Ch.4-Fix my car, break my heart again.

JAMAL'S POINT OF VIEW

“Hello, sir, what can I help you with?” A tiny guy, not taller than 5 ft 6, and not heavier than 110 pounds, with brown curls that fall over his brown eyes, asks me with a smile on his freckled face.

“I have a flat tire, and some warning light popped up on the dashboard. I have to drive to Massachusetts, and I don’t want to--” I don’t get to say what my problem is because the guy’s eyes went wide, and interrupted me with a squeal and a high-pitched tone of voice.

“You’re Jamal Jones! The billionaire, with the apps and games!” He exclaims enthusiastically, and on a normal basis I wouldn’t mind talking to him, but I’m in New fucking Jersey, and every minute spent here means more chances to see them, and I already had more delays than I wished for.

“Yes, I am. Now please, I’m in a hurry.” I plead, trying to remain polite and not blow up because the poor guy did nothing to me, but as I said... gotta get out of here.

“Yes, sorry. Bring the car in, and we’ll take care of it.” He talks in a professional tone, but still keeps a huge smile on his face.

He’s nice. I will give him a big tip.

I bring the car in, and I can’t help but chuckle when I see him opening my door.

“You didn’t have to do that. I’m not royalty, I actually grew up in the ghettos around here.” I explain, and a jolt of pain strikes my chest as I remember... other things, and he looks at me with wide eyes, shocked.

“But the media... they said that you--” I shake my head and interrupt him.

“The media assumes, and I don’t bother to tell them otherwise because they’ll have it their way anyway,” I explain again, not really knowing which story he heard, but none is true, so it doesn’t really matter.

“I don’t want to offend you or your shop, but do your workers know how to fix Rolls-Royce cars?” I ask, hoping that he’ll not get offended, but the truth is that Rolls-Royce’s are not so easy to fix.

I do regret taking this car and not one that has no sensors, but I like to take this one when I drive for hours because it’s very comfortable.

“Yes. I do. We have a guy that can fix the first car ever made and the last model of any car you want. He’s really amazing. He doesn’t have a diploma, but he’s the best mechanic I’ve ever seen.” He says, calming me.

It’s not that I care about the car, but if they don’t fix it, I will have to go to some dealership, and either rent one or buy one, and that takes time, and it would mean that I would have to drive around town, and I would rather not.

“Okay,” I decided to trust him with my mental health.

“YOO! TRISTAN, I HAVE A ROLLS-ROYCE FOR YOU!” At first, my brain didn’t quite get the name he called because I was too amused by how he changed his way of talking from professional to YOO, but when it did, I think it short-circuited, and the heart that it's shattered and barely beating, started fucking racing at an abnormally high speed.

I'm cursing, so that says something. Well, I cursed a lot ever since I came here, so one more doesn't matter.

But it can’t be him. I mean, there are a lot of other Tristans in the world. Besides, he never worked as a mechanic, so there’s no need to panic.

No panic.

At all.

I’m calm.

Very calm.

I follow the little guy’s gaze, and I see a big, filled with tattoos arm coming from under a car, and I realize that, for the first time since the guy called that name, I get to breathe.

Tristan has no tattoos, he never said he wanted them, so I’m safe.

That was a very close one!

But I hope that this one breath will keep me alive for a little longer than a breath normally would, because when the guy slid from under the car on one of those things that resemble a skateboard, -I think it’s called a creeper seat-, I saw that unique light brown hair with dirty blond highlights, tied up in a man bun, just like he used to wear it.

But maybe... he has a scrub... a sexy one and Tristan was always shaved...

Nope! There is no maybe! It’s him.

IT’S FUCKING HIM!

HIM!

TRISTAN!

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

I’M GONNA DIE!

I’M DYING!

I try to turn and get inside my car, but I’m literally unable to move, talk, or breathe for that matter.

He's still taller than me, not by much because I got pretty tall myself, but I can tell that he still has a few inches over me, so I guess that he's 6 ft 4, and I'm 6 ft 2. He's wearing a black jumpsuit that makes him look... well... it makes me swallow hard.

Do not swallow hard! You don’t want him! I don’t want him!

He’s looking down at the rag that he uses to clean his oily hands, and again, I want to go before he sees me, I really do, I swear I do, but I literally can’t.

“What’s the problem with it?” The deep and baritone voice sounds like a smooth song sung by some supernatural being, and just like the first time I heard it, and like every goddamn time, it sends shivers down my spine and makes my organs flip and jump all over the place, giving me the feeling that I’ll throw up every single one of my useless organs, faint, then die.

Tristan... it’s... Tristan...

“A flat tire and some warning light popped up.” The guy explains as Tristan places the rag under his mechanic's belt, then looks up, glancing at the car, at the guy... and then... our eyes locked.

He stopped abruptly when he saw me, his eyes went wide and his mouth fell open, and I don’t know how I look, but I’m really not feeling ok.

“B.b.bambi?” He stutters as he looks at me as if I’m a ghost, and I want to curse him, tell him not to call me that, but I also want to do and say things that I swore that I’ll never even think about, and for once, I’m grateful that I can’t talk or move because I really don’t know what I would do.

My jaw is clenched, it actually hurts, so to say a word would be impossible. My breathing stopped a while ago, and my racing heart became violent, trying to get out of my chest, and hurting my ribcage. every beat echoes through every inch of my pained and weak body, giving me the feeling that I’ll literally crumble and fall to the ground.

“Tristan, are you okay?” The guy asks in a worried voice, and if he weren’t next to me I don’t think that I would have heard him because my heart is beating way too loudly in my ears.

“Y.you... here...” He says some other incoherent words but without taking his eyes off of me, and I force myself to get out of his baby blue eye’s trance, look away and find the strength to go.

“I... sorry, but... I don’t need... I’ll go.” I blabber, trying not to sound and look just like I did. A teenage boy with speech impediments.

“Why? He can fix it, I promise.” The guy tries to convince me, and I want to tell him that Tristan can only break things, but I don’t because I don’t trust my voice, I don’t trust myself to be around him.

“No,” I reply shortly, afraid that if I say more words they will have nothing to do with my car, and before I turn, I look at Tristan one more time, who’s now fisting his jumpsuit with one hand as if he’s trying to reach inside his chest, and the other is around his throat while gasping for air.

“Oh, shit!” The little guy exclaims in a worried voice as Tristan dizzily stammers back and struggles to breathe, but it looks like his airways are blocked.

I felt my anger dissipate as worry took over, and my first instinct was to go to him, help him, and I almost did.

Almost.

“DEE, COME HERE! TRISTAN HAS ANOTHER EPISODE!” That was what stopped me.