Chapter 1: Broken Down in Georgia
Daryl was driving down the back road, about twenty miles outside of town, empty-ass backend of nowhere and wondering if he’d been sent on a wild goose chase. The call had come into the garage he co-owned with his brother, a break-down needing to be picked up. He’d drawn the short straw and headed out in their breakdown truck, but the coordinates were vague, and this stretch of road was nothing but heat-shimmer and crickets.It was hot as hell. The fields alongside the road were golden and dry, the dirt road itself kicking up dust that coated his windshield in a fine, pale film. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the rag he always carried, the air conditioning in the truck just recirculating warm, engine-scented air.
Having made the decision to head back, he suddenly spied a dark shape down the road aways, a blot against the sea of wheat. He continued towards it, the truck’s tires crunching on the gravelly shoulder. A van.A Volkswagen camper, old but not antique. Its hood was popped, a thin wisp of long-dispersed steam still ghosting the air above it.
He slowed as he approached, pulling in behind it. The driver’s door was open, and as he cut his engine, the sudden silence was filled with the relentless hum of cicadas.And then he saw her.
She was leaned against the side of the van, one Converse-clad foot propped on the bumper. Tall and slim, long legs clad in skimpy denim shorts and a white vest top skimming small breasts without an bra and down to her narrow waist. Long red hair trailed down her shoulders and back, copper curls glinting in the low sun like spun metal. As she heard him approach, she lifted the heavy locks away from the back of her neck in a gesture of pure, weary frustration, and stretched, arching her back. The smooth skin of her stomach flashed tantalisingly, a strip of pale, freckled flesh between her top and shorts. He felt his cock twitch in interest, a purely automatic, inconvenient response he immediately tried to ignore.
He climbed out, the truck door groaning.The heat wrapped around him like a damp blanket.
“You the one who called?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended from the drive and the dust.
She turned, dropping her hair. Her face was sharp, intelligent, with grey eyes that had flecks of hazel in this light.She looked young, but not a kid. There was a weary competence in her posture.“Called?No.No signal out here. I was just trying to… assess the damage.” Her accent wasn’t local.It was crisp, rounded.British, maybe.
“Lucky I came by, then,” he said, walking past her to peer under the propped hood. The engine was a familiar mess of aged parts and aftermarket fixes. It smelled of overheated metal and burnt oil. “Pop the clutch while ya cranked it?”
“I have no idea,” she said, coming to stand beside him, not too close. “It just coughed a few times and died. There was a bit of steam.”
“Coolant hose’s ruptured,” Daryl said after a moment, pointing with a grease-stained finger at a shrivelled, split piece of rubber.“Probably old.Overheated the engine. Could’ve warped the head.Not a quick fix.”
He heard her exhale, a soft, defeated sound.“Right. Of course.”
“Where you headed?”
“Eventually?West. For now, just… away from here.” She looked down the endless road. “I suppose it’s your truck I’ll be needing, then.”
“S’what it’s for.” He straightened up, finally looking at her fully.She met his gaze without flinching. There was no helpless damsel act, just a practical annoyance.“Name’s Daryl. I run the garage back in Elgin.”
“Jill,” she said. “And I suppose ‘Elgin’ is the nearest town with a mechanic who can handle a ’79 Westfalia?”
“It’s the nearest town, period. And yeah, I can handle it.” There was no boast in his tone, just fact.She nodded, chewing her bottom lip for a second.“Right. Let me get my things.” She moved to the side door of the van, sliding it open with a rusty squeal. Inside was neat, organised.A small bed, a camping stove, books stacked in a crate. A backpack sat ready by the door. She shouldered it, then grabbed a large, expensive-looking camera from a cubby.“Travelin’ light?” he asked.
“Trying to,” she said, locking the van door. “I prefer it.”
He watched as she walked to his tow truck, her movements economical. She didn’t wait for him to open the passenger door, just hauled herself up into the cab, placing the camera carefully on the floor between her feet.
