Gracie Abrams is eking out a solitary existence, fighting day-in, day-out against the drain of working customer service and nursing two newborn kittens in her off time. Out on her own ever since her sister moved in with her boyfriend, the burden of...
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"Looks like you've been into some trouble, huh, honey?" His voice was amicable enough, and I could tell instinctually that this was the kind of man who had one or two kids off at college, maybe another in a trade school. Each one, he probably had an assortment of pictures up in his office shack. His wife, steady and lasting for decades, showed up in some of the pictures, but they weren't the main attraction.
No.
This was the kind of man who'd started a family because it was expected of him. He didn't care much for the wife but became pleasantly surprised at how much he treasured those kids they'd made.
Affairs weren't such a big deal to him—he probably didn't think his wife would mind if she found out.
But if anyone ever said anything against his kids, he'd rip them a new asshole, shaming that person's kinks and airing out all their skeletons like they were the most shocking, scandalizing thing he'd ever witnessed.
I blinked, forcing myself to get out of my head. "Haha. Yeah, my neighborhood was attacked last night. The guy must've had some kind of torch on him. Can't imagine he'd have a flamethrower. Woke up to see this in the parking stand."
The man wasn't listening, and it's not like he could even hear me if he tried paying attention. No. He was already moving right along.
"You've come to the right place, hun. We do business with a reputable scrapper. Of course, since the vehicle isn't fully whole, we can't discount quite as much as if it was an alright piece."
I stepped next to the man's side, staring at the charred back end of my trunk, bouncing up and down in the breeze. Kakashi was nowhere in sight.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and a brief spike of calm fell down my skin. Maybe everything will turn out alright. Maybe I can actually do this.
"I understand," I said, quickly, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. "I understand the difficulty of trading this in, but more than anything, I need a new car. I have to work tomorrow, so I need to walk out with a new vehicle today."
"Of course," the man said, holding out his hand, no smile upon his cheeks. "Name's Roger Benten. We'll get you set up with a new dig."
I took his hand, our calluses from two different livelihoods grating against one another. "Gracie Abrams."
When the touch lingered perhaps a little longer than it should have, I cleanly retracted my hand, turned to the lot of cars, and moved the conversation forward.
"Can you bring me to the cheapest ones in good condition, please?"
"Right away, right away," Roger said, sweeping his arm out and taking the lead, escorting me into the lot.
