20. Barracuda

TWENTY

BARRACUDA

Pretty Little Poison, Warren Zaiders

Santiago

“Hey man, how’s it going?” I hear Jake, one of the owners of Baker Auto, say as he walks near the car I’m currently working on. Jake owns this shop with his dad. They took it on as a father–son business endeavor but Jake refuses to quit coaching football, which led to them needing help and hiring me. So far I’ve loved my time here, so I want to continue to prove to them that I’m worth keeping around.

“All good, just working on the ‘Cuda now.”

“Good,” he replies, sitting on a rolling stool and sliding in across from me. “How are you liking Baker Oaks?”

“It’s been good. Everyone’s friendly and I’ve found plenty of things to do,” I answer, wiping my hands on a hand towel and stepping away from the car. The whole top of the Barracuda’s engine is taken apart so the carburetor sits on the table with the intake, next to where Jake is sitting. He comes near the car and looks at it, inspecting the cylinder walls and the pistons. The owner of this car took it racing last weekend and wanted it checked. It’s always a good idea after going heavy on the nitrous, because it can melt the piston if you’re not careful.

“What are you thinking about for this beautiful beast?” he asks, half his body leaning against the car and his hands and head lost in the engine bay.

“I’m thinking of replacing the head gaskets just to be safe, but other than that, everything looks good to me,” I say, confident in my assessment but also a little shaky since Jake and his dad have been the only ones with their hands on this car for years.

“Sounds good, go ahead,” he adds, getting a mat to cover the front and checking that the fender protectors are in place. I don’t blame him for being doubly cautious. This is an expensive car with years of maintenance and pricey parts in it. From what I know, Joe—Jake’s dad—is good friends with the owner. And if Joe wasn’t taking a week off on vacation, I highly doubt I would even be the one working on it.

Jake goes back to the rolling chair before saying, “Word on the street is that you’re dating Roe Sorelle.”

I stop dead in my tracks and look at him with a mix of shock and confusion. “Nah, I wouldn’t call it dating. Hell, I wouldn’t even call it friendship. The girl is worse than Icy Hot.”

I wasn’t even able to keep my word and go for the run that I promised her yesterday. I was going to show up but I need to figure out my shit before I spend more time with her, so I just texted her and told her I couldn’t make it.

He chuckles to hide the darkening of his features, making me think that they’re closer than I realized.

“Shit man, I didn’t know you two were a thing,” I say quickly.

At this, he laughs harder like I told a fucking joke. I straighten because I feel a ping of jealousy. The feeling is uncalled for because we’re really not a thing, but man if that little reaction doesn’t pull the caveman out of me.

“Roe and I are not a thing, at all. She’s more like a little sister. The girl has gone through so much and this town has her back.” He rubs his beard and shakes his head. I can tell he wants to say something else but all he adds is, “Just be patient with her.”

“We’re not a thing, really. We’ve hung out a few times, she gave me a tattoo and we race on the same series, nothing else.” But somehow, I breathe easier hearing that they’ve never been a thing. Little sister I can do. Boss’s ex, not really.

“But she is willingly hanging out with you? That’s more than most get, trust me,” he replies and my eyes widen. I wasn’t wrong; behind the spitfire and take-no-shit personality, a lot is going on that she doesn’t show. At least not to me, but clearly people know.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say, leaning against the toolbox and shoving my hands in my Dickies. If he’s showing me an olive branch and giving me info on the girl, I’m going to take it. Maybe this way I can get her out of my system. Or dig her in deeper.

“Shoot.”

“What’s her deal? There’s something about her that draws me to her but I’m not a kid anymore, Jake. I’m done chasing women.”

“I’m not surprised that you see something in her. She’s pretty and anyone with two eyes can see that, but she’s truly more than that. She’s a remarkable human. It’s not up to me to tell you why she acts like she’s unbreakable, unstoppable. If she wants to, and if you’re lucky,” he says, raising one eyebrow at me, “she’ll show you the cards life dealt her.” He stands up and looks me in the eye with an emotion that I can only describe as pride.

“All I can say is that if you earn her trust, you’ll see she’s worth all of your time. Trust me.” He gives me his hand to shake and when I take it, he says, “Good job on the ‘Cuda. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He leaves and all my coherent thoughts go with him because now, all I want to do is drive to Roe’s house and figure out what makes her tick. What was it that turned this wonderful girl that everyone seems to notice and know and care for, into someone who won’t let anyone in.

After closing the garage, I drive my truck to Saddlers. It’s Thursday, which means karaoke night. I’m not personally a fan but it’s hilarious to witness others. I’m planning on ordering fried food and drinking. And maybe hoping that a sweet-and-sour blondie will be there, too.

I walk in and sit in one of the small booths to the side where Marco is waiting. I haven’t been able to hang out with him for a while, so when I said I was eating dinner out, he said he would meet me here. He likes Saddlers enough; something about it being eclectic speaks to him. It’s a country bar with good food and several pool tables. There’s a stage at the back with a big red neon sign that flashes every now and then. There’s a line on top of the Ds in the name that leads to a cowboy hat, adding to the flair. However, no matter how country it is, you can still find big city drinks and top shelf liquor. If a bar from Miami and a Nashville bar had a baby, that’s what Saddler’s would be.

The smell of beer and whiskey lingers in the air as soft guitar plays in the background. The girl sitting in the middle of the stage is singing an acoustic cover of a Carrie Underwood song. Why do I know who Carrie Underwood is? Ask one of my little sisters.

“What’s up?” I ask Marco when I sit and he raises his beer at me.

“Not much, just waiting for food. You know what you’re getting?”

Before I can reply, the bartender from the first night I was here says, “Hi hot shot, how can I help you?”

