“What?” Brian pokes me in the shoulder. “You know him or something?”
I shake my head and walk toward him before Brian or Pop can.
“Um, hi.”
“Hi,” he says, his voice low.
“Uh, can I help you?” I’m trying to keep my voice steady and professional, but with my eyes I’m begging him not to say anything. To be just another customer.
He jabs his thumb behind him at his car and says, “I wonder if you could take a look. I think I’m leaking oil.”
I grab my clipboard and his key and take down his driver’s license information. Rafael Guerrera. He’s thirty-eight, two years older than me.
“Pop the hood,” I tell him, and I definitely don’t stare when he bends over to pull the lever, his hips twisting and his shirt rucking up just enough to show a sliver of light brown skin. I look at the engine blankly, taking in no information whatsoever. I close the hood and nod at Rafael.
“I’ll take a look, but you’ll need to leave it. That okay?”
“How long will it take?” he asks, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes me think he knows exactly what I’m doing. That I don’t want him to wait here while I look at the car now. That I want him gone, stat.
I shrug, trying to look casual, but it’s more of a twitch. “Tomorrow most likely.”
Rafael nods. He picks up my clipboard and writes something on it. Then he hands it back to me with a completely neutral look and walks out of the garage.
I look at the clipboard. He’s written a phone number and, below it, a note: Your sweatshirt is in the trunk.
Shit. I do vaguely remember dropping it on the barstool last night. For a second, it occurs to me that it was nice of him to bring it back. But then my stomach tightens and my skin starts to crawl with unease.
I CATCH up to him at the corner.
“Hey!” I reach for his shoulder, but before I come close to touching him, he whips around, looming over me, feet set shoulder width apart. “How the hell did you know where I work?”
“How’s your stomach?” he asks as if I haven’t spoken. His stance has relaxed slightly.
“Look, man. I don’t know what the fuck you think is going on here, okay. But how did you know where I work?”
Rafael runs a hand through his hair and looks away.
I take a good look at him, trying to focus on not punching him. His thick, wavy brown hair is shoulder length, but neat, not like he forgot to cut it. There are freckles across his nose, barely darker than his skin. Judging by his skin and his name, I’m guessing he’s Latino. Is that the right term? I’m not sure. Hispanic? Shit, I don’t know. His lips are full, and his teeth are sharp and crowded, the left front one chipped. His long stubble looks soft, but his mouth turns down in a snarl. I shake my head to clear it.
“Look,” he says, “I wasn’t going to say anything about how we met if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I nod my thanks. “Dude, seriously, how’d you—”
“Colin.” He says it like I’m a skittish animal he doesn’t want to freak out. Damn name tags. “I was concerned last night. It wasn’t safe for you to be wandering around that drunk in the middle of the night. I followed you to make sure you got home okay. That’s all.” He puts his hands up.
“Wait, you followed me. All the way home? I didn’t… I didn’t see you.”
“I know.”
“But wait, how’d you… did you…?” Did I talk to him and not remember it?
“There was a car parked outside your house. It had a bumper sticker for the garage on the back. I figured I’d take a chance it was yours.”
“Um.” Who the fuck would go to that much trouble for someone they don’t even know—especially someone who blew them off—unless they wanted something? Unless—oh, jeez, unless he’s one of those wannabe vigilante freaks with a superhero complex who think they have some mandate to beat up evildoers in alleys and protect the downtrodden…. I saw a movie like that once. Of course, that’s better than the alternative, which is that he’s an entirely different kind of freak.
“Listen,” he says, “can we—”
“Okay,” I say, cutting him off. “So, I’ll be in touch about your car.”
Then I hurry back to the shop before he can say anything else.
THE AXE comes down before the man has time to scream, blood splattering the barn, the hay, and the rakes that lean ominously against the wall, and I look away from the TV. I put the movie on in the background for some noise. Usually, I love horror movies and gory war movies. Tonight, though, the sounds are getting to me. Every time someone screams, I find myself looking up. I’m trying to finish the model of the DeLorean DMC-12 that I started months ago and abandoned for a while because the plasticard I got from the hardware store wasn’t setting properly and it was pissing me off. I got new sheet plastic at a hobby shop that’s malleable enough that I can dunk it in hot water and mold it around a can, secure it with rubber bands, and it’ll hold a curve without cracking.