Taking Mine (2 page)

THE GARAGE IS BUSY
when I pull the Chevelle into the shop a little past one in the morning. Toby’s Car and Auto is a run-of-the-mill auto shop: oil changes and tire rotations. But sometimes, half the time, it's a little iffy. A chop-shop.

Taylor’s dad died when Taylor turned eighteen, leaving Toby's to him. It never was a clean business, but Taylor and Kip banded together to venture as close to legit as possible. They've amassed a large clientele. A buyer will give an order for a certain amount of parts that they want, and we deliver. Mostly classic cars that are harder to find, sometimes a mass quantity of a certain brand. In the between time, we lift and break down automobiles and sell the parts on the black market. The sum of a vehicle is worth more in pieces than whole. It’s how Taylor and Kip met.

They’d been lifting cars together since high school under Taylor’s dad’s watch, Todd Moore. He wasn’t an honest man, per se, but he was a decent man in the eyes of the three of us. When Kip and I were struggling after our mom left, Todd took us under his wing. He didn’t want to see us go into foster care, so he gave us what he could, taught us what he couldn’t, and left us with backbone.

My ears ring after I cut the engine, the sound echoing off the metal walls. The shop doors open from both sides of the warehouse, giving access to the alley and the main street. Dan slides the overhead door down behind me.

“Lilly,” he says, smiling down at me through the window. “You always preferred rust buckets.”

I roll my eyes. “I take what I can get.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about your moral compass. Still afraid to boost minivans?”

Dan's ribbing rolls off my shoulders. He acts like a hard-ass, but I remember when he returned a car after he found an infant car seat in the trunk. Becoming a father kind of does that to a man.

“Is yours still parked out back?”

He laughs and steps away from the door, letting me out. “Melanie took the kids to her mom's for the week. I'm stuck taking the bus.”

“A carjacker who takes the bus to work. Comical. Is Taylor in?”

“In his office.” Dan closes the driver door behind me and peeks his head in. I laugh when I hear him gag. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that smell?”

“Was your mom riding bitch?” Ethan asks, laughing as Dan covers his nose with the neck of his shirt.

Dan punches him in the shoulder and they tussle for a moment before returning to work, removing an engine from a Thunderbird. Totally a Dan steal.

There's a thin slice of light coming from the door to Taylor’s office. The blinds are drawn over the window he uses to keep watch over productivity. I know he had to hear me enter, so I tap lightly on the door as I open it.

“Working late…” My words trail off as I scan his empty office. His usually tidy desk is littered with activity logs and inventory sheets. A few balls of scrunched up paper are tossed around the wastebasket next to the door.

“It looks like you’re the one working late.” A small shriek flies from my lips as I jump away from the voice behind me. Taylor’s smirk gives away that he was trying to sneak up on me.

I slap the back of my hand against his chest. “Stop being a creeper.”

“What about you? You’re the one snooping in my office.” He peaks through the blinds, looking into the shop. “I don’t remember an order for a Chevelle.”

“There's not one,” I say, leaning against the glass partition. Taylor holds the keys in his fist as he awaits my explanation. “I was hoping you’d let me sell it.”

“You're in need of some cash?”

There’s no way in hell I’m telling him about my suspension from the scholarship program. Taylor has always been pretty good at keeping things between the two of us, but I'm not taking the slim chance he might tell Kip. “I need a new computer for school.”

He walks around his desk. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’ll always help you out.” His eyes rake over my face, trying to gauge my honesty.

“I know we haven’t been getting in any large orders lately.”

“Toby’s is doing fine. We’ve got a couple of jobs lined up.” He swivels slightly in his chair, still watching me.

If Taylor decides not to sell the car, I’m royally screwed, in more ways than one. It leaves me being the one to ditch it, and that’s always risky if there’s a dispatch out. We eye each other over the length of his tiny office. Taylor’s dirty-blond hair looks two-toned under the fluorescent lights. His Italian heritage reflects in his skin and eye color, both close to a honey-brown hue. His features are strong, giving him the all-American look.

“I don’t have anyone here to dismantle it. Workers are going to be here in…” He eyes an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Six hours or so, and we can’t have an undocumented vehicle sitting in the shop. What exactly were you hoping I’d do with it?”

“What about Dan and Ethan? It'll take them a couple hours, max three, to dismantle the Thunderbird.”

He thinks for a moment and then taps his knuckles against the desk. “Tell you what, I’ll break it down tonight, personally, but you’re on inventory duty for the next month.”

I scan the inventory logs heaped across his desk. “Something tells me this isn’t much of a hardship on your end.”

Taylor's smirk tells me that I'm right. “Come on, I haven’t broken a car down in years. I’m drawing the short stick here.”

“What if I help?”

“You can help by getting started on these check-in sheets.” He picks up a stack of papers almost a foot high and drops them on the desk in front of me.

“I don’t get an option, do I?”

“None,” he says, standing. “I’ll take care of the car for you tonight, given I get fifty percent of the profit for half the work.”

“Fifty percent? No way. Thirty-five.”

“Are you trying to negotiate dropping a car on me last minute? You’re lucky I don’t make you dump it.”

I inwardly cringe. “I’ll have to stay late at least twice a week to organize the mess in inventory. Work with me here.”

He clicks his tongue as he thinks. “Forty percent and maybe next time you’ll think about just coming to me for money when you need it.”

“You had to add a little chastisement to harden the blow, didn’t you?”

His shrug is halfhearted. “Kip would kick my ass otherwise. Speaking of which, I’m guessing you need me to cover for you tonight, too?” I give him a cheeky smile. “Thought so. Okay, fine. You start working on the stockroom tonight, so when Kip double-checks the time tomorrow you’ll have a legit alibi.”

