Chapter 3: Jez
The plastic tubs groaned as Essie pried off their lids, releasing a stale museum-air of forgotten journeys. Jed, in his former life, had been a scavenger of the automotive dead, and before a car went to the crusher, he’d strip anything of value. Wallets went back to the families. The rest—the personal debris—got tossed into labeled bins in the garage loft. “Found Clothes,” the scrawled sign read. It was a morbid, practical archive.
Essie dug, her new fingers sorting through the layers. The state of the clothes told the story. Going on vacation meant crisp polos, neatly folded sundresses smelling of dryer sheets. Coming home meant everything was balled up, sour with sweat and fast-food grease, stained with ketchup or melted ice cream. The jeans from the day before—Jed’s last jeans—were definitely coming-home jeans. Stiff, grim, and now impossible. Not being able to button them was only the start of their issues; the rough denim chafed against skin that had never known a scratch.
She was looking for workout clothes. A specific, hopeful category. People packed them with virtuous intentions for vacations they never took. Who goes on vacation to work out? The items were always pristine, often expensive, and forever unworn.
Her hand closed on soft, slick fabric. She pulled out a pair of high-waisted leggings in a deep charcoal gray. Yoga pants, maybe. She held them up. They looked long enough. She set them aside. In the same tub, she found a matching black racerback sports bra. She held it against her chest. It was woefully small, a comical patch of fabric against her new proportions. She tossed it back with a sigh.
Another bin yielded a cropped tank top in a similar heather gray. She slipped it on over the men’s undershirt she’d been living in. It fit, technically. But the hem stopped a full three inches below her bust, leaving a vast expanse of midriff and the dangerous curve of underboob. It felt less like clothing and more like a dare. She pulled it off and tossed it atop the rejected bra.
Frustration was a cold knot in her stomach. She wanted to move, to work, to feel useful, but Jed’s world was built for a different shape. Her eyes landed on a rumpled, pale blue button-down poking from a bin marked “Sedan – I-65.” A man’s dress shirt, slightly wrinkled, but clean. She shook it out and slipped her arms in. The fabric was smooth, cool. She buttoned it from the bottom up. It pulled taut across her chest, the fabric straining at the buttons. One by one, from the top down, she undid them again, until the tension eased and a deep V of skin was revealed. It worked. It was borrowed, but it worked.
Finally, she grabbed a pair of Jed’s old Buddy Holly shades from a hook, a cracked pair of flip-flops from a bin of “Shoes – Singles,” and his truck keys from the peg by the door.
The old Ford’s engine roared to life, a familiar sound in a profoundly unfamiliar body. She headed for WorkWear, the utilitarian store where Jed bought his coveralls and steel-toes. But halfway there, a thought detoured in her mind. The shirt was a stopgap. The flip-flops were pathetic. She didn’t just want work clothes. She wanted… something else. Something she could exist in. Something for this person she was becoming, not just a costume for the ghost she used to be.
She turned the wheel, tires crunching on the gravel shoulder, and aimed the truck toward the older part of town.
She turned the wheel, tires crunching on the gravel shoulder, and aimed the truck toward the older part of town. The Normandy’s display window was a curated explosion of sequins and velvet, a stark contrast to the dull brick of the strip mall it sat in. Essie killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching the empty sidewalk. She’d never had a reason to go in before. Jed bought clothes by the pound from the wholesale depot; fashion was a functional equation of durability and pockets.
Now, the equation had changed entirely.
A bell tinkled above the door as she entered, the sound frail and polite. The air inside was still and cool, carrying the faint, clean scent of lavender and old paper. No one stood at the counter. Racks of clothing formed narrow canyons, bursting with color and texture—silky slips next to severe tweed blazers, floral dresses beside leather pants. It was a different kind of digging than the tubs in the garage loft. Here, everything was preserved, valued, waiting for a second act.
She ran her fingers along a sleeve of emerald green satin. The material whispered against her skin. She moved deeper, the flip-flops making soft slap sounds on the worn wooden floor. A section held more practical items: sturdy denim, soft cotton tees, wool sweaters. She pulled a simple black tee from a rack, holding it up. It looked impossibly soft.
