Page 20 of Crash Course
Beside the empty rock glass sat a remote. He hit the button and the drapes swung open, revealing sunlight splashing over the mountains beyond.
He loved the view from this spot. On warmer days, he’d wander out to his patio with his morning coffee and sit quietly while the birds played in the wind and tweeted at each other.
Lately, he didn’t bother. He wasn’t sure why. Restlessness and colder temps he supposed. Being still meant time to think and he didn’t want that. Not when so many changes were happening and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Instead, his father’s 1971 Stutz Blackhawk had been his therapy. Dad had rescued the frame from a junkyard, loaded it on a trailer, and hauled the mess home. Researching and tracking down parts had become an obsession for Dad, who’d refused to start until he’d had at least a fair percentage of the parts needed to rebuild his dream car.
Unfortunately, he’d died well before finishing the project. He’d never had the chance to drive it.
For Cruz, whose relationship with his father had more peaks and valleys than the mountains in their backyard, surviving grief meant finishing the project his father couldn’t.
To this day, he wasn’t sure why, but the Stutz had been his own special brand of therapy. Maybe it was the challenge of parts that sometimes fit and sometimes didn’t and spending endless hours reading up on why that might be. Whatever it was, experiencing a rusted shell coming back to its extraordinary life brought him peace.
And God knew his rebellious soul hadn’t had much of that in his lifetime.
Speaking of the Stutz and challenges . . . Cruz rose from the edge of the bed. An early Saturday morning might be a grand time to figure out where that fucking oil leak was.
Two weeks ago, he’d noticed the spot on the floor of the garage and had refused to drive the car until he found the source.
He got to his feet, padded to the bathroom to wash up and change before heading out to the old barn he’d converted into a workshop and garage. Living with his family didn’t offer a ton of privacy. Cruz found the garage his haven when he needed alone time.
Away from people.
Even the ones he loved most.
Ten minutes later, dressed in his usual car-fixing attire of oil-stained jeans and a ratty long-sleeved T-shirt, he made his way to the kitchen to fill his thermos with whatever flavor-of-the-day Mom had brewing in the coffeepot. Typically, he’d brew his own, but Mom had started experimenting with flavors on the weekend and it had become a thing for him. Something to look forward to, which, yeah, was kinda pathetic. As if flavored coffee were the only thing he had to get excited about.
Whatever.
He entered the kitchen where light gray cabinets and slate countertops gleamed from his mother’s usual attention to detail.
Whoopsie.Cruz stopped short, his work boots squeaking against the floor.
Shit.
Zeke sat at the giant island, mug in hand and reading something from a manila folder in front of him. Appearing freshly showered with still-damp hair, he wore his normal work attire of jeans and a blue golf shirt with the BARS logo on the chest.
After the I’m-too-fucked-up-to-fly incident, Cruz had done his best to avoid big brother. Being a failure—adisappointment—wasn’t high on his list of priorities and looking at Zeke right now gave him a rash.
Before he could haul ass out of there, Zeke looked up, his face a full mask of nothingness. Which Cruz supposed wasn’t a bad thing. He’d take nothing over disappointment any day.
"Morning," Zeke said.
"Morning." He held up the thermos. "Grabbing coffee."
His brother jerked his chin toward the pot. "It’s still full. Get it before the other animals do."
Don’t mind if I do.He made his way to the pot next to the sink, using the excuse of pouring to keep his back to Zeke.
"Working on the Stutz this morning?" his brother asked.
"Yeah. She’s got a leak. Driving me batshit. Figured I’d jump on it."
"Where’s the leak?"
"Question of the Month. It’s oil."
"You need help?"
