The Rental

𝙍𝙀𝙀𝘿

After the girl left yesterday, I made it my personal mission to ruin Mateo's life.

The kid had one fucking job.

  Out of the entire process of getting this shit hole presentable enough to rent, the only task I gave him was to maintain the cleanliness of the house.

   I told him to clean up the yard before anyone came and he couldn't even do that.

   I didn't give him as much hell as I wanted to because he had a race, and I know what it's like to ride with a lot on your mind. Although the dickhead makes my blood pressure sky rocket, I would never want to risk him taking a sharp turn that ends his career or even potentially his life.

   For the first time in 4 hours, I looked up from the bike before me, grabbing the rag on my work table and wiping the paint specs off of my hands. The mask I'm wearing to protect myself from the fumes of the paint job I'm doing is digging into my skin.

   My eyes wandered around the garage, bouncing around between all of the bikes, tools, and even the popped hood of that car Luca is working on. Both Matt and Luke are out racing tonight, which is expected during this time of year. Every weekend is usually packed with bidders, racers, groupies, and adrenaline junkies. Eventually, my pupils landed on the hot pink Yamaha in the far corner, half covered with a protective sheet.

   I opened the garage door for some airflow then yanked the mask off my head, tossing it aside.

Crouching, I ran my fingers alongside the vast expanse of scratched paint. The bold streaks so harsh the surface was thin at the touch. For a brief moment I allowed myself to wallow in the reflection that stared back at me in what was left of the reflective paint. A beautiful exterior damaged; exposing what laid beneath. Without thinking my fingers found their way to my left temple near my eyebrow. The soft tissue sensitive under my callouses.

The sound of footsteps crunching up the driveway pulled me out of whatever consumed me. I threw the sheet back on the bike and turned to face the kid entering my garage door.

"You lost?" I questioned, not bothering to put a shirt on. I wasn't expecting company.

"Not unless you're Reed." The blonde square replied calmly. He wore a pink polo and khaki shorts, the universal frat dick uniform. I held my sigh and turned back to my work, picking the rag up again to get the rest of the paint off my hands.

"I don't do pictures, photos, or teach."

When I didn't get a reply, I turned back around. I was astonished to see that he had the audacity to touch the covered Yamaha in the corner. He observed a covered bike.

"You still haven't fixed it?"

I paused.

"It's been two years. I thought you would've bounced back by now."

In two short strides, I had his collar balled up in my fists. His eyebrows raised and he seemed startled. It was satisfying to instill any sort of unease in someone. My upper lip quivered in amusement at the thought of pounding his face in.

"Can I help you?" I questioned through gritted teeth.

He let out a choked laugh and tried to throw his hands out in surrender. Like the responsible man I am, I dropped him.

"Hey man. I'm just interested in getting a bike fixed,"

You should've just said that, you fucking idiot.

"What bike." I said, more as a threat than a question.

To my surprise, he pulled up a picture of a vintage pro racer bike that must've costed his entire college fund. Though, I suppose guys that dress like this, can suffer the casualties. I'm also assuming it's just to re-sell it.

"Touch ups and restoring are typically-"

"I'm not touching up. I want everything redone on this so it's ready to ride. And I want a wrap on it." He corrected.

On that note, Luca must've heard my voice, as I turned and saw him by the door with crossed arms and an unreadable expression. I didn't even hear him come in. He shut the door behind himself and lit a cigarette, despite our previous conversations about me making this house a smoke free zone. I looked away with a ticking jaw. I'll deal with him later.

"Ride?" I repeated.

"Ride."

Before I could ask him if he's secretly the best rider to ever exist or a fucking moron, his phone began to ring. He held a finger up to me and turned away, greeting who must be his girlfriend.

I looked back at Luca whose hair tousled in response to the incoming dry breeze, his eyes fixed on me as the bud of his cigarette glowed.

...

The entire bathroom fogged five minutes into my shower. My head is pounding.

I press my forehead into the cold glass shower door, allowing the water to cascade down the entire left side of my body. My body twitched in response to the contact, teeth sinking into my bottom lip at the warmth on my left knee. I winced as my phone chimed.

I slid open the door and reached for the bright screen, wiping it clear of steam then reading the notification:

𝘾𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥: 𝙇𝙚𝙞𝙖 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩 $1600

Two month security deposit, although I insisted she only needed one. Either way I couldn't spend it. I wouldn't touch the money in case she changes her mind and backs out.

I don't know why she agreed so quickly with so little instigation. Yet again, I don't know why I said yes to the first person who came by.

Something about the way her eyes, an eerily similar shade of hazel like mine, sparkled as she explained her circumstances. How she moved here last minute. A freshman in college with little to no housing options.

That subconscious whisper in my gut told me to say yes to her. The same one that warned me against taking a full speed turn that night of the cup, that I chose to ignore.

It's been a while since that master bedroom was occupied. Given she's a student, we probably won't see much of her. Especially since we're always busy as well.

It was left untouched since Hudson packed up and left.

Slamming my phone against the sink ledge, I put my head directly under the water.

Forcing myself to think of other things, my mind wandered back to the interaction I had earlier today.

"It's been two years. I thought you would've bounced back by now."

I've never seen that kid around before. Yet again, even if I did, I wouldn't remember him. Not only does he look like the stereotypical UCLA frat dick, but the far recollection of my past weekends are nothing but a blur.

Memories of bittersweet victories and superficial celebrations that soon ceded to exist.

Everything is temporary.

Even the heartbeat beneath our our rib cage.