Blood and Engines

Smoke Signals

You ever get that feelin’ someone walked in just to mess with your peace?

That was Diego Bishop.

Rolled up to Vargas Auto & Salvage like his damn car was sick, but that engine purred smoother than a jazz solo at 2 a.m. I ain’t stupid—I know when a man just wanna be seen. And boy, he made sure I saw him.

Same black Camaro. Same sunglasses he didn’t need. Same