Daryl secured the van for towing, the mechanisms loud in the quiet afternoon. The sun was bleeding into the horizon now, streaking the sky in oranges and purples. When he climbed back into the driver’s seat, the cab felt smaller. Her scent filled the space—suncream, faint sweat, and something clean, like rosemary.He started the engine, the rumble familiar. “It’s ‘bout a forty-minute ride back.”
“That’s fine,” she said, looking out the window at the passing fields.“Thank you for stopping. I was starting to contemplate sleeping in a field.”
“Mighta been cooler,” he muttered, pulling a U-turn on the wide shoulder.
A small smile touched her lips. “You’re probably right.”
They drove in silence for a few miles, the only sound the grind of the truck and the thrum of the tires. It wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet, just… present.
“So you’re from England?” he asked finally, more to hear her talk than anything.“Scotland, actually.Edinburgh. Or, I will be.Starting university there in the autumn.Medicine.”
He glanced at her. She didn’t look like a doctor. She looked like someone who should be on a magazine cover, riding a horse or holding a surfboard. “Long way from home.”
“That’s rather the point.” She turned her head towards him. “And you’ve always been here?”
“‘Cept for a stretch in the army.Came back.Garage with my brother. It’s quiet.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, and she sounded like she meant it.“All this space. The light is extraordinary.”
He grunted in acknowledgment, unsure what to do with the compliment to a landscape he took for granted. He focused on the road, acutely aware of her presence beside him—the shift of her denim shorts on the worn seat, the occasional flick of her hair as she looked from one window to the other.“The van,” she said after another few minutes.“How long will it take to fix? Honestly.”
“Gotta find the parts. Day or two, if the head ain’t cracked.Longer if it is.”
She nodded again, thinking. “And is there somewhere cheap to stay in Elgin?A motel, or…”
“There’s The Elgin Arms. It ain’t fancy.”
“I don’t need fancy. I just need a shower that isn’t in a truck stop.”
The image of her in a shower, water slicking down that copper hair over her shoulders, flashed unbidden in his mind.He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s on Main. Can’t miss it.”
The first lights of town appeared in the distance, tiny pinpricks in the gathering dusk. The fields gave way to scattered houses, then the closer-knit grid of the small town. He drove past the shuttered feed store, the lonely diner with its neon ‘OPEN’ sign buzzing, and pulled up outside a two-story brick building with a faded sign.“Here you are.”
She looked out at it, then back at him. “And the garage?”
“‘Bout a mile on.Merle’s Auto. I’ll get your van there first thing.”
“Thank you, Daryl.” She gathered her backpack and camera, her movements decisive.“I’ll be by in the morning, then. To see the damage for myself.” There was a challenge in her voice, a statement that she wasn’t just going to hand over her keys and her fate without oversight.
“Suite yourself.” He watched as she hopped down from the cab, the movement easy and graceful. She didn’t look back, just adjusted the strap of her backpack and walked towards the door of the motel, a tall, slender figure disappearing into the yellow light of the lobby.
Daryl sat for a moment, the cab suddenly feeling too big and too empty again.The scent of her lingered. He shook his head, put the truck in gear, and aimed it towards the garage, towards the familiar smell of oil and concrete, trying to shake off the feeling that the empty-ass backend of nowhere had just become infinitely more interesting.
The garage was a tomb of metal and oil by the time Daryl got the VW secured inside. The single overhead door rattled shut, sealing in the day’s heat. He didn’t bother with the office light, just cracked a warm beer from the fridge and sat on a stack of tires, listening to the slow drip of a faucet in the sink. Her face, the sharp intelligence in her eyes, kept intruding on the quiet.Medicine.Scotland. Fancy words for a girl broken down in a dustbowl.
He was already elbow-deep in the van’s engine the next morning when he heard the crunch of gravel outside. Sunlight framed her in the open doorway before he saw her clearly. She’d changed into cut-off jeans and a simple black t-shirt, her hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head. She looked cool, clean, and out of place.
“Morning,” she said, her voice cutting through the radio’s static.Daryl grunted in acknowledgment, wiping his hands on a rag. “Head ain’t cracked. Lucky.”
“That’s a relief.” She stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, taking in the chaos of tools, parts, and the skeletal frame of an old Chevy up on blocks. “What’s the damage, then?”
