Page 14 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

"That's optimistic. I'd say 1985."

We get to work. Growing up, my grandfather insisted I learn basic mechanics before he'd let me drive. "No grandson of mine is going to call AAA for a flat tire," he'd say. I never thought I'd be grateful for those sweaty summer afternoons under the hood of his old Chevy.

By nine, we've replaced the fuel pump, installed a new alternator, changed the oil, and fixed the radiator leak. By ten, I've moved on to the brakes, which were more theoretical than functional.

"You know," Shane says, watching me bleed the brake lines, "for a city boy, you're not half bad at this."

I wipe sweat from my forehead with my forearm. "Don't sound so surprised. After all, I did spend my summers here in Mustang Mountain."

"Oh, I'm surprised. Thought your type paid people for this kind of thing."

"My type?"

"Rock stars, suits, the people who tend to manage you. People who don't know which end of a wrench to hold."

I tighten the last bolt. "I'm a man of hidden talents."

"Clearly." Shane glances toward the market. "Speaking of which..."

I follow his gaze to see Grace standing at the corner of the building, watching us. She's wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Seeing her makes my hands fumble with the wrench.

"I'll just go find some coffee at the Merc," Shane says, not even trying to hide his smirk as he walks away.

Grace approaches cautiously, like she's not sure if she should be angry or not.

"What are you doing to my truck?" she asks.

I close the hood. "Fixing it."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Didn't do it for you," I lie. "Did it because this town needs your wheels moving."

She circles the truck, inspecting our work. "How'd you even know what was wrong with it?"

"It's thirty years old and sounds like a blender full of nails. Everything was wrong with it."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "You don't seem like the guy I met at the crash site."

I wipe my hands on a rag, avoiding her eyes. "Maybe that guy wasn't worth keeping around."

When I look up, she's studying me with an intensity that makes me want to fidget. Her eyes are greener in the morning light.

"Want to see if it starts?" I ask, mostly to break the silence.

She nods, sliding into the driver's seat, and I watch as she turns the key. The engine catches immediately, purring like it's fresh off the assembly line.

Her face lights up, and something warm unfurls in my chest.

"Holy crap," she says, rolling down the window. "It hasn't sounded this good since, well, ever."

"Take it for a spin."

She hesitates. "Want to come?"

Ten minutes later, we're driving through town, windows down. Grace handles the truck with the ease of someone who's spent countless hours behind its wheel.

"It's like driving a completely different vehicle," she says, grinning. "The brakes actually work!"

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