Page 3 of Beneath the Hood

But “temporary” erodes quickly, and if you don’t do something to fix the source, eventually, your whole damn soul will crumble. So, leaving permanently was a difficult yet necessary step. I’ve been Lee’s Jax for so long, I don’t remember how to be my own.

My phone vibrates across my coffee table and I groan, leaning forward to snap it up. I forgot to call my mom and tell her I made it back okay, so I assume it’s her checking in.

I’m wrong.

Blakely: Miss me yet, Jackson?

My teeth clench, irritation making my chest pull tight and my heartbeat rev.Blakely.Everything about the girl bothers me and I’m not sure why. I swear to God it’s her personal mission in life to get under my skin. She’s always justthere, her sparkly iPhone at the ready, and her long as hell legs in my face. Legs that make my dick twitch and guilt spiral through my system because I definitely should not be attracted to a nineteen-year-old girl whose biggest asset is her follower count and her most genuine feature her inability to take no for an answer. So, I lash out and she bites back and I end the day feeling like a gigantic asshole, even when that’s the last thing I want to be.

My parents raised me right, taught me that respect is both something that’s earned and something to take pride in giving. And if there’s anything I strive to be, it’s someone my parents can be proud of.

My free hand reaches up, the pads of my fingers rolling along the metal chain of my necklace, the thought of my dad snapping my purpose back into focus.

He’s the reason I’m in California in the first place, after all. After he finished his military service, we spent his last days in a small two-bedroom house right on the coast of Monterey—every free second spent beneath the hood of some rusted-out car, turning a hunk of junk into a masterpiece.

I have a lot of good memories with my dad, but California is home to some of my favorites. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the rays of sun as they’d sprinkle in through the open garage, casting an orangey hue on oil-stained cement while he taught me how to jet the carburetor and see the potential of beauty in even the ugliest of shells. And at night, once the sun had slipped beneath the horizon and taken the last of our light, I’d sit on the concrete steps that led to the back door, and watch in awe while he scrubbed Gojo soap on his hands, the water running black while he waxed poetic about our cars being on the big screen.

He was so sure in his conviction, I never doubted him for a second. But cancer ravaged his blood, taking him from this life before he was ready—before any of us were ready—to say goodbye.

So now his passion lives on through me.

And if working with the biggest producer in Hollywood, James Donahue, and letting his bratty kid annoy the hell out of me is what it takes to get my cars in the movies, then that’s what I’ll do.

But did I miss her?

Not even a little bit.

3

Blakely

My hand brushes across the wall absentmindedly, steadying myself from stumbling, exhaustion wringing my bones. It’s been a long night and I can’t wait to pass out. My finger snags on the corner of a picture frame, making my steps falter, my fingertip throbbing from where it jammed against the metal. Cursing, I glare at the portrait responsible for my pain.

It’s of my mother. Theyallare photos of my mother, encased in ornate frames and hung throughout our house like a shrine. A way for my father to gaze at her beauty without having to admit out loud he’s never moved on after her death.After I killed her.

She was the great love of his life—at least that’s the way the story goes—and sometimes I can’t help but think the reason he’s a workaholic is so he doesn’t have to stare at me too long, afraid he’ll start blaming me for taking her away.

I have her eyes. Only five percent of people in the entire world have them, and sometimes, I stare at her unblinking face in the photos and search for familiarity. Forforgiveness. The canary yellow swirls into deep brown, dipping into the center of her irises—a kaleidoscope of colors frozen in a portrait, making me ache to see the amber hues warm. They don’t, of course. Snapshots can’t capture a soul, only a memory.

I’m sure my dad would tell me anything I wanted to know, but every time I bring it up, grief tugs on his happiness, trying to make it rip off his skin and disappear into the ethers. Once it’s gone, who knows how long it will be until it comes back—untilhecomes back. So, I don’t like to ask.

Something sharp slices down my insides at the thought, dulling the pain in my finger, and making me break from my stare down with a woman I’ve never known. Continuing the trek to my bedroom, I try to shake away the tumultuous thoughts so I can get at least a few hours of sleep, but it’s no use. In these late-night hours—the only ones where I’m truly by myself—the thoughts always creep up and find me in the darkness. Thoughts that whisper like the most vicious kind of bully, tormenting me with cutting words and truths I keep shrouded in the shadows.

After changing out of my dress and slipping into a robe I step into my en suite.Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata––Third Movementplays softly from the built-in speakers, just like it does every night. I methodically strip off my makeup, pumping the face cleanser onto my Clarisonic brush three times, ensuring the droplets form directly in the middle before moving it along my skin. Thirty seconds for each side, then again for my forehead and chin. No longer, no less.

It’s the routines that keep me focused. Keep me sane.

After applying the last of my creams and elixirs, I drop the robe and walk to the full-length mirror for my nightly inventory.

Drawing in a deep breath, I step on the scale, closing my eyes tightly and counting to twenty-five, envisioning the result I’d like to see. Slowly, I slide my lids open, the knot in my stomach tightening as the light filters back in. My eyes blur for the slightest second before the bright red numbers come into focus.

One-hundred and twelve point six.Shit.

That’s point three over what it was yesterday. My mind races, mentally calculating everything I ate and drank today, a tidal wave of regret surging through my system, rising up my esophagus and making my insides pull.

It’s the vodka sodas, I just know it.

Normally, when I make appearances, I don’t drink. Being underage is usually reason enough, but for some reason, when I was offered a drink tonight, I convinced myself that just one would be fine. But then one turned into two. That’s one-hundred and ninety-two calories, assuming the bartender didn’t overpour—which they probably did—so who knows how much it actually was. My heart rate accelerates, my throat closing around the uncertainty.

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