Carlos

The behemoth looms over me. I lie on my back, knees drawn up as my eyes roam a body built for hard work and showing the signs of it. Hard, dirty, strong, and big — just the way I like it. I spot what I'm really after and adjust my position a little.

"Oh, yeah. There you are. Now, come to Papi."

I bite back a groan as I reach for the thick, well-oiled shaft and slide my hand along its length. It's larger than I anticipated.

"Fuck. Hang on, baby. I gotta grab a bigger—"

With a pop and a screech of metal, the gigantic pickup truck I'm working on slips off the jack and drops a foot, bouncing on its tires. The axle I'd been feeling up for damage comes to rest a finger's width above the bridge of my nose.

I stare at it without breathing for what feels like a tiny eternity, and then, discovering that I'm still alive, I scramble from beneath the vehicle and let loose.

"Puta madre! Motherfuck, Kyle! I thought I told you to check the fucking jacks, you dumbfuck shit-head!"

My hapless assistant comes flying in from the work yard, his pale face shiny with sweat and his blue eyes wide, and stares at the slipped jack as if it's the most horrific thing he's ever seen.

"Holy shit! Oh, shit, Mr. Martinez! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, no thanks to you!"

"I swear I checked them, Mr. Martinez. Just like you showed me. I swear I did." He twists his hands in the dirty rag he holds and shifts from side to side, miserable with anxiety, and my anger fades.

I rake a hand through my long hair, then remember my hands are covered in axle grease, and swear. "Chinga..."

"What?"

"Fuck," I say. "It means 'fuck.'"

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Martinez."

"How many times I gotta tell you? It's Carlos, Kyle. Carlos. Señor Martinez was my grandpa."

"Sorry, Mr. Martinez," Kyle whispers, eyes on the floor. "I'll try harder. I swear. Please don't tell my aunt."

I cast my own eyes heavenward and pray for patience. "Why would I tell your aunt?"

"'Cause she made you hire me. I mean, that's the only reason I'm here, right?"

I rub the back of my neck and sigh. Kyle isn't wrong. His aunt, Lucille, is my landlady and neighbor, and she asked me to give him a job. Kyle is, as my own aunt would say, a sandwich short of a picnic, and a magnet for trouble. A foster kid raised by his aunt, he dropped out of high school, fell in with the wrong crowd, spent some time in juvie, got out, got in trouble again, got out again, and now he's twenty two and his prospects are dim. Life handed Kyle lemons, and he can't afford the sugar to make lemonade.

I sympathize. I really do. I had my own troubles growing up — different troubles, but no less damaging — and I want to give Kyle every chance I can. The problem is, I can barely afford the sugar myself, much less Kyle's meager pay.

His aunt isn't even asking for much. In exchange for reduced rent, Lucille proposed I hire him as my assistant, teach him the mechanic's trade, and keep him on the payroll for at least a year. She just wants him to have a chance; to have something — anything — legitimate to put on a resume.

I wouldn't complain if not for the fact he's almost killed me three times already and he's only been working here two weeks.

"Kyle," I say, rubbing my brow. "Look. Why don't you go get us some lunch, okay? Rexi's burgers, down the street. Here." I pull out my wallet, remove a twenty I can ill-afford to spend, and hand it over. "I'll have the classic with fries. Get yourself what you want."

He takes the bill, stuffs it in his pocket, and leaves, shoulders hunched and shoes scuffing the concrete floor.

When he's gone, I crack my neck and take a closer look at the truck.

"Fuck," I hiss. There's a small dent and scrape in the paint I'll have to fix. Fortunately, the truck's owner is a friend.

When I moved to Spring Lakes and opened my own garage, it felt like the world was my oyster. I had new friends, a new home, and thanks to a certain demon, I was finally free of the possessions that had plagued me since childhood.

That's right, I got possessed. A lot. Ghosts, demons — I don't even know what, sometimes. All I know is my aunt, Toni, was the only person who could keep me safe. She raised me, fed me, clothed me, gave me a home and taught me everything I know about cars. She happened to be an exorcist, too — one of a long line in our family — and she used me as a tool of her trade. I didn't mind, usually; but I also didn't have a choice. How do you say 'no' to your only caregiver, when they're the only person in the world who gives a shit about you?

Then I met a man who can turn into a bear and a boy who's part demon, and in a moment of pure desperation I got in the back of this very truck and left my old life in the dust.

I haven't looked back, but the truth is, my aunt did a good job. She sheltered me from a lot of shit, but in the process she left me a little unprepared for 'real life.'

On the one hand, things are good. I've got my own business, and my own place. I got friends, and I'll be twenty-seven in two weeks.

On the other hand, there are things that cost me sleep. My business is struggling, and my place is a rental held together with duct tape and prayers. My friends are amazing, but they got their own lives, and I'm still single — not for lack of trying, unfortunately.

Rising, I catch sight of myself in the cab window's reflection, and sigh.

I used to think I was hot stuff. Dark eyes under expressive brows, olive-toned skin and a mouth that drew the eye. I had young Johnny Depp or Antonio Banderas vibes — or so I imagined — and I wore my chestnut brown hair long and lush. I wasn't just pretty; I was masculine, too: trim and toned from real, hard work, with grease under my nails and dirt on my skin. Who wouldn't wanna call that his own?

Everyone, apparently.

Before I left Toni and my old life behind, I blamed it on the possessions. Can't fault a date for dipping after some hell-spawn takes you for a spin. But once I was free of that, I thought things would change. I thought, finally, I'd have them all swiping right, calling me back, or — better yet — asking for my number.

No such luck.

I run my hand along the side of the truck. The weeks I spent on the road with Ian and Sam were, while harrowing, the best of my life. I guess I thought if I followed them here, the good times would roll.

