Page 87 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

want him so bad it hurts.

“I get it,” I say, a partial truth. “We need to focus.”

Unwrapping my legs from his waist, I pull my hair through my

clammy fingers and hop off the kitchen island. Percy helps me

slightly, his hands lingering on my hips while we catch our breath

and part ways. I’m thankful that Dad had a mini fridge put into the

shop, and I know there are some cold coffees out there that will

quench my thirst.

Percy goes back to making breakfast, but I don’t wait for a plate or a

parting goodbye. Instead, I race to the shop, grab my coffee from the

fridge, and slide under the car in hand that needs to be fixed. With

everything going on right now, I’m at least thankful I still have my

work.

I still have a piece of me that no one else can have, and it’s right here

in the form of a heavy classic car that needs a new engine rebuild and

needs it fast. The bills still weigh heavily on my mind, and the

thought of losing this place is constantly haunting me.

I can’t just wait around and let it happen.

Rolling over and showing my belly isn’t going to get me anywhere but

homeless.

So, for as long as my body lets me, I work with vigor. I tinker for

what feels like hours, zoning out of time and putting myself into the

most focused state my mind has ever been. My hands are nearly

black, and my fingertips are sore. But I fight with the wrench until

I’ve got every new part back into place.

The keys on the desk taunt me, and I slide out from under the car,

double-check the oil level, and make my way to the front seat. My

wrists are sore, my palms rubbed raw and covered in burgundy-

brown oil that also streaks down my body.

Slipping the key into the ignition, I picture the thousands of dollars

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