The Tutor (BOOK 2: OMEN KING SERIES)

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Jenny Johnson

I shimmy my way underneath Wendy's trusty black Toyota Prius, ready to tackle yet another pesky oil change leak. As I reach for my trusty wrench, I can't help but wonder if I should be charging Wendy for my services. I mean, I practically live under her car, tightening bolts and fixing leaks more often than I change my socks. But deep down, I know I won't charge her. She deserves better than that, even if my bank account doesn't agree.

With a determined twist, I tighten the offending bolt and brace myself for the inevitable oil surge. Just in the nick of time, I instinctively pull my face away, narrowly avoiding a face full of black goo.

Note to self: invest in a stylish oil change face shield.

Emerging triumphantly from beneath the car, I dust off my blue jumpsuit with the Johnson emblem on it-now more grease than fabric-and approach Wendy with a big grin. Ah, Wendy, my favorite geriatric old woman. She may not be my actual grandma, but she's got enough sass and wit to rival any octogenarian. I proudly claim her as my own, much to her amusement. And let's be real, who needs blood ties when you have someone as awesome as Wendy in your life?

"Your car was leaking oil again," I raise an eyebrow, the familiar sound of tools clanging fills the garage, a harsh reminder of the routine I can't escape.

She turns her head towards me, her movements deliberate and unhurried, her eyes meeting mine. Her face contorts into a sympathetic half-smile, like she can see through my bravado. She raises her hand, palm open, inviting me to meet it with my own. I raise my hand slowly and give her a light high-five, the small gesture somehow grounding me amidst the chaos.

Wendy, the pint-sized old woman, stands before me, her pale skin contrasting against her shockingly vibrant blue eyes. Her short hair, as white as fresh snow, frames her face. Today, she's sporting a bold Hawaiian shirt tucked into a pair of crisp white jeans, complete with slippers that have seen better days. I notice her glasses are absent, causing me to purse my lips in concern.

"Come on, Wendy, you really need those glasses," I chide, my arms crossing over my chest.

"Oh, honey, those idiotic doctors have no clue that this 79-year-old gal still sees like a newborn," she retorts, swatting away my worry with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Well... those idiotic doctors have degrees, but I don't press the issue. I know better. "You know, you look like a 23-year-old, like you just stepped out of a college dorm room. The kind of person who still has pizza boxes stacked up to the ceiling and an impressive collection of empty beer bottles,"

Wendy's eyes light up with amusement as she flashes me a playful smile. "Oh, I definitely feel like a fresh-faced 23-year-old trapped in a world of responsibilities and adulting," she quips, giving her ass a playful slap.

I can't help but burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the garage, a brief escape from the weight of my own life. Just as I'm enjoying this lighthearted moment, my uncle's voice booms from his office, abruptly cutting through the laughter. "Jenny, a moment!" he calls out, his tone demanding attention, like he's always got something important to say, always wanting to pull me back into the grind.

I reluctantly tear my gaze away from Wendy, glancing towards my uncle's office before turning back to her. Wendy rolls her eyes, the sparkle in her eyes dimming just a bit.

"Tell that old geezer to fuck off," she retorts, defiantly flipping off the direction of the office, her spirit unbroken even in the face of my uncle's authority.

With a smirk, I meet her gaze, but inside, a pit forms in my stomach. "Alright, I'll be right back, Wendy. Just promise me you won't cause any collateral damage while I'm away," I playfully warned, giving her a mock serious look.