Fragile Little Things ✓

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Jem

I’M RARELY THIS LEVEL of annoyed. It’s like every muscle in my body is taught, drawn back, and I can’t see anything—can’t focus straight on anything other than the exact moment he put his hands on her. In front of me. That fucker knew exactly what he was doing. And some part of me was made at her, too, for letting him. For going back to him so quickly.

Except I can’t be. I’ve known Indigo for, what? Two days and a few hours at most? I have no right to be feeling this way. But I do. And I fucking hate it. Because maybe, maybe if I hadn’t said those two stupid fucking words, things wouldn’t be the way they are now. Use me. Really? What the fuck had I been thinking?

I’m not built for this kind of shit. I’m the person who sits on the opposite end on a table of the drama. The theatrics. This shit is fucked up, and way out of my pay scale. I should just throw in the fucking towel. I mean, a road trip? It’s bad news. She’s with someone else, and I’m not into cheating.

But I can’t sit back and watch her be used. I’ve already done it once—been a passive spectator—and it ruined the best parts of my life. I have to try. Once. Just one shot at convincing her she deserves better, or at least try to understand her reasons for staying with someone like that, and if it doesn’t work, I’m out.

Then I realize.

I don’t have her fucking number.

“J?”

I lift my head to glance up at Eli, who’s staring at me as I tighten the bolt to the on the piece I’m working on.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I deadpan. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Pretty sure that’s too tight,” he points out. “We need to be able to remove that later.”

“Hey man,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm. “I didn’t know this was your project.”

Eli whistles through his teeth. “Damn, I was just trying to help. You don’t have to be such a bitch.”

“Mind your own business,” I say.

I’m getting desperate for the money. The emails from the hospital have been getting more and more frequent. More and more urgent. With my next check from the garage only clocking in in two weeks, I was forced to quickly admit that the tracks were my only way out. I got Trent to lend me his Supra, and he’s even fine with me docking off a chunk of the mileage and messing it up a little.

He’s been insisting that he owed me from the time I fixed his sister’s tyre when she’d been stranded on the side of the road back in high school. I told him it was basic human decency, but he wouldn’t listen.

His sister’s the apple of his eye, and I get it, really, I do. Because I’d give my life for Gianna and Poppy, my baby sisters. Trent and I were both raised the Southern way, and he’d moved to the city when his job demanded it. Me, I stayed because I had to.

Because there are things in this city that I won’t leave. No matter what.

Pulling my mind out of the rut it was heading toward, I focus on the object in front of me. I’ve been working on the 1996 Toyota Supra for a month now — a red model, and an absolute fucking monster.

At one stage of my life, I would’ve sold my soul to get one drive in this car. Downpipe, turbochargers, suspension, and a little bit of work on the ECU. Trent already cut down extra weight from the interior. By the time I’m done, it’ll be impossible to beat this baby.

Unfortunately, having this kind of car in the garage makes it very obvious what my intentions with it are. Eli’s the first one brave enough to bring it up. “You’re going to race?”