“New hose, flush the system, replace the thermostat.Gotta order the hose. Be here tomorrow.”
“So another two nights at the Arms.”
“Unless you’re fixin’ to walk west.”
She smiled, a small, wry thing. “I’ll manage.” She drifted closer to the van, peering past him at the engine. “You’re confident you can get the parts for this old thing?”
“Said I could handle it, didn’t I?”
A heavy bootfall sounded from the office door behind them. “Who’s confident ‘bout what?” Merle Dixon shouldered through the doorway, a older, broader, harder-used version of Daryl. His eyes, the same blue but sharper, more calculating, landed on Jill and didn’t leave.“Well, now. Ain’t you a sight.”
Daryl’s jaw tightened.“Merle. This is Jill. Her van’s the Westy.”
“Pleasure,” Jill said, her tone polite but guarded.She didn’t offer a hand.
Merle leaned against the doorjamb, pulling a toothpick from his pocket.“Heard you hauled in a hippie wagon. Didn’t hear it came with a picture show.” He grinned. “You passin’ through, darlin’?”
“Trying to,” she said, turning fully to face him, not shrinking back. “I’m taking a gap year.Traveling. Working my way across.”
“Workin’?” Merle’s eyebrows went up.“What kinda work you do?”
“Anything, really. Waitressing, temp stuff. I need to fund the trip myself.”
Merle chuckled, a low, rough sound.“Principled, huh? Well, Elgin ain’t exactly brimmin’ with career opportunities for world travelers.” He chewed the toothpick thoughtfully. “You’re really lookin’?”
“If you know of anything,” Jill said, her gaze steady.
Merle’s eyes flicked to Daryl, then back to her with a slow, knowing smile. “Might be. There’s a place out on the county line, the ‘Wildfire.’ It’s a biker bar.Not the Ritz. But the owner, Joe, he’s always screamin’ for bar staff.Can’t keep anyone. Tips are supposedly cash and good, if you’ve got the spine for it.”
Daryl straightened up, his voice low.“Merle.”
“What?Girl needs a job. It’s a job.” Merle shrugged, his attention all on Jill, testing her. “Pay’s under the table, which is good for a tourist.But it’s a tough crowd. Lot of ex-cons and weekend warriors. You’d need to be… firm.”
Jill absorbed this, her grey eyes not wavering.The hum of the garage fan filled the silence. She glanced at Daryl, saw the tight line of his mouth, the slight shake of his head almost imperceptible.
Then she looked back at Merle. “Where exactly on the county line?”
Merle’s grin widened. “Out past the old limestone quarry.Road curves, there’s a rusted tin roof you can’t miss. Smells like stale beer and poor decisions.”
“I’ll find it,” Jill said, her voice cool and even.“Joe’s there most afternoons after four. Tell him Merle sent you.” He gave her a final once-over, the appraisal obvious and crude. “Good luck.”
With a nod that wasn’t quite for either of them, Merle ambled back into the office, letting the door slam shut.The garage felt different with him gone. The silence was tense, charged.Daryl turned back to the engine block, picking up a wrench more forcefully than necessary. The metal clanged against steel.
“You don’t want that job,” he said, not looking at her.“Why not?” She was standing her ground, arms crossed now. “He said cash.I need cash. My budget doesn’t include unplanned garage bills.”
“‘Cause it’s a shithole.” Daryl finally looked at her, his blue eyes intense. “Guys there… they ain’t doctors from Edinburgh. They see a girl like you walkin’ in alone, they’ll think it’s an invitation.”
“A girl like me?” Her eyebrow arched.“You mean a girl who needs a job?I’m not an idiot, Daryl. I can handle myself.”
“Handlin’ yourself in a library is different.” He threw the rag down.“It’s dark, it’s loud, and everyone’s drunk. Joe’s a decent enough guy, but he can’t watch every corner.”
“So what’s your suggestion?Wait tables at the diner?I asked there yesterday. They’re fully staffed.” Her frustration was showing now, a flush rising on her neck.“This is my trip. My rules. If it’s the only option, I’ll take it.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, saw the stubborn set of her jaw.She wasn’t backing down. A part of him, the part that valued self-reliance, understood it. The other part, the one that had seen what happened to pretty strangers in places like the Wildfire, hated it.
