Page 14 of Winning You
He spent more time on his hair than usual, though, and fought the urge to FaceTime Gage so he could do a fit check. He wanted to look hot enough to make that fucker regret ever being mean to him. But he also wasn’t sure that man would appreciate hot with his head shoved so far up his own ass.
“Breathe,” he told himself. “Relax. Let it go.”
Lucas was most definitely not good at letting things go. The second hardest part of being autistic: hyperfixating on things that made him angry. When would the universe give him peace, damn it? When would it let him relax?
He ran his hands over his clothes several times to ensure nothing was inside out or backward. Everything seemed like it fit nicely, so he shuffled into the kitchen to gulp down a tepid cup of coffee before calling for his ride.
If he ever got fuck-you rich, he’d own his own self-driving car so he could stop bleeding money into the pockets of rideshares that price gouged. But for now, he would take the cost of it because it came with a nice, fat side of independence. He rarely called his dad for favors anymore.
Lucas would always understand that his dad would never resent him for needing more than the average twenty-two-year-old man who left home. His dad had never seen him as a burden and never would. But there were things he wanted so desperately he could taste them.
Normalcy—his own version of it anyway—was at the top of the list.
Though today was making that fucker Francisco rue the day. And rue yesterday too. And maybe a few days leading up to ever meeting Lucas.
When his phone buzzed to let him know the ride was there, he snagged his cane a little too aggressively, and the tip caught on the lip by the door, the handle jabbing him so hard in the ribs he lost his breath. “Motherfuck! This had better not be a sign.”
But it probably was. He was already talking out loud to himself, which was never good.
He took a fortifying breath, prayed that the ride was parked in front of his building where he’d listed in the notes and notsome random spot, then locked the door behind him and got ready for his mission.
The driver wasn’t super weird with him, which Lucas took as a good sign. The food truck was at the Children’s Museum today—his favorite spot because he really did like kids, and the parents were always willing to spend a lot to shut their little hungry rug rats up.
He couldn’t hear any voices yet, which was a good thing because he was most definitely not opening up until eleven. He pushed the button on his phone and listened to the tinny voice read out the time. “Eight fifty-seven a.m.”
So he was on time. Mostly. He turned his head from side to side, straining his ears to see if he could hear the fucker mouth-breathing nearby. But the roundabout seemed empty. He tapped his cane tip hard on the ground to be sure, but there were no odd sounds. Just the echo off the building.
Grabbing his keys, he unlocked the truck and began his prep work. He didn’t give a shit what Francisco said or wanted. He wasn’t going to label his stuff in print. He was the only consistent chef working at the truck, and if anyone else needed to know a date on something, he could read it to them.
Or they could fucking learn his system of writing. He was done accommodating assholes who had nothing to do with his life.
Turning on his music, he began to rock and bounce with it as he checked his inventory. Today was going to be a very high grilled peanut butter and jelly sort of day. And chips, which he had plenty of in the large boxes stacked along the far edge of the truck.
He began to prep a handful of sandwiches to keep in the mini fridge when he heard a soft tapping on the door. Taking a long, slow breath, he reached for his phone and turned the music off.
He made Francisco wait a few extra seconds before calling out, “You can come in!”
There was a pause, and then the door opened. Lucas felt the puff of wind across his face, then heard the door slam a little too hard behind him. “Shit. Sorry. I mean—sorry. I don’t usually swear on the job.”
“I do,” Lucas said. “I don’t really give a fuck.”
There was another pause, then a very faint chuckle. “Alright. So…”
Lucas froze. That voice…it was— No. No. No, no, no. Itcouldn’tbe. Not a chance in hell. But…was it? The man from last night? No, if Francisco had been the man with his daughter, he would have said something, wouldn’t he?
Except, no. He fucking wouldn’t have. So many people believed they could pull one over on him because he couldn’t see them. As though he didn’t have a literal lifetime of learning ways to identify people without sight.
But he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Yet.
“Where do you want to start?” Lucas asked, then strained his ears to listen for the subtle nuances of the man’s voice to see if they really matched the kind man from last night.
“With an apology.”
Lucas almost choked on his own tongue. “What’s that, now?”
“I was having a bad day, and I took it out on you. I had no right to ask you to change the way you label things in here. Especially since they clearly work for you.”
Lucas wanted to punch something. Maybe him. How dare he make Lucas not feel his righteous anger! “Well, I…yeah. They do work for me, and you did have no right.”