Not really what I wanted to hear, considering I’ve got class in the morning, but I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks, Taylor,” I say, kissing him on the cheek as he leaves me with a mountain of paperwork.

I PLACE MY THIRD CUP
of coffee on my desk and it knocks my phone to the floor. Too tired to pick it up, I leave it. A few students non-discreetly side-eye me.

“Making new friends on the first day of the semester, hmm?” Kaley picks up my phone and hands it to me.

“You know me, always the people person.”

“Be careful, that glorious attitude of yours is going to ward off hopeful prospects.”

The thought of any male coming within ten feet of me this morning pisses me off. I blame Taylor. “I can only hope.”

“Come on, Lilly. It’s the start of a new school year.”

Kaley is the closest thing I could ever call a best friend, but days like today I want to duct tape her mouth shut. I swear she wakes up every morning with the sun shining out of her ass. She's too damn happy. I didn’t get home until four and my earliest class is at eight. Three hours of sleep isn’t conducive for me to pretend to like people. It’s really not.

“This year is going to suck balls,” I say, copying the important notes Professor Whitticker is highlighting on the syllabus.

“That doesn’t really deviate from normal, but why is that?” she asks, lounging against her armrest, braiding her long brown hair. Some may think Kaley’s the stereotypical rich girl from uptown with her high-end designer handbags—which she is—but she’s also ridiculously smart. We met in high school and she still ceases to amaze me. She never takes notes, barely pays attention, and passes each class with ease. I, on the other hand, bust my ass for a couple of mediocre test scores.

“I’m on academic probation.”

She uncrosses her legs and sits forward. “I’m sorry, it just sounded like you said academic probation.”

“Since when do you have hearing problems? You can hear gossip four rows down while the slides play.”

“Just because I hear you doesn’t mean I’m listening. Now repeat that for me.”

I finish off my note reminding me to bring back the syllabus signed next class period. God forbid I lose five points. No, seriously, I hope God forbids it.

“Technically I’m suspended from the scholarship program. I get zero moolah until I bring up my GPA.”

“My ears are protesting as you speak.”

“Tell your ears they need to take advice from your legs and open up.”

“It’s the same scenario. My legs don't open for just anyone they see.” She recrosses her legs and smiles at the boy one row down.

I roll my eyes. “Does that include Knee-Slapper Tommy?”

She quits smiling and groans. “I can’t escape the horror.”

I tsk. “You should have known the same guy who sings show tunes as he—”

“Okay! Okay,” she whisper-yells for me to stop. After a few moments of silence, Kaley leans into me. “I know a study group that gets together a few times a week. Might be able to help.”

I hate study groups. They’re equivalent to group assignments. Plus, with doing overtime to clean up inventory, I'm going to have zero time for anything else. “Maybe,” I answer noncommittally.

I asked Kaley to tutor me one time and it was an epic fail. Kaley trying to explain anything is like trying to take directions from a drunk. They know what they’re saying, but the other person trying to listen is confused as fuck. Only she makes sense to herself.

Professor Whitticker ends the class early. Even with enough caffeine in my system to send a rocket to the moon, I'm slow to pack up.

“Lunch,” Kaley says, already leading the way.

“As long as they have more coffee.”

We end up at the cafe right off campus. With free Wi-Fi and hours until midnight or later, it's a popular student destination.

As I sip my fourth cup of the day, I question whether or not I should have gotten that extra shot of espresso. “How many classes are you taking this semester?” I ask.

Kaley keeps eying the carrot top in the corner in cut-off jeans. I snap my fingers to direct her attention back to me.

She blinks. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Classes? How many are you taking?”

She ignores my question and muses, “Since when do hipsters think blue jean shorts work?”

“Jorts,” our waitress chimes in, refilling our cups.

Sometimes I feel like the people around me are talking in a foreign language and failed to notify me.

A boy with bright blond hair and tall enough to touch the ceiling waltzes up to our table. Kaley's back is to him as he holds a finger up to his lips, signaling for me to keep my mouth shut. He places his hands on the back of her chair and tips it backward. Kaley screams, trying to grip the table in front of her. He catches her right as she's about to hit the ground.

“What the fuck, asshole?” Kaley yells, not bothering to suppress her outburst.

He laughs and eases her back upright. “Sounds like you're just as uptight as you were last semester.”

I eye Kaley. The last word I'd use to describe her is uptight, and I'm confused as to why this boy seems familiar enough with her to think she is. He pulls the chair next to us and settles down, lounging with his legs spread apart.

“And you still have a problem with boundaries, I see.” She smiles at him. “Lilly, this is Lance. He's in the study group I was telling you about.”

He blows me a kiss. “Nice to meet you, Lilly.”

“Charming,” I say. “Can we go?”

Lance nods in approval as if he was the one I was speaking to. “This place in general gives me the creeps. I bet there's a checklist somewhere that says crazy, stalker ex-boyfriends must visit here on a regular basis. The free Internet is a major turn-on. Helps with the online stalking.”

I look at Kaley. “You have enough crazy stalker ex-boyfriends to fill this place twice.”

“You're right,” she says, holding up a finger to signal our waitress.

Lance stays put, swinging his knees back and forth as he watches us pay our checks. I'm uneasy with how comfortable he is. In some ways, he reminds me of Kaley. She can feign casualness better than anyone I know. Except, Lance's isn't false. It's a real sense of familiarity he carries with him, and he watches Kaley with zero interest in hiding it.

“Catch you later?” Lance asks, standing with us.

“Unfortunately,” Kaley says. “The group still meets at five?”

His smile grows as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Finally going to hit up a study session this year, Kaley? Maybe you're more flexible than I thought.”

“Um, no,” she says, applying a layer of lip gloss. “But Lilly might.”

“I never said that.”

“You said maybe, still counts.”