“Suit yourself,” he muttered, turning away. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warning noted.” She lingered for another second, then turned to leave. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on the hose.”
He listened to the sound of her footsteps on the gravel, fading away. The scent of rosemary and sun hung in the oil-heavy air for a second longer, then was gone.The Wildfire was exactly as advertised. The building was a long, low shack of corrugated metal, its walls adorned with faded paint and stickers for obscure motorcycle brands. Gravel crackled under Jill’s shoes as she approached in the late afternoon glare. The air smelled of hot pine, gasoline, and, faintly, a sour yeastiness.
Inside, the dimness was a shock.A long bar ran along one wall, its wood dark and scarred. A few pool tables sat under low-hanging lights, and mismatched tables and chairs were scattered across a floor that stuck slightly to her soles. It was empty except for a bulky man with a shaved head and a thick beard, wiping down the bar with a grim focus.
“You Joe?” Her voice sounded too bright, too English in the hollow space.He looked up. “Who’s askin’?”
“Jill. Merle Dixon said you might need help.”
Joe’s eyes narrowed, assessing her from her copper crown to her practical sneakers. “Merle, huh?” He tossed the rag under the bar.“You ever tended bar before?”
“I’ve worked in pubs. In Scotland.”
“This ain’t a pub.” He leaned his thick forearms on the bar. “Shift’s eight ‘til two, Thursday through Sunday. Pay is a hundred cash a night, you keep your own tips. Rules are simple: you serve the drinks, you don’t serve anyone who’s already falling down, you don’t get involved in the arguments, and you don’t, under any circumstances, go outside with a customer. You break a rule, you’re out.No second chances. That clear?”
It was blunt, harsh, and professional in its own way. “Perfectly clear.”
“You start tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“You got somethin’ better to do?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Be here at seven forty-five.Wear black. And for God’s sake, tie that hair up.” He turned and pushed through a door into a back room, ending the discussion.
Jill stood alone in the cool, stale darkness.A hundred cash a night.Four nights. That would cover Daryl’s repair and then some.She breathed in the smell of old smoke and bleach. It was a means to an end.That’s all it had to be.
Daryl was under the VW when she returned to the garage just after six.The parts had arrived. He heard her footsteps and slid out on the creeper, his face smudged with grease.
“You go?”
“I start tonight,” she said, her tone deliberately matter-of-fact. She knelt near the toolbox, not too close.“Eight to two.Seems straightforward.”
He sat up, wiping his hands. The setting sun cut through the open garage door, slicing across the floor and illuminating the dust motes dancing between them. He didn’t say I told you so. He just studied her, the determined set of her shoulders against the grim reality she was walking into.
“You got a way home?” he asked.“I was going to walk.”
“It’s over three miles.In the dark. After two in the morning.” He said it flatly, a list of facts, not a question.
She hesitated.That part, she hadn’t fully engineered. “I’ll figure it out.”
He looked away, toward the pegboard where his keys hung. A internal war played out on his features—practicality warring with a desire to keep his distance.The distance was losing.
“I’ll pick you up,” he said, the words gruff. “Out back of the Wildfire.Two-oh-five. Don’t be late.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” He stood up, cutting her off. His height was imposing in the confined space.“But I’m gonna. You be waitin’ by the back door.Not the front.The back.And you get in the truck quick. Understand?”
It wasn’t an offer.It was a condition. She nodded, a strange relief mixing with the stubborn pride.“Alright.Thank you.”
He just grunted, turning back to the van. “Hose is on.Flushing the system now. Should be done tomorrow.”
“Great.” She stood, unsure what else to say.The transaction felt incomplete. “Well… see you at two-oh-five, then.”
He didn’t reply, already absorbed in the flow of coolant from a tube into a drain pan. The rhythmic drip, drip, drip was the only sound as she walked out into the twilight, the weight of the coming night settling on her, somehow lighter and heavier at the same time.
