Page 8 of Sparrow

Which is probably why I love it so much.

After all, thinking means remembering, Processing. Understanding. And I spend most of my time trying not to do any of that. Letting my mind run loose means dealing with ghosts I don’t want to acknowledge.

Ghosts I left behind when I moved to Hawke’s Wood and started a whole new life.

“Hand me that wrench.”

It’s a command, not a request, and for a moment I want to say no, just to piss him off.

But he wouldn’t be Mars Hawke if he didn’t try to boss me around. And I’ve never gone out of my way to piss him off before.

I usually do it without any real intention. Just pure luck.

I nearly grin at the thought but stop myself when he pulls his head out from under the hood of the ‘48 Chevy pickup he’s working on and scowls at me.

“Orion. You listening or are you just here to look pretty?”

This brings a scowl to my face as well, and I glare at him. I grab the wrench he wants from the tool chest next to me and slap it into hit hand. “That’s low, even from you. I never stand around looking pretty.”

Mars smirks, then, and a second later lets it grow into a full grin. “Really? That’s not what the girls in town think. I was talking to Sammy the other day and she said Wendy from the cafe thinks–”

I launch myself at him before he can finish the sentence, swinging an arm in an attempt to punch him cleanly in the nose, but as usual, Mars is too fast for me. He ducks out of the way and lets me slide past him, then whips out his own hand and catches my arm, spinning me until my back is against the truck.

“Too slow, Orion. As usual.”

Then, because he’s Mars and is therefore both demanding control freak and jolly green giant, he grins and lets me go.

“Don’t know why you’re getting so upset, anyhow. Wendy’s a cute girl. She’d take good care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” I growl, shaking out my arm and stalking to the back of the truck. I shove the tool chest his way, my anger demanding some relief, and barely keep myself from pounding my fists into the cherry red of the truck’s surface.

It would be stupid, of course. The gang has spent weeks working on this truck, restoring it to its full life, and I’d be an idiot to destroy all the work we’ve done. Hell, I was the one who laid down that bright red finish.

I’d kill anyone else who touched it.

This truck also represents something important: a project from the town when they’ve been too few and far between lately. The garage is run by the Black Oaks, the local motorcycle gang that belongs partially to Hawke’s Wood but mostly to Mars himself. It’s Mars’ gang and I don’t think anyone would argue that. Which makes this Mars’ garage.

Fitting, since it’s attached to his house.

The garage has been here for all of time, as far as I know, and is a fixture in town like so many small businesses are in a place like this. The local mechanic. The bakery. The coffee shop and bookstore and fire station. The vet and the doctor and the dentist. Hawke’s Wood has them all, and I’ve always assumed they’re the sort of businesses that are passed from father to son or daughter, and then on down the family. Hell, Mars’ own family are the ones who started this town, years and years ago.

Hawke’s Wood takes tradition seriously, and part of that tradition has always been that everyone in town brings their cars, motorcycles, and even bicycles to Mars when they need repair or renovation.

Lately, though...

Well, like I said, projects have been getting fewer, and the garage hasn’t been as busy as it once was. This truck here is one of only three vehicles in the space, two of them still up on lifts so we can work on the engines from underneath, and though Mars has been pretending it doesn’t matter, I’ve seen the wear of it on his face. The deeper lines. The down turned mouth.

The eyes constantly turning toward the front of the garage like he’s just waiting for things to get back to normal.

So yeah, I’d be pretty fucking stupid to ruin this truck when we’re nearly finished with it.

Doesn’t mean I’m going to keep my mouth shut when it comes to Mars making fun of me, though. I may not be a native here–only been in town for ten years now–but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him talk shit.

I walk around to where he’s standing and glance down into the motor. The truck came in old and rusted out and we’ve been slowly replacing everything in the engine, as well as half the body. It hasn’t been fast–we had to source a lot of the parts from junk yards far from our mountain–but it’s nearly finished now, and it’s looking very solid.

“Looking good, old man,” I mutter. “Think you might have it done by the time Jerry comes back for it after all.”

“No thanks to you,” he grunts, reaching down to tighten the gasket holding in one of the spark plugs. “You spent more time admiring your own reflection in the truck’s paint job than painting it.”