“Hanging around here and keeping my eye out for various people.”
“I see. Well since you’re not going away, how about you change the oil in the Camaro?”
“I can do that,” he easily agrees, and it makes him even more attractive in my eyes.
He’s a man’s man. You don’t come across many of those now that know how to fix cars, drive them like they stole them, grill food, ride motorcycles, and fight. His type goes all the way back to the cavemen. He’s a provider and a predator, and that’s fucking hot.
Most of the guys I come across are hipsters, growing a beard because it looks cool. They may as well have a vagina between their legs. They wouldn’t know how to change a tire or defend themselves if you paid them to. It gets old for me, being more capable than the men I attempt to date. After a while, I just gave in, fucked them to scratch an itch, but gave up on the idea of ever finding something remotely close to love. In this life, it’s thrive or perish, and I’m a fighter.
I watch as Mercenary heads in one direction and I make my way to my Nova. I raced her last night, so I was in the middle of changing out her oil and checking everything else over when Merc decided to interrupt me. My gaze on him only breaks when I slide underneath the door. I seal up the thick black plastic drip pan I used to catch the oil and push it off to the side. Then I go to work replacing the filter and twist the plug back in to the oil pan. She’s good as new and ready to kick some ass again.
Now if I can shake this biker, I’ll be the same.