She showed up at seven forty-five, hair in a severe braid, wearing a simple black t-shirt and her darkest jeans. Joe gave a curt nod of approval.By nine, the Wildfire was pulsing. The music was a throbbing, generic rock beat, drowning out all possibility of conversation. The air grew thick with cigarette smoke and the collective heat of dozens of bodies in denim and leather.
The work itself was simple: open beer bottles, pour whiskey, handle cash. The clientele were exactly as advertised—men with worn faces and hard eyes, women with tired smiles and defensive postures.They mostly ignored her, which was a relief. A few called her “darlin’” or “sweetheart” in a way that made her skin crawl, but their attention was fleeting, pulled back to their drinks or their pool games.
It was monotonous, exhausting, and vaguely demeaning.She felt like a machine, not a person.
Just after midnight, a man with a spiderweb tattoo on his elbow leaned too far over the bar. “Hey, Red. You got a smile for me?”
“I’ve got your Coors,” Jill said, sliding the bottle across the bar without meeting his eyes.
“C’mon, a little smile. Makes the beer taste better.”
She forced the corners of her mouth up for half a second, a empty, professional twitch. “That’ll be four dollars.”
He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “All business, huh?” He paid, but his gaze lingered on her as she moved away, a palpable weight between her shoulder blades.
Joe materialized beside her as she stacked glasses.“You’re doin’ fine. Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’.Don’t feed the animals.”
She nodded, her throat tight.
At two-oh-five exactly, she slipped out the reinforced back door into a world of profound silence and dense, cool darkness.The parking lot was a sea of shadowy motorcycles and pickup trucks. A single overhead bulb fizzed weakly above the door.
Right on cue, headlights flicked on from the far edge of the lot.They didn’t flash, didn’t wave. They just came on, two steady eyes in the black. She walked quickly, the gravel loud under her feet, and climbed into the passenger seat of Daryl’s truck.
The cab was dark, silent, and smelled of fresh pine air-freshener and clean metal. He put the truck in gear and pulled onto the empty county road without a word.
She leaned her head back against the seat, the thrum of the engine soothing the last of the bar’s noise from her bones. The adrenaline seeped away, leaving a deep fatigue.
“Rough?” he asked after a few miles, his voice a low rumble in the dark.“It was a job,” she replied, eyes closed. “I’ve had worse.”
He didn’t ask what could possibly be worse.He just drove. When they pulled up outside the Elgin Arms, he let the engine idle.
“You goin’ back tomorrow?” he asked.“I need the money. Three more nights.”
He was silent for a long moment, staring straight ahead through the windshield.“I finish your van tomorrow afternoon. You could be gone by Friday.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. His profile was sharp in the dashboard’s glow. “Are you suggesting I cut and run?”
“I’m suggestin’ you got a workin’ vehicle and a clear road west. That’s what you wanted, ain’t it?”
It was. But leaving felt like a retreat now, a concession to Merle’s leer and Joe’s warnings and the spiderweb tattoo guy’s leer. It felt like letting this place, and his taciturn, inconvenient kindness, win by default.
“Friday,” she said, decisively.“I’ll leave Friday. A deal’s a deal.”
He gave a single, slow nod.“Suit yourself. Two-oh-five again tomorrow.”
“Daryl,” she said, as she opened the door.The night air rushed in.“Thank you. For the ride.”
This time, he looked at her. His blue eyes caught a sliver of light from the motel sign, unreadable. “Just be at the door.”
She got out and watched his taillights disappear around the corner. Back in her sterile motel room, the silence was absolute.She could still feel the phantom press of the crowd, the sticky bar under her palms. And underneath that, the steady, solid reliability of the truck’s engine in the dark, a rhythm already becoming familiar, a complication she hadn’t budgeted for at all.
Across town, Daryl sat on the porch of his small, dark house, a can of beer in his hand. He wasn’t thinking about the van. He was thinking about the absolute darkness of the Wildfire parking lot, and the quick, purposeful way she’d walked toward his headlights. He picked up the crossbow leaning against the siding beside him, his fingers tracing the taut string. It was a simple, reliable tension.Unlike everything else. Friday felt both too soon and not soon enough.