A sensation, warm and distinct, began to spread across the back of her neck.
It wasn’t a sound. It was a pressure, a focused attention that raised the fine hairs on her arms. It felt nice. Delicious, even. She closed her eyes and leaned into it, letting it wash over her. This was nothing like Earl’s blunt, hungry stare. That had been like being pawed at by sweaty hands.
This was sunlight through stained glass. It was feather-light and deliberate, tracing a path up the taut line of her calf, lingering in the delicate dip at the small of her back where Jed’s borrowed shirt had ridden up. It danced across the exposed slope of her cleavage, a phantom touch that made her breath catch. Then it traveled up, slow and savoring, to rest in the vulnerable curve where her neck met her shoulder. She shuddered, a full-body ripple of pleasure, and instinctively arched her back just a fraction, preening under the invisible caress.
The sensation flared, hotter now, raw with an appreciation that felt like a physical touch.
Essie turned.
A woman stood in the shadowed hallway that led to a back room. She was leaning against the doorjamb, one ankle crossed over the other, holding a steaming mug. Her hair was a brilliant, shocking red, shaved close on one side. Her lips were a match for her hair, a perfect, sharp bow. She wore black, head to toe, elegant and severe.
“Hello,” the woman said. Her voice was smooth, a mid-Atlantic blend of nowhere and everywhere. She didn’t smile, but her icy blue eyes were alive with frank, unhurried interest. They scanned Essie again, from the ridiculous flip-flops to the strained buttons of the shirt. “Finding everything?”
“Just browsing,” Essie said, her own soft accent feeling suddenly country-fried next to the woman’s cool tones. She didn’t break the gaze. She let her own eyes travel back, just as slow, just as assessing.
“I’m Jez.” The woman pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps into the light. “This is my place. You’re new.”
“Essie. I’m… minding my cousin’s garage. Jed’s Garage. Out on the county road.” The lie was easier now, flavored with a hint of truth.
Jez’s sculpted eyebrow lifted a millimeter. “Jed. The grumpy one with the tow truck? I’ve seen his ads in the Penny Saver.” She took a slow sip from her mug, her eyes never leaving Essie’s face. “You don’t look like you mind many garages.”
A slow smirk spread across Essie’s lips. She shook her head, a deliberate motion that sent a wave of dark hair cascading over one shoulder. “Nah, you’re thinkin’ of Earl. Earl’s the one with the wrecker. Jed ran the junk yard.” She corrected the woman easily, the lie feeling more natural each time. “Jed noped out a couple days ago. Headed west for a long-haul gig, left me the keys. I got a fresh start.” Her eyes flicked down to her own body, then back up to meet Jez’s blue stare. “Really fresh.”
Jez’s expression didn’t change, but the intensity in her gaze sharpened. She was cataloging, analyzing in clicks. “I see.” She set her mug down on a glass case filled with costume jewelry. “So the garage needs minding, and you need… something else.”
“WorkWear can handle the boots and coveralls,” Essie said, tapping a flip-flop against the floor. “But I thought it might be nice to have somethin’ to wear when I weren’t junkin.” She let her accent curl around the words, soft and deliberate. “Which I am quite good at, thank you very much. Findin’ things. Seein’ what’s useful in a pile of mess.”
“Is that so?” Jez took a step closer. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with a silent exchange. Jez wasn’t just looking at her; she was looking for something. “What do you see in that pile, then?” She gestured vaguely at the rack of black tees.
Essie didn’t even glance at them. She held Jez’s look. “I see a woman who don’t suffer fools. Who dresses like a weapon because she is one. Who’s wonderin’ right now if I’m a fascinating project or a fascinating problem.” She tilted her head. “I ain’t a problem.”
A faint, genuine smile touched Jez’s red lips. It was there and gone, a fleeting crack in the ice. “Prove it. The junkin’ part, I mean.” She swept her arm out, encompassing the store. “Find yourself something. Not a costume. Something essential.”
