Chapter 4: Essie buys coveralls
The wrecked BMW Earl had dropped off still needed to be processed. It’d be easier with daylight, which she was wasting. The thought was pure Jed, a nagging, practical ghost in her head. But the ghost was getting fainter. The feel of the dress, the memory of Jez’s focused hunger, the key… they were louder.
It was almost lunchtime. She still needed coveralls and boots that fit.
WorkWear sat at the other end of Industrial Loop, a low, beige building sandwiched between a hydraulic hose supplier and a pallet wholesaler. Essie parked in the empty lot. Inside, the lighting was a sickly yellow fluorescent hum. Racks of stiff-looking jeans, walls of steel-toed boots, tables piled with hi-vis vests and canvas jackets. A radio played faint classic rock from somewhere in the back. The air felt still, heavy with the ghost of starch and defeated ambition.
A kid, maybe twenty-two, stood behind the counter, idly scrolling his phone. He had a nice face, open, with the kind of floppy hair that suggested his mom still cut it. He glanced up as the door chimed.
Then he did a double-take. His phone clattered onto the counter.
Essie felt it immediately—a warm, buzzing wave of pure, dumbstruck awe rolling off him. It wasn’t the sophisticated, devouring heat Jez had radiated. This was simpler, sweeter. A puppy seeing a steak. She inhaled it. It felt like the first deep breath after being underwater.
She let her hips find a slight, rolling rhythm as she walked toward him, the cognac boots silent on the industrial tile. “Hey there,” she said, her voice a soft Appalachian curl.
“Uh. Hi.” He stood up straighter, fumbling for his phone, almost knocking over a display of welding gloves. “Can I, um, help you find somethin’?”
“I sure hope so.” She leaned a forearm on the high counter, letting the deep cowl of her neckline do its silent, tactical work. She saw his eyes dart down and skitter away, his ears turning pink. “Name’s Essie. My cousin Jed used to run the junkyard out on the county road? He’s gone off to chase some long-haul dream out west. Left me holdin’ the bag. Or, well, holdin’ the whole damn junkyard.”
“Jed? Sure, I know Jed.” The kid—Luke, his nametag said—nodded vigorously, grateful for something factual to latch onto. “He came in for his Carhartts. Tough guy. Didn’t talk much.”
“That’s the one,” Essie purred. “Well, now I’m runnin’ the show ‘til he comes back.” She paused, let a shadow of doubt cross her face. It wasn’t hard. “If he comes back. Which means I need me some proper work clothes. Can’t be junkin’ in this now, can I?” She gestured down the elegant drape of the dress with a wry smile.
Luke’s brain visibly scrambled, trying to reconcile the vision before him with the concept of “work clothes.” “Right! Of course! We have our Ladies’ Professional line right over here.” He bustled out from behind the counter, leading her to a rack of boxy, polyester-blend pantsuits in colors like “Muted Plum” and “Corporate Teal.”
Essie stopped walking. She let out a soft, genuinely amused laugh. “Oh, sugar. No.” The word was a gentle correction, a pat on the head. “I don’t mean front-office clothes. I mean the heavy-duty stuff. The same stuff you sold Jed. Junkin’ is hard work. Sharp edges, battery acid, grinders throwing sparks. Gets you dirty. Sweaty.” She took a step closer to him, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Sometimes it’s downright dangerous. You think it’s wrong for a woman to get herself into that kind of mess?”
Luke’s throat worked. “No, ma’am,” he whispered, utterly sincere.
“Back in the holler I came from,” Essie said, leaning in just a fraction closer, “the preacher used to tell us it was a sin for a woman to work outside the house. To get her hands dirty.” She chuckled, a low, rich sound. “Turns out I like sinning. Reckon a lot of women do.” She winked, a quick, devastating flash. “Think you can help me sin, Luke?”
He melted. It was a physical thing. His shoulders slumped, his posture went soft, and his gaze turned downright devotional. A rush of power, bright and clean, surged through Essie. It wasn’t like the complex, wary energy from Jez. This was pure, uncut admiration. She absorbed it, letting it fill the strange, hollow places this new body sometimes had.
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “Right this way.”
He led her past the dismal pastels to the real work gear: thick canvas, denim, tough corduroy. He pulled down three pairs of heavy-duty coveralls in a dark, oil-resistant charcoal. “These’ll take a beatin’,” he said, his confidence returning now that he was on familiar ground.
