Page 116 of Crash Course
"Then buy it. You, out of all of us, have never been indecisive. You know what you need. And, trust me, this family? Everyone in it wants you happy. You’re the one always taking the underdog’s side. No matter who it is, you always make sure there’s peace. That’s what I thought you were doing when you came after me. Trying to talk me into working things out with Zeke."
"Hell, we’re way past that stage. Y’all gotta figure that shit out on your own."
Voices sounded and Ash peered back toward the garage, where their family came through the open doors. He came back to Cruz and met his eye. "I know. But it won’t come from me. Ball is in his court. Anyway, if you want this house, buy it. Life is too short. Sometimes I feel like we’re all chasing a ghost. You especially. Dad was downright shitty to you."
Chasing a ghost.Hadn't Cruz said the same damned thing to Cilla? Maybe he and Ash had more in common than Cruz thought. And suddenly, Cruz didn't feel quite so alone in a house full of people.
He blew out a quick breath. Got his head together. "I was a handful."
"We all were. He was hardest on you. His intentions were good, but he was tough. He couldn’t see you wanted to please him. But he’s gone, you’ve grown up, and if he were standing here, he’d tell you to buy that house if it’ll make you happy. If you want my opinion, you’re done earning his approval. Go get what you want. The fam will get behind you. I promise."
At 4:00 a.m.,wide awake and thinking about nothing but Rohan hacking into a government database, Cruz left Cilla snoozing in his bed and headed down to his workshop to deal with the Stutz’s oil leak.
The trace dye kit had finally been delivered and he needed the mental break that working on cars allowed. His own form of therapy, he supposed.
Walking in the chilly darkness that a sixty-degree morning offered, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and took in the fresh mountain air. Already, his mind quieted and his neck loosened.
He pushed the barn doors open, entered the garage, and slapped the switch to his left. Artificial light assailed him and he closed his eyes for a few seconds before slowly opening them. Eyes sufficiently adjusted, he made his way to the worktable where Mom had left the trace dye kit. Apparently, she didn’t want it cluttering things up in the Friary so she’d walked it all the way down here.
Jeez, could she give a guy a second to pick up a package?
That was his mother, though. Neat Nelly.
Grabbing his top-up bottle, he poured half an ounce of dye into it, combining it with the bit of oil inside before popping the hood on the Stutz. After pouring the mixture into the engine, he closed the hood, hopped behind the wheel, and fired up the car, taking pride in the low rumble. It soothed him, brought him back to the first time he’d driven this baby. Dang, he loved this car.
He let the engine run for a minute, flipped on the headlights, and eased out of the garage into darkness. He’d drive around long enough for the oil to leak and then put his handy-dandy UV light to work.
Three miles later, he cruised up the driveway and spotted a light on in the Theater.
Rohan no doubt.
Guilt slammed him. He’d saddled his brother with Cilla’s case and here he was screwing around with the Stutz.
Just a little longer.
That’s all he needed to find the leak. Then he’d get cleaned up and join Rohan.
He backed the Stutz into its normal spot, shut her down and slid old newspapers he kept on hand under the car to catch the leaking oil.
After killing a few minutes, he spotted a few fresh drops—beautiful—and grabbed the yellow glasses out of the box the kit came in. Glasses on and UV light in hand, he raised the hood again.
Aiming the light at the engine, he hunted around. Nothing glowing. He kept at it, bending and twisting, checking seals and tubes and . . .nada.
Time to look from underneath. He raised the car up on the hydraulic lift—worth every penny, that sucker—and repeated the same routine with the light.
Bingo.
Oil drain plug.
Green glow.
Seriously?
He’d checked that thing. Maybe ten times. Might as well have been a hundred. He’dcheckedit.
But there it was, glowing like a Times Square marquis. Could be worn. Or misaligned. After all this nonsense, he’d change it out completely. See if that did the trick.
Too tired to be pissed off, he laughed. Had to.