The challenge was a clean line. Essie nodded once and turned back to the racks. Her earlier browsing had been directionless. Now, with that laser-focused attention warm on her back, her mind switched to a different frequency. She wasn’t shopping; she was salvaging.
She moved past the black tees, past the floral prints. Her fingers brushed fabrics, registering weight and drape. She bypassed a tight pencil skirt, a frilly blouse. Too restrictive, too false. Then she saw it, hanging quietly between a leopard-print coat and a beaded cardigan. A simple dress. Slate-gray jersey, long-sleeved, with a deep cowl neck. It looked slept-in, liquid.
“This,” Essie said, pulling it from the rack.
Jez came to stand beside her, close enough for Essie to smell her perfume—citrus and black pepper. “Interesting. Pragmatic. Sensual without trying. It’ll either hang on you or scream.”
“It won’t hang,” Essie said, her confidence absolute. She felt the truth of it in her new bones.
“Fitting room is in the back.” Jez’s voice was a low murmur. “Let’s see.”
The fitting room was a curtained alcove with a tri-fold mirror. Essie stepped inside, the thin fabric of the curtain dissolving the illusion of privacy. She could sense Jez on the other side, a still, waiting presence. She shrugged out of the borrowed shirt, letting it pool on the floor. The air was cool on her bare skin.
She pulled the gray dress over her head. The fabric was shockingly soft, heavier than it looked, and it slithered down her body like water finding its level. It settled against her curves with a silent sigh of perfect fit. The cowl neck fell open in a soft, rolling drape that plunged between her breasts. The sleeves were long, the hem hitting mid-thigh. She looked at herself in the mirror.
The woman staring back was a complete stranger. She was serenity and utterly carnal promise all at once. The dress hid everything and suggested everything. Essie didn’t call out. She simply pulled the curtain back.
Jez, who had been leaning against the wall opposite, straightened up. Her breath caught, a soft, audible intake. Her professional composure flickered. For a second, sheer, unvarnished hunger flashed in her icy eyes. It was the look of a collector finding the one piece that completes the set.
“Christ,” Jez whispered, the word leaving her like a punch.
She closed the distance in three swift strides. Her hand came up, not to touch Essie, but to adjust the fall of the cowl, her fingers an inch from Essie’s skin. “The line is perfect.” Her voice had gone husky. “You were right. It doesn’t hang.”
“Told you I was good at junkin’,” Essie said, her own voice a low purr. She held absolutely still, bathing in the heat of Jez’s gaze.
Jez’s eyes lifted from the dress to meet Essie’s in the mirror. The reflection trapped them together, a closed circuit. “What else can you find, Essie?” The question was a dare, an invitation to a game with no named rules.
“Try me,” Essie breathed.
Jez’s hand finally made contact. Two fingers brushed along Essie’s jawline, turning her face gently toward the light. The touch was electric. “I think I will.” Her other hand went to the small of Essie’s back, pressing just enough to guide her back into the fitting alcove.
Essie let herself be guided, a thrill coiling in her stomach. Jez followed her in, letting the curtain fall closed behind them, enclosing them in the intimate, mirrored space. The air was suddenly very warm.
“The boots you’ll get at WorkWear are useless with this,” Jez said, her voice now a businesslike murmur close to Essie’s ear. She reached past her, her body briefly pressing against Essie’s back, and pulled a shoebox from a high shelf. “You need these.”
She knelt, opening the box. Inside were a pair of ankle boots, but like no work boot Essie had ever seen. They were made of buttery, cognac-colored leather, with a low, stacked wooden heel. “They’re tough,” Jez said, looking up from her position on the floor. “But they’re not for kicking tires.”
Essie looked down at her. The power dynamic had shifted, coiled, become something complex and deeply arousing. “Put ‘em on me.”
Jez didn’t hesitate. She took Essie’s bare foot in one hand, her touch firm and sure, and slid the boot onto it. She did the same with the other, her fingers fastening the small buckle at the ankle. Then she stayed there, kneeling, her hands resting on Essie’s new calves. She looked up the length of Essie’s body, from the boots, up the gray dress, to the face looking down at her.
