Page 13 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

"Not in the way I expected." He meets my eyes. "I didn't think I had anything left to fight for. Maybe I was wrong."

The air between us shifts, charged with something I'm not ready to name. I drop my gaze first.

"Don't say things you don't mean," I warn quietly. "People here can't afford more broken promises."

"I know." He nods, accepting the boundary. "But I meant what I said."

We finish setting up in silence, but it's no longer uncomfortable. When we're done, he helps me load my truck, then checks under the hood as promised.

"Just a loose belt," he says, wiping his hands on a rag. "Fixed it, but you'll want a proper replacement soon."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it.

He gives me a two-finger salute before climbing into his own truck. I watch his taillights disappear down Main Street.

I'm not sure if I trust him yet. But for the first time since this all started, I want to.

CHAPTER 5

BLAZE

I wake before my alarm, a strange sense of purpose pulling me from sleep. The bedside clock reads 5:15 am. Outside, the world is barely gray, and the mountains just black silhouettes against a slightly lighter sky.

Perfect.

After dressing quietly, I slip out of the room and head to the bathroom to get ready. As I step back into the hallway after my shower, Shane’s bedroom door is yanked open.

"Someone better be dying," Shane growls. His hair sticks up in tufts, and his flannel shirt is buttoned wrong.

"Good morning, sunshine," I say, grinning. "Need some coffee?"

"What I need is for people not to show up at my door before the roosters." Despite his grumbling, he closes the door behind him and steps into the hallway. "What's the emergency?"

"Grace's truck." I follow him down to the kitchen. "I need parts."

Shane's eyebrows lift as he shuffles towards the coffee to get a pot going. "Grace's truck, huh? And this couldn't wait until, say, a time when normal humans are awake?"

"I want to surprise her."

"Yeah, I bet you do." Shane says, pouring us both coffee since it's ready.

"It's not like that." I accept the coffee and take a sip. "Her truck's a disaster. She can't run deliveries with it."

"Uh-huh." Shane sips his coffee, eyeing me over the rim. "And this sudden interest in automobile repair has nothing to do with the fact that Grace Hartman is the prettiest thing that you will never have a chance with?"

"I can't fix the road," I say, ignoring his comment. "I can't fix her life. But I can fix her damn truck."

Shane sets down his mug. "Now that sounds like a man with something to prove."

"You going to help me or not?"

"Fine." He grins. "But only because I want to see how this plays out."

For the next two hours, we raid Shane's collection of parts in the barn. The man is a hoarder of automotive everything--engines, transmissions, filters, belts. By seven, we've loaded his truck and driven to Grace's place behind the Merc.

Her delivery truck sits in the side lot, unlocked like every small town door. When I pop the hood open, I sigh, still the same.

"This isn't an engine," I tell Shane. "It's a time capsule from 1992."

---