They haven't. And now I can't help wondering: if the possessions weren't the problem, then maybe the problem is me. Or maybe, if I can't find what I'm looking for, then what I'm looking for isn't here.

I've decided I'll give it my all — throw my heart and soul into my business — but if it fails, then I'm out. I'll be like Jack, hit the road, and never come back no more.

~ ★ ~

By seven o'clock, I'm pissed. Kyle seems to have done a Jack, too, and used my twenty to buy a ticket to fuck-knows-where. He never came back with my lunch, anyway, and I figured he got distracted by something and decided to fuck off for the rest of the day. He plays the innocent card well, but he's not as dumb as he pretends to be. He knows I can't fire him.

Hell, for all I know he set the jack up wrong on purpose to play a prank on me. A potentially murderous prank that could have crushed my skull, but a prank, nonetheless.

At any rate, I'm in a foul mood by the time Ian comes to pick up his truck at the end of the day.

"I'm sorry," I say, indicating the dent and scratch. "I won't charge you for the repairs, and I'll do the body work free, too."

Ian rubs his short red beard and blows a breath through his nose. "I'm not worried for the truck," he says. "I'm more concerned you're still using this crap equipment, Carlos. You know old shit like this is a hazard."

I bite back a rude reply. Of course I know it; I was raised to know it. I grew up in a fucking garage for fuck's sake.

"I'm still saving for the upgrade," I say. "It was my mistake. As the mechanic, it's my responsibility to do the safety check. I shouldn't have relied on Kyle."

"Mmm."

Ian's noncommittal grunt says more than he knows: that if I need an assistant, I should hire one I can trust, and if I can't trust Kyle, then he shouldn't be working here.

"What do I owe you?" he asks.

I frown. "I told you. Nothing."

He shakes his head. "Nah. You musta spent eight hours on this. Parts an' labor... I'm guessing four hundred."

He pulls out his wallet, counts the bills, and holds them out to me.

I shake my head. "I can't. I damaged your vehicle and took twice as long as promised. The Martinez Motors guarantee is 'on time or no charge.' So it's no charge."

Rather than argue, Ian grabs my hand and presses the wad of bills into my palm.

"Take it, Carlos. You earned it. My business is doing well right now and I can spare it. Someday, that might not be the case. Someday I might be the one who needs help. That's what friends are for. This isn't charity. It's support. And you can put yourself first sometimes. You're worth it. Understand?"

I nod and accept the money.

"Thanks, Ian. You let me know if you're not satisfied, though, right?"

I hand him his keys and he winks. "You bet your ass. My truck is my baby. Well, other than Sam."

He gets in his truck and leaves, and I let my shoulders slump as I fall into one of the stained waiting area chairs and bury my face in my hands.

I remember the first time I saw Ian Foley, in a little pub where I was waiting tables. He was just my type — big and rough, with red hair and a pair of startlingly blue eyes. He has one eye now, but he's no less handsome for the loss. Sometimes, I wonder what might have happened if he'd met me first, instead of Sam, but the reality is he'd never shown a hint of interest.

I'm lucky he considers me a friend. Still; someday I want someone to put me first.

My phone buzzes and I pull it from my pocket. It's a text and my heart leaps at the name attached to it. Alejo — a guy I hooked up with the week before at a bar. He'd seemed pretty into me — at least until he got what he wanted. Then he'd basically told me to fuck off. But maybe I'd misinterpreted things. I'd had a few drinks, and my head wasn't totally clear at the time.

Hey I'm bored wanna hang out

I start to type, and then my head catches up to my eager heart (and hormones) and I read the text again.

He's bored — and too lazy for punctuation — and I'm a distraction.

One of many, no doubt.

Still...

I bite my bottom lip, finger hovering above the screen. Then, with an exhalation, I silence my phone and pocket it again.

Not tonight, Alejo. Not ever again, actually.

Ian's right. Maybe if I stop acting so desperate, something better than guys who prey on desperate guys will come my way.

Maybe.

Exhausted, I drag myself up to the little apartment above the garage, take a shower, and flop into bed. Kyle's going to get an earful tomorrow — and I'm taking that twenty out of his pay.

~ ★ ~

Bright and early, I'm roused by a persistent and obnoxious sound. Not my alarm, but the buzz of the bell on the shop door below. Blearily, I roll into a sitting position and rub my hands over my face before jolting unsteadily to my feet. Dressed in my boxers and sleeveless nightshirt, I lean on the wall for support as I descend the stairs to the floor below, my brain struggling to catch up to my body and understand who would be at the door this early, and why.

It must be a customer with a scheduled drop off, which Kyle must have forgotten to put in my calendar.

When I open the door, however, I discover not a customer, but a pair of officers in uniform. I blink at them and they stare at me. One is male and one is female. The female officer speaks first.

"Mr... Martinez?"

I nod, suddenly much more awake and much more conscious of my attire — or lack thereof. "Yeah. Um... I mean, Yes, that's me. Carlos Martinez. How can I help you, officers?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind."

"What about?"

"You know a Kyle Peters?"

"Yeah. Yes. He's my... He's my assistant." I clear my throat.

The male officer speaks. "In what capacity?"

I turn towards him and frown. He has short brown hair and green eyes, and he looks about ten years older, eight inches taller, and fifty pounds more muscular than me. He's also hot. And straight. Definitely straight.

"In the garage," I say. "I'm a... I'm a mechanic."

"So I gathered." The officer's tone is dry, and I flush.

"Um... So what's this about Kyle?" I ask, running a hand through my hair. "What's the little shit gone and done now?"

"That's what we're here to find out," the female officer says.

I groan. "Don't tell me. He stole some shit. Again."

"No, Mr. Martinez," the male officer drawls, drawing my attention back to him. "He's dead."