![]() ![]() His strong legs are open in a V to brace his weight against the floor. A strip of dark hair trails from his belly button and disappears beneath his saggy jeans. His t-shirt slid up, exposing a few inches of his firm stomach. Jonah is lying on his back across the front seat of the car, his head underneath the dashboard. Out of the few restorations I’ve done over the years, this one is by far the best: high-end tools at my disposal, clean working environment, great company. Perched at a workbench, I sort through the motor brackets. Going through it piece by piece, I set aside the things that can be salvaged while Jonah disassembles the inside. I keep track of the hours spent at Jonah’s for my time card, not because I mark every minute with him, committing it to memory so that when my work here is done I have something to remind me of our time together. ![]() It’s day three working on the Impala: seventeen hours and thirty-eight minutes to be exact. ![]() My breath is knocked from my lungs as Blake tries to take me down to the mat. I won’t bring more than two chicks to your barbeque.” Blake’s jaw is so tight I’m surprised he doesn’t bust a tooth. ![]()
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