“Perfect,” Essie said. “And I’ll need the cleaning service. Can’t be breathin’ in all that junk dust, can I?”
Luke’s face lit up. “We absolutely offer that! It’s a monthly fee, they pick up, clean, repair small tears, bring ‘em back…” He was practically bouncing. Commission. She’d given him commission.
The fitting was its own ritual. He waived the fee, of course. He fetched a soft measuring tape, his fingers trembling slightly as he asked her to stand straight. “For the, uh, inseam,” he mumbled, kneeling before her. His breath hitched as he measured from her ankle to her crotch, his gaze firmly locked on the tape, the very air around him vibrating with a desperate, chivalrous effort to be professional.
“Hips,” he said, his voice tight. She turned, and he looped the tape around the fullest part of her. His knuckles brushed the soft jersey of the dress. He swallowed audibly.
“Bust,” he whispered. This was the most intimate, a ghost of a touch as he brought the tape around her front. His own pulse was a visible thrum in his neck. Essie’s internal radar—that new, humming spider-sense—told her she was safe. His desire was a fog of adolescent yearning, harmless and sweet.
He scurried to the auto-tailor console behind the counter, a hulking machine with robotic arms. He entered the measurements with jabbing fingers. When he entered the bust number, a small, involuntary groan escaped him—a pure sound of overwhelmed realization. He flushed crimson, mortified.
Essie just smiled, leaning on the counter. “Don’t you worry none, Luke. Your secret’s safe with me.”
He glanced up, grateful and terrified.
“Jesus liked sinners too, you know,” she added softly, and watched the shame in his eyes soften into confused wonder.
The machine whirred to life, clamping the coveralls and beginning its precise, stabbing alterations. She chatted with him while it worked, easy questions about the town, the best place for a late dinner. He stammered through answers, utterly captivated. He mentioned his girlfriend, Cindy, who worked at the bank, in a rush, like he was planting a flag of fidelity he feared was already burning.
Essie felt a sudden, unexpected twinge. A needle of guilt. She was playing with a completeness she didn’t understand, feeding on something that belonged, in some small way, to someone else. The feeling was foreign, unwelcome. She pushed it down.
“Well, you tell Cindy she’s a lucky woman,” Essie said, her voice losing a fraction of its purr, gaining a layer of genuine warmth. “And I’ll keep our little secret about how much you appreciate a woman who isn’t afraid to get dirty.”
By the time the machine chimed, Luke was hers. He presented the three altered coveralls, perfectly fitted, and a brand-new pair of composite-toe work boots in a women’s size that matched her new feet. Then, with a flourish, he held up some embroidered patches. In elegant, cursive script, they read ESSIE.
“On the house,” he said, beaming. "I also tossed in a couple garage shirts, they were on clearance."
“Thank you, Luke. You’ve been a real hero.” She took the bag, her fingers brushing his. A final, tiny surge of that delicious energy zipped up her arm.
She drove back to the garage, the sun high overhead. She skipped lunch. She wasn’t hungry for food. The bag of work clothes sat on the passenger seat, a counterweight to the beautiful dress she wore. The image of the wrecked, silver BMW awaited her in the yard.
She had no idea where this sudden, wanton confidence had come from, this effortless pull to flirt and bewitch. Jed hadn’t been a husky. Jed had been a ghost in his own life. But Essie… Essie was here. She was real. The way Luke had looked at her, the way Jez had looked at her… it was intoxicating. It was filling.
She drove past the turn for the garage, her mind already clicking ahead to the next necessity. The Mega-Low Mart’s vast, glaring parking lot was a jarring shift from the Normandy’s intimate shadows.
Inside, the sterile white aisles felt alien. She beelined for the clothing section, a maze of plastic packaging and fluorescent tags. Her heels clicked a foreign rhythm on the linoleum.
Her heels clicked a foreign rhythm on the linoleum. She ignored the trendy displays and went straight for the basics, her fingers flipping quickly past sizes that no longer applied. She grabbed packs of cotton underwear, simple sports bras, thick socks, and a stack of long-sleeved tees in neutral colors.
Without ceremony, she loaded a cart up with as many 'normal' items in her size as she could find. Then she headed for the registers, the wheels squeaking faintly against the floor as she pushed the weight of her new, ordinary life toward the blinking lights.