“You’re a complication, Essie Dubois,” Jez said, her tone final.
“You got a thing for complications?” Essie asked.
Jez’s answer was to lean forward and press her mouth, that flawless red mouth, against the bare skin of Essie’s thigh, just above the boot. The kiss was slow, deliberate, a brand. “I have a thing for fascinating finds.” She stood up in one fluid motion, now inches from Essie’s face. “The dress and the boots are yours. Consider it a welcoming gift from the neighborhood.”
Essie’s pulse thrummed where Jez’s lips had been, a warm echo on her skin. She looked from the boots, now claiming her feet, to the severe lines of Jez’s face. The generosity felt as dangerous and weighted as the .357 she’d left on her workbench.
“That sounds like the kind of gift that comes with strings attached,” Essie murmured, her voice a low rasp in the curtained quiet.
Jez leaned back, putting a few inches of charged air between them. The hungry collector vanished, replaced by the cool businesswoman. She crossed her arms, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. “It does. I have some ideas.” She paused, and her gaze drifted for a second, looking past Essie at nothing. “Which is something that hasn’t happened in a long time.”
A thrill, sharp and bright, shot through Essie’s chest. It felt like winning a round she hadn’t known she was playing. She let her eyes travel slowly over Jez’s fitted black clothes, her pristine makeup, the sharp intelligence in her eyes. “You look like the kind of woman that has ideas,” Essie purred, tilting her head.
“Not those kind of ideas,” Jez said, her tone flattening any playful misunderstanding. It was a dismissal of the obvious, an elevation of something else. “Not right now, anyway.” She reached out and straightened the cowl of Essie’s dress with a clinical touch, her fingers barely grazing skin. “I need to put them on paper before I say anything more. Words in the air are cheap. Ink means you’ve thought it through.”
She stepped past Essie and held the curtain open, the gesture clear. The intimacy of the alcove was broken. “Come back tomorrow. After you close that garage.” She said ‘that garage’ like it was a temporary condition, a phase. “We’ll talk.”
Essie walked out, the new boots solid and quiet on the floor. She felt the dress moving with her, a second skin. She stopped at the front counter, turning to face Jez who had followed, maintaining her distance.
“What time?” Essie asked.
“Whenever,” Jez said, her voice dismissive now, as if the intensity in the fitting room had been a briefly interesting experiment she’d already logged and filed. “I’ll be up in my studio upstairs.” She turned toward the cluttered counter, rummaged in a small porcelain dish full of loose buttons and beads, and produced a single silver key. Without looking, she tossed it sideways through the air toward Essie.
Essie’s hand snapped out and caught it, the movement reflexively crisp. The metal was cool, small, and surprisingly heavy in her palm.
“Let yourself in,” Jez said, finally looking at her again. Her expression was unreadable, a polite mask. Then she made a shooing motion with her fingers. “Now get out. We both have work to do.”
The abruptness was a glass of water to the face. One second Essie was holding a key that felt like a promise, the next she was being dismissed like a customer who’d overstayed. The whiplash was deliberate. Essie felt it, understood it as a test of another kind. She didn’t argue. She simply nodded, slid the key into the tight pocket of the new dress, and turned toward the door.
The bell tinkled again as she pushed it open. She paused on the sidewalk, the afternoon sun warm on her shoulders. Through the glass of the shop door, distorted by decades of waviness, she saw Jez move.
The woman walked to the door, her movements efficient and devoid of hesitation. She reached up, flipped the hanging sign from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED’ with a definitive snap of her wrist. She didn’t look out at Essie. She turned and walked toward the back hallway, her red hair the last thing to vanish into the shadows.
Essie stood there for a full minute, the traffic murmuring past. She closed her fingers around the key in her pocket, feeling its precise teeth bite into her flesh. The dress was a dream. The boots were solid ground. The key was a doorway.
She wondered what the hell she’d just gotten herself into.