Tell Me The Truth -H.S. AU

2

I've been at the garage since six this morning, finishing up some paperwork for my dad and my eyes are burning. I push my glasses up onto the top of my head and lean back in his desk chair, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms.

I didn't get much rest last night, since I was having an identity crisis, so I'm running on maybe four hours of sleep. I pick up the mug of coffee on the desk next to me and go to take a sip, but it's turned cold. I scrunch my nose in distaste and push away from the desk to stand up.

Walking to the break room I notice a lamp on in the bay of the shop. Huh. I don't remember that being on before. I shake my head, blaming my lack of sleep for the missed details and head for the coffee pot on the counter.

I open the container next to the coffee pot and see there's maybe a half teaspoon of coffee grounds left. I groan and open the cupboard above me to find- you guessed it, absolutely nothing.

"Fucking animals, these men." I grumble to myself and grab my cup to head out to the bays. There's a second coffee pot with supplies out there, so I guess that's where I'll be getting my coffee from until my dad swings by with a restock of supplies.

I maneuver my way around miscellaneous motorcycle parts and tools that have been discarded after someone decided they weren't needed anymore, and reach my best friend, the coffee pot, only to see that there's once again, no coffee grounds.

"None there either."

"Fuck!" I drop the coffee pot and knock everything else on the counter over when I whirl around to face the mysterious voice, but come face to face with nothing.

Am I hallucinating? There's no one here.

I look around the shop and don't see a single soul in here with me. Either that voice was in my head or this place is haunted as fuck, and the ghost wants a god damn cup of coffee.

I'm still frozen in place, frantically scanning the very empty garage when I hear a chuckle.

Can ghosts laugh? This one sure as shit can.

"Ah!" I yell when suddenly a body comes rolling out from underneath the car in front of me on one of those mechanic beds with wheels. Which, ironically, are called creepers.

Looking up at me from the ground, with a familiar smirk plastered on his face, is Mr. Green Eyes from yesterday. My heart rate finally starts to slow when I see it's in fact a real person, and not a ghost that was speaking to me. He stands up off of the creeper and grabs a clean rag off of the hood to wipe his hands.

"What are you doing here?" I blurt out. What I meant to say was what is he doing here so early.

"I work here." He raises his eyebrows at me. "What are you doing here?"

"I work here." I raise my eyebrows back at him. "I meant, what are you doing here so early? I'm usually the only one here before nine, especially on the weekends."

"Maverick gave me the okay to come in early." He shrugs his shoulders, picking up a tool from the bench next to him and pops the hood of the car.

He has a British accent? Who in fucking South Carolina, has a British accent.

I have to pry my eyes away from the section of his torso peeking out from under the bottom of his shirt when he reaches up to lock the hood open, but not before seeing the fern tattoos on his hips.

"How'd you get this job?" He asks suddenly, forcing my perverted eyes away from his body and back to his face.

"Who wouldn't want to work in the Taj Mahal of Motorcycle shops." I joke, pulling myself up to sit on the work table that's against the wall.