Two days passed in a familiar silence. But on the afternoon of the third day, a restlessness began to prick at Aria. There was no real reason for it, just a feeling of stagnation, a sense that the walls of the house were slowly closing in. She needed to drive. She needed to feel the metal vibrating beneath her and the wind hitting her face, even if it was a blast furnace of a wind. She needed to remember that she could move, that she wasn't as static as the rocks and the cacti.
"Be back soon, Shadow," she said to the black cat, who opened a single golden eye to regard her with indifference.
Outside, the sun was a white hammer in an endless sky. She opened the truck's door and plunged into the oven-like cabin. She put the key in the ignition, turned it...
Click.
A sharp, dry, dead sound. She felt her heart drop into her stomach.
"No, no, no, not now," she whispered. She turned the key again.
Click.
"Dammit!" she yelled, slamming her fist onto the cracked dashboard with all her strength. Her hand recoiled with a jolt of fiery pain in her knuckles, a pain she barely registered through the cold wave of panic that washed over her. This wasn't just a truck. It was her freedom. It was her escape route. Without it, she wasn't a resident by choice; she was a prisoner in this sea of dust and heat. A prisoner in the very house she'd chosen as a refuge, which in an instant had transformed into a cage.
She got out and slammed the door, the whole chassis rattling in protest. She stared at the hood as if it were a personal enemy. What now? The only option was as clear as it was loathsome. Jake. She had to walk to Jake's.
Back inside, she splashed her face with cold water that felt lukewarm. There was no time to change; the jeans and cotton shirt were her armor. She drank a large glass of water, then another, feeling it slosh in her empty stomach. She put on an old baseball cap, grabbed her sunglasses, and went out to face hell.
The first few steps were the hardest. The asphalt was soft under the sun, and she could feel it sticking to the soles of her shoes. The heat wasn't just a feeling of warmth; it was a physical entity pressing down on her, pulling the moisture from her skin, making the air in her lungs feel thick. Within minutes, she felt sweat trickling from her scalp, running down her temples and soaking the back of her neck. Her shirt clung to her back and between her breasts, and she could feel the annoying chafe of the damp cloth against her skin.
The taste of dust and salt filled her mouth. Every breath was dry and scorching. There were no human sounds, only the whisper of the wind and the hidden, incessant thrum of cicadas, the only pulse of life in this apparent death. She looked down at her hands and saw how the fine red dust had already settled into the lines of her skin. She felt dirty, weak, and furious—at herself, at the truck, at this godforsaken place she had chosen.
When the gas station finally appeared on the horizon, it looked like a mirage. She kept walking, focusing on the rhythm of her steps, trying to ignore the burning ache in her thighs and the headache that had begun to throb behind her eyes.
When she finally reached the shade of the metal awning, she stopped for a moment, leaning against one of the rusty fuel pumps, trying to catch her breath. The air here was a few degrees cooler but saturated with a sharp, pungent smell: a mix of gasoline, hot oil, metal, and burnt rubber. It was a masculine smell, the smell of relentless, hard work.
Jake was there, bent over an open engine, just as she'd expected. He wore the same oil-stained jeans and a dark grey t-shirt that was plastered to his broad back with sweat. She watched him for a moment before speaking. Watched the muscles in his forearms and back flex and contract with quiet concentration as he tightened a bolt. There wasn't a single wasted movement. His body was a tool, just like the wrench in his grease-blackened hand.
She cleared her throat softly.
He straightened up slowly, not seeming surprised at all. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a smear of oil. His pale blue eyes took her in, registering the flushed face, the hair stuck to her neck, the way she was breathing heavily.
"Trouble?" he asked, his voice calm, deeper than she remembered.
"My truck," she said, her own voice coming out hoarse and dry. "It won't start. Just a click."
He nodded, placing the wrench on his toolbox. "Starter, most likely. Or the battery's shot for good."
He wiped his hands on a filthy rag and looked down the road she'd come from. "No sense in you walking back in this."
He grabbed a set of keys from a hook. "I'll lock up for a few. I'll give you a lift and take a look."
It was that simple. No debate, no hesitation. A practical solution to a practical problem. A wave of gratitude broke through the wall of anger and despair she had built around herself on the walk over. "Thank you," she said, and the words felt entirely inadequate.
He led her to his own truck, a beat-up old blue Ford, covered in scratches and dings. He opened the passenger door for her. "Hop in."
She climbed into the cab. It smelled of him. Not cologne, but something real: cheap soap, dry sweat, engine oil, and a faint hint of tobacco. He got in beside her, and she was suddenly aware of how small the space was. He was close, and she could feel the heat of his body radiating next to her. She was acutely aware of his size, of the way he took up the driver's seat, of his large, capable hands on the gearshift.
He drove in silence at first. Aria stared out the window, watching the familiar landscape pass by much faster than it had on foot. She was hyper-aware of every movement, every rattle of the truck. This was the first time she'd been in an enclosed space with a man in... a very long time. And this man was different. There was no undercurrent of tension in his silence, no feeling of threat. Just a quiet, solid presence.
"That's the one?" he asked as they approached her house.
"Yeah, that's it."
He pulled in behind her truck. He got out and hauled a heavy metal toolbox from the back. Aria followed him, feeling like a stranger at her own home. He had breached her perimeter, entered her fortress, but at her own invitation. It was a new and unsettling feeling.
He popped the hood of her truck, the sound echoing in the silence. He leaned over the engine, his head and shoulders disappearing as he began to expertly check wires and connections. Aria stood a few feet away, watching. She noticed the small details: the way he bit his lower lip in concentration, the beads of sweat that ran down his spine under his shirt, the thin white scar across the knuckle of his right index finger.
He wasn't just a mechanic now. He was a man, in her space, solving a problem she couldn't. And for some reason, that feeling of dependency, which she had always hated, wasn't so bad this time. It was… strangely comforting.
"Well," he finally said, straightening up. "Got good news and bad news."