Chapter Text
You pick carelessly at the food sitting before you,
not caring if the cook your mother overpaid had spent all day preparing the meal. The prongs of the expensive silver fork on your hand scrape against the porcelain plate, causing your mother to shriek and admonish your actions. “Quit being a child and eat, Y/N,” she says, “All that noise is giving me a migraine.” You simply roll your eyes and mutter an insincere apology before shoving some pot roast in your mouth, sighing at the unflavored taste of the meat. Would it kill Chef David to toss a little salt in the pot?
“Oh, speaking of migraines,” your father
tuts, smiling as if he’d just told the most hysterical joke the world’s ever heard. “The auto shop called before dinner,” he looks over at you, “Your car is ready for pickup. I’ll send Gerald to retrieve it in the morning, that way you’ll have it in time for tomorrow afternoon’s rendezvous with the Alexander.“
Just as your father goes into a heated debate about why he’ll never buy another Lexus, you pipe up with, “Don’t bother with Gerald, I can go get it myself, daddy.” He looks at you with skeptical eyes. “I’ll just call a cab in the morning and ride into town,” you explain, “It’s really no trouble.” You look down at your plate, hiding your face when you add, “And I, um, I broke up with Alexander.”
“What?” Both your parents reply in high voices, their forks clinking against their plates in shock. “But why?” Your mother butts her nose in, “Alexander is perfect!”
“I went to a lot of trouble to make this courtship happen,” your father adds in a hard tone, pointing a finger at you as if you were a child. “His parents are good people, and they come from a great breed,” he goes on, sounding like he’s trying to sell something to you, “You could be set for life if you married Alexander, do you not get that, young lady?”
Your face burns with anger, your eyes welling up with tears that sting with their heat. You try to hide the tremble in your voice when you say, “But what about what I want, daddy? What if I don’t want to marry some stuffy businessman who treats people like dirt? What if I don’t want to be some girl who settles for what other people want for me? Why can’t I just find it on my own?” You stop your rambling, choking back a sob. Your heart breaks when your father scoffs in response, effectively telling you that you’re an idiot without actually saying the words out loud.
“I’ll leave some cash on the table in the front room,” he says without any sign of caring, wiping the corners of his mouth before standing. “In the morning, you will go into town, get your car, and present yourself at the Donahue’s and explain to Alexander that you made a mistake. I’ll hear no excuses or disapproval.” He turns his back, leaving you to sit and think about how you wished you were someone else’s daughter.
“We just want what’s best for you, darling,” you mother says in a pseudo-sweet voice, “You understand, don’t you?”
You look at her with betrayal flashing in your eyes, sniffing back tears before shoving back your chair and rushing up to your room, slamming the door with all your strength. In the bathroom, you strip off your shirt, using the freshly-cleaned mirror to examine the dotting of bruises thatdecorate each hip, ones that are shaped like unforgiving fingertips. Your chin trembles as you trace a single finger over them, your eyes slamming shut as you try to steady your breathing. You cup your right cheek, still able to feel the phantom stinging and heat that had been left behind by a large hand, the one of someone you thought you could trust.
“No one knows what’s best for me,” you say bitterly to yourself, anger sizzling through your veins as you look at your reflection, “No one.”
The next morning is crisp, the beginnings of
autumn greeting you as you step out of the house and towards the cab awaiting you.
“105 Delaware Drive, please,” you tell the driver, settling back in
the seat and staring out the window, looking at the place you had called home since
you were a little girl—suddenly aware that it had never felt more like trap in
your life. Your father’s demands ring in your ears, making your stomach twist
in knots that make you feel sick.
“Here you are, miss,” the driver
eventually says, causing you to realize that you had zoned out for the entire
ride. You smile in response and hand him double the fare, politely refusing
when he tries to return the unnecessary half. He thanks you profusely and with
so much sincerity, that it makes you feel like you had actually done something
right for a change.
You watch him leave, turning to look at the auto
shop that’s apparently called Singer’s if the flashing sign on the front of the
building is any indication. The bell above the door rings out obnoxiously when
you enter, your pointed-toe heels clicking against the linoleum floor of what
you presume is the reception area. An older woman sits behind the desk there,
flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine and popping gum between her teeth.
“What can I help ya with, little lady?” She asks in a guttural voice,
her smoking habit evident in not only the way she speaks but also in the wafts
of cigarettes mixed cheap perfume coming off her.
“I’m here to get my car,” you tell her
with a wobbling smile that you hope looks believable, “They called my
father yesterday and said it was done.” You jump in shock when the woman
turns her head and shouts out a name that is unfamiliar to you, a loud crash
and a string of colorful words following the outburst.
“What in the sevens hells got’s you hollerin’
for me, woman?” A gruff voice says before an equally as gruff man appears,
his beard scraggly and his greying hair hidden beneath a weathered ball cap.
“Got a girl here askin’ for her car, says her
daddy got a call,” the woman says back in a humored tone that kind of
sounds like mocking to you. “Take her back and let the boys get her all
set up,” she says, and for a moment, that sounds a little dangerous to
your sheltered ears, like it had another meaning than you just getting your car
and hightailing the hell out of dodge.
“Balls,” the gruff man says under his
breath before adding in an annoyed voice, “Them damn boys’ve been gettin’
on my nerves all day. Why can’t you do it?” He looks at the woman
expectantly.
