Chapter 1
Mia
The check engine light came on a couple of months ago. I checked- the engine was still there and running. I noticed the rattling noise but didn’t see anything obviously loose as I checked and double checked. So I decided that the little engine light was being overly sensitive about what was obviously a minor issue. When the rattling became a clanging, the little light started flashing. It might have just been my eyes, but it seemed to be burning even more intensely than before. I dutifully checked the engine again. It was still present and accounted for but definitely complaining. I checked to see if there were any flags with ‘I’m broken’ on them, but the engine was flag free so I decided to keep on rolling.
Apparently, that little red engine light finally got tired of being ignored. This morning, it started flashing with the first turn of the key, and the engine, while still looking marvelous to my untrained eye, escalated from rattles and clangs to a shuddering, coughing, wheezing mess. I gave the little red light the finger and rested my head on the steering wheel. I don’t have the cash to fix the car. I need the car to keep my job. I need the car to get me to school so I can get out of my miserable dead-end job. The car has to run. I bite my lip and tell myself not to cry. I have a few hundred bucks in my savings account. It’s supposed to be my rainy day fund. Even though there isn’t a cloud in the sky, it feels like it’s pouring buckets on my parade. The car has to run.
I take in a deep breath that only shudders a bit less than my poor engine and gingerly put the reluctant machine into gear. It sputters and stops. “Dammit,” I say under my breath and cross my fingers as I turn the key again. She fires up and I find the balance between rolling to a stop in neutral and keeping my foot on the gas to keep the RPMs up. The little engine light is flashing madly. I toss my scarf over it so I can’t see it anymore. There’s no need to be pissy about it, I think.
Somewhere around 10th Street, I’m whispering a nonstop prayer promising everything from church every Sunday to celibacy if only I can get to the garage. I pry my hands off the steering wheel 10 minutes later when I pull into a little garage off 5th street. My friend, Cara, said that she brought her car here, and they had done a good job. She also told me to ask for Mike and to show a lot of cleavage and flirt a bit to get a discount.
Looking in the rearview mirror, I swipe on mascara and lip gloss, pull my v-neck t-shirt as low as it goes, and rearrange the girls to maximize their view. Chin up and shoulders back, I concentrate on exuding a ‘come hither’ confidence. The truth is, I’m not very good at playing the seductress. I don’t flaunt myself or flirt. Hell, I haven’t even had a date in the last 6 months- unless you count that guy who slid into the booth across from me at McDonald’s, ate his happy meal and told me about the clock in his chest. He offered to let me listen to it, and sadly, that’s the best offer I’ve had in a long time.
It’s not that I don’t think I’m attractive or have low self-esteem. I just don’t have time or energy to deal with it all. I’m a month away from finishing grad school with my Master’s in Business. I’ve worked my ass off to get here. No student loans. No massive credit card debt. I’m pretty freaking proud of myself- because I’ve done it all myself. My parents and I don’t see eye to eye on anything, and I’ve been on my own since I was 16.
Needless to say, dating hasn’t been my priority for the last several years. Survival has. Most of the time, my curly hair is in a poufy ponytail, my teeth are brushed, my clothes are clean, and that’s as good as it gets. Today is much the same, except my jeans have grease on them from wiping my hands clean after all of my diligent engine checking.
I give myself a bit of pep talk as I push into the office with its dingy little ‘Open’ sign propped next to the door. I am sexy, I tell myself over and over, trying to channel my inner sex goddess and paste a bright smile on my face.
I step into a small anteroom that seems to be decorated in gray with accents of gray. The walls are covered with tattered posters of classic cars with classic beauties draped across their hoods and signs that say ‘No Smoking’ and’ Payment Due at Time of Service’. I mentally calculate the total in both my checking and savings account. If I juggle my power bill until next paycheck and eat only Spaghetti-O’s and Ramen noodles- I have just over $700 to fix my poor beleaguered car. There had been a buzz with the opening of the door, so I wait in front of a messy blue metal desk with a 1970’s office chair that appears to be held together by duct tape and hope.
Voices drift in from the garage area. I can’t make out the words, but the exchange has some heat to it. I frown, trying to listen. I don’t need Mike pissed off and not in the mood to give a girl a break. The door bangs open and through it walks a tall, lean, toned, delicious looking man reeking of masculinity, and if I’m not mistaken, trouble- big trouble.