“My friend needs to order,” Marco answers, nodding my way, and the girl rolls her eyes.

“I was talking to him, hence the hot shot,” she adds.

I don’t really have an interest in figuring out what their deal is, so I order. “Whiskey, neat, and a basket of tenders and fries, please.”

“You got it! let me know if you need anything else,” she says, walking away to put my order in and completely ignoring Marco.

He scoffs. “Women. Always thinking that they’re heaven on earth.”

We’ve been friends for a long time but the more I hang out with him in my adult years, the more I realize that we might be drifting apart. The older I grow, the more I realize he still acts like a fifteen-year-old. As teenage boys we often objectified women but my mom put a stop to that the minute she heard me talking out of my ass.

Santiago, te voy a tirar esta chancleta el dia que te escuche hablando de las mujeres asi. Tu tienes hermanas y una mamá, será mejor que respetes.

Something about throwing a shoe at me the day she heard me talking about women like that again. She told me to think of my sisters, to think of her before I spoke. I wouldn’t want anyone talking to them like that. I wouldn’t want anyone talking about them either. Disrespect is not cool.

“Watch it,” I warn but he doesn’t reply.

The bar is buzzing. Booths and high-top tables are full, and the dance floor is crowded. Not an empty bar stool in sight. The air is thick with excitement and the smell of liquor sticks to your skin. People sway to the music and shout all the familiar lines.

My eyes wander around the packed room, looking for a set of sky-blue eyes and a pretty smile, even if it’s never directed at me. I can’t seem to find her. Suddenly my skin prickles and I know she’s near.

“I thought you said you were a beer guy,” Roe snorts, setting down a short glass with whiskey on the rocks and setting a beer in front of Marco. “Do you mind?” she asks, pointing at the seat and when Marco slides over, she takes the spot across from me. She’s sipping on a seltzer but she has a shot of something dark in her other hand.

“I ordered a beer that one time, princesa, but apparently nobody in this bar knows how to fill an order,” I quip, pointing my head to the glass. “I asked for mine neat.” I pick up the glass, swirling the ice around and looking at her.

“Can’t even get that right,” Marco snaps. I don’t know what the hell his issue is, but Roe beats me to the reply.

“Oh hush,” she tells him before looking back my way and saying, “I know what you ordered, pretty boy. She tried to bring it to you neat, but something tells me you needed some cooling off today.”

I ignore her sassy comment and reach across the table, holding the glass in my left hand and whispering, “Salud,” in a low voice. Cheers .

She tries to clink her shot glass to mine but I quickly move it away. I tsk before adding, “Left hand. Please.”

“Why does it matter?” she asks, scowling at me.

“You should always toast with your heart, and it’s connected to the left hand.” I bring the glass back and challenge her with my stare. She sighs and finally clinks her glass against mine. She brings her tongue to the rim and practically sucks the caramel liquid out, making all the blood in my brain go straight to my dick. Jesus santisimo.

“Ademas, using your right hand means you’ll get ten years of bad sex, and we don’t want to risk that, do we?” I smirk. She can’t hold back the devilish smile on her lips, even though she tries to hide it by sipping her seltzer quickly. Gotcha .

“And that’s my cue to get out of here. I’ll let you two be,” Marco groans, and I had forgotten he was even here.

“No need,” she adds while sliding out of the booth. She bends over the table and whispers in my ear, “There’s no such thing as bad sex, Saint. Just men who don’t know how to play.” It’s low enough that only I can hear her but loud enough for my brain to go haywire.

She stands up straight again, grabbing her drink and biting her lip. “Your food should be right up. In the meantime, enjoy the show.” She points toward the stage where two girls have the microphone trying to sing something that’s indecipherable because all they’re doing is laughing.

“What was that all about?” Marco asks. He also mumbles something about Roe thinking she can do whatever she wants, and I would love to hear exactly what that was about, but maybe I’m imagining it.

“Just Roe being Roe. You racing this weekend?” I ask him, changing the topic instead.

“Nah, I have rehab.” Marco has some lung condition that requires him to do rehab every so often which is why he hasn’t been able to race consistently. I’m surprised he’s even able to race at all. His parents definitely don’t think he should race but he got the all-clear from one of his doctors.

“Well, good luck with that, and hope we can race together soon.”

The food shows up and it’s easy to see that nothing really changes at Saddlers. People sing, others dance, and some drink. Marco talks but his words are muffled because all I can do is look at Roe. My eyes never drift away from her, no matter how hard I try.

I’ve never considered myself clingy but the more time I spend away from her, the more I feel sick. It doesn’t matter that my brain knows only a masochist would pursue this, because my dick has other plans. I’ve never used my hand thinking about the same person as much as I have since that first night we kissed. It’s even more now that I know what she feels like under my touch. What she tastes like on my lips—like sin and hard choices.

Marco leaves and I’m getting ready to do the same. I set cash on the table, and get up, ready to call it a night too, but something keeps pulling me toward Roe. I get a feeling that I shouldn’t leave her here alone. She might be surrounded by patrons, but the girl is an island and nobody is allowed near it. I sit by the bar instead, waiting for her to stop doing whatever she is doing in the corner and see if she’ll come over to me. Eventually, she does, with her goose crossbody bag around her and her eyes glossy and tired.

“Ready to go?” I ask, putting my tongue in my cheek and hoping that she’ll say yes.

“Yeah, but not with you. I drove,” she says, walking toward the double doors. She waves goodbye to the bouncer and speed walks to her Jeep. I follow like the lost puppy I am. When she gets to the Jeep, I watch silently as she climbs up, closes the door, turns on the ignition, and drives away. All without looking back at me once.