“Can’t,” she smiles a yellow, crooked
smile at him, “Got some calls to make.”
“Sure you do,” he rolls his eyes before
turning to look at you, giving you and your fancy clothes a once over.
“This way, girl,” he says, turning his back to you. You hurry to
follow him, clutching your purse to your chest as you disappear down a poorly
lit hallway. “Name’s Bobby,” the man tells you as you keep a good distance
between the two of you. “I take it you’re the owner of the Lexus we took
care of,” he says, giving you a warm smile.
You shallow your nerves. “What makes you say
that?” You curl in on yourself again when the man laughs a hearty laugh.
“Not many people ‘round this part of town own
that kinda car or wear the kinda clothes you’re currently sportin’,” he
explains, “No offense.”
“None taken,” you pout, gasping and
blinking rapidly when Bobby stops to open a random door and bright light fills
your eyes. When you’re adjusted to the brightness, you see it’s a large
workshop filled with tools, cars with hoods up, various used and new car parts,
and old rock music. You recognize the last lines of the ACDC song, smiling
despite yourself and following Bobby a little closer in the new environment.
You hear laughing and loud voices, followed by pops and snaps. Bobby stops
abruptly and you have to quickly stop your feet as to not ram into his back.
“Would you idjits stop snapping those damn
rags at each other and get the Lexus ready to go?” Bobby questions the
boys you haven’t seen for yourself yet, sounding rather exasperated.
“Can’t leave you two alone for five minutes without you destroyin’ my
whole shop.”
“Oh, c'mon, Bobby!” One voice says,
“We’ve been working our asses off all day!”
“Yeah, Grumps!” Another says, “Give
us a break!”
Bobby sighs and steps aside, revealing you to the
boys, who both stop talking entirely and look at you like you’re an alien in
their world. You can’t help but notice that behind all the grease smudges and
tattered navy coveralls, the two boys—no men—are
rather attractive. The shorter one has his coveralls unzipped and the top half
hanging down around his hips to reveal a greased up white t-shirt with the
sleeves cut off, his dirty blonde hair fallen flat with sweat and his angular
face glistening with it and more grease. The taller one, the one with bright
eyes and floppy brown hair, is looking at you with parted lips and is currently
wringing a dirty rag between his blackened hands rather nervously.
“This little lady wants her car,” Bobby
tells them, “So do me a solid and don’t embarrass me and my entire
business in front of her, yeah?” You watch the two men simply nod and
straighten up. “Follow Sam and Dean,” Bobby tells you in a soft voice,
“They’ll make sure your car’s ready to go and get you outta here.”
“Th-Thank you, Mister Bobby,” you give
him an unsure smile.
“Just Bobby’ll do, girl,” he winks
before disappearing between tall shelves of tools and various other car related
things. You sigh and turn back to the boys, noticing them whispering and
shushing one another when the other gets too loud. You clear your throat after
a while, growing a little impatient as you itch to just get out of this damn
shop.
“Huh? Oh yeah, yeah, um,” the blonde
quickly says, “Sammy’ll take care of you.” He walks away and you
start to say something but he’s gone before you can, leaving you confused as to
why he left so abruptly. You look at the one left—Sammy supposedly—and give him
a bashful smile. His cheeks are tinted pink, leaving you to believe he may be
just as bashful as you’re being.
“Your car,” he nods, clearing his
throat, “It’s um, this way.” He spins on his heels and begins walking
away, prompting you to hurry and catch up, cursing yourself for wearing heels
and Sammy as well, because he’s got long legs that could beat you anywhere—not
that you were looking or anything.
God, your mother would have a heart attack if you brought a boy like him home,
and your father—holy shit—he’d probably disown you before you even told him what
Sammy’s name was.
After following Sammy around all of God’s creation
it seemed like, your sleek, white Lexus finally comes into view. It looks
shinier than ever, the purity of the color gleaming in the bright shop lights.
“We threw in a free wash and wax, and we, uh, even cleaned out the
interior, vacuumed and such,” Sammy rambles, occupying most of his
attention with cleaning a few fingerprints off the glistening windshield with a
fresh rag he magically pulls from the pocket of his coveralls. “The rims looked
a little dull when she came in, so we polished those off as well,” he
explains further, finally looking at you and giving you a wobbly smile,
“She should run smoothly now, but if you notice any problems, just come
back and we’ll get those taken care of.”
You genuinely smile this time. “Thanks,
Sammy,” you say.
“Just Sam,” he corrects you, quickly
following it up with, “My idiot brother just calls me that to piss me off.”
“Oh, um,” you look at him with unsure
eyes, “I’m sorry?”
“No big deal,” Sam smiles, averting his
gaze to the floor when he realizes he’s been staring too long. “Well,
um,” he sniffs as he places the keys in your hands, “Have a good day.”
“You, t—oh,”
comes your reply when he moves to open the driver’s side door when you round
the front of your car. “Thank you,” you nod politely before climbing
in.
“Bye,” Sam says, looking at you just a
little bit longer before finally closing the door for you.
“O-kayyy,” you say to yourself as you
fasten your seat belt and shove the key in the ignition. And as you pull away
from the garage, you look in the rear view to see Sam still standing there
watching you leave, suddenly struck with the realization that part of you
didn’t want to leave.
Shit.