?—”

He interrupts. “A variety of pussy.”

“They get attached,” I reply, the words coming out on a dull monotone.

He walks into a modern office with the latest Apple studio desktop and takes a seat in his racing desk chair. I take a seat on the shiny red vinyl couch, letting the air-conditioning vent cool my heated skin.

“They all get attached. Famous or not,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“You should talk.”

---