We didn’t say it, but only because we were still catching our breath. I traced the pattern of roses on his right biceps. The second time we’d ever had sex I’d asked him why he’d chosen those flowers. “My mother liked roses,” he’d replied. “Took me a while after I got that tattoo to realize how psycho it was to tattoo her favorite flower on my body. As if I could get her to care about me if I was wearing ’em.”
I’d always pitied him a little for his family situation. But now I knew how easy it was to shatter a family. My parents were still married, but they were only faking it. My mother hadn’t abandoned me when I was a third grader like Jude’s. But she’d abandoned the land of the living when my brother died.
We cuddled and kissed for a little while, but the clock ticked later and later, and I knew I had to leave.
“I can’t wait until next Wednesday,” I said, trying for a laugh.
He sighed instead. “This is temporary, right?”
“Right.”
“Good. Because I’m pretty sick of letting you go.”
“I love you so much,” I said.
He kissed me once more and then gave me a gentle shove to sit up. “I love you more. Now get out of here already.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jude
Craving meter: 1
The next morning I realized it had been a full week since Zachariah had given me the tip about Marker Motors. I hadn’t called Mr. Marker yet because I dreaded checking the felony-conviction box on the application.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, though.
So I fetched my father into the shop around ten. “I’m going to stop in at a garage that might have an opening for me,” I confessed. “If you sell this place, I’ll need to find something else.”
His face gave an uncomfortable twitch. “Yeah, okay. Good idea.”
I drove over there in my best shirt and clean jeans. At the front desk, I told the cashier that I’d heard there was an opening in body repair.
“Let me grab Mr. Marker,” she said immediately.
The shop was awfully classy. There was a clean, quiet waiting room with a flat-screen TV and vending machines. When I peered through the window into the repair bay, I saw a dozen lifts and at least as many mechanics.
Damn.
“You’re here about the bodywork job?”
I spun around to greet a tidy man in his sixties dressed in a golf shirt and khakis. He wore an apron, though, and had a little grease on his hands. “Hi. Yeah.” I was nervous, which was something that drugs used to cure for me. But now I had to face all these moments stone-cold sober. “My name is Jude Nickel…” I reached forward with my broken arm to shake his hand.
He shook it carefully. “That cast is probably not helping your dexterity.” He chuckled.
“That is true, but it comes off in ten days. Simple break, they tell me.” I did not elaborate on the cause. A beating by violent drug dealers would not look good on my résumé.
“Good to hear,” he said. “Tell me about your experience in the body shop. You’re a little young.”
“I started early. I was fourteen when I started helping my dad in his shop.”
A light dawned in his eyes. “Oh, you’re that Nickel.”
Shit. I felt a familiar jolt of dismay. I was so used to being infamous for killing the police chief’s son that it took a moment for me to realize that this man likely only recognized the name of a competing garage. “My father owns Nickel Auto Body.”
“Ah. And you don’t work there anymore?”
“I do work there. But Dad is thinking of selling the property, so I need a new gig.” That was a vast oversimplification of the problem, of course.
“I see. Come have a seat in my office. Let’s talk body repair.”
We did that, and I told him about my Prius client who couldn’t find anyone nearby to help him with a commercial decal. “I think there might be a niche there.”
“Fascinating,” he said. “I like your idea. So fill out an application for me. I’d like to hire you on a trial basis as soon as that arm is healed.”
And here came the awkward part. “I love this plan… But there’s something you need to know.” I swallowed hard. “Three years ago I was convicted of manslaughter. I was addicted to painkillers when a passenger in my car died. It’s the only time I’ve ever been arrested. And I’ve been clean now for a while.”
“How long have you been clean, Jude?”
This was exactly why I hadn’t looked for a job yet. “Eight months, sir. It doesn’t sound like much, but I’m doing really well. I cut out all the toxic people in my life, and I’m part of an active drug-treatment program. I’m tested every two weeks. The clinic will fax you the documentation if I ask them to.”
I watched for the grimace, but his expression was thoughtful instead. “Eight months is pretty impressive. My son never made it that far.”
That was so not what I’d expected him to say.
“See this?” He tapped the Marker and Son logo on his apron. “I thought I’d always have my son working beside me. But I lost him when he OD’d five years ago.”
Jesus. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
Mr. Marker smiled. “Thank you. It took me a long time to cope with it. This business was a shambles for a while. I was sure his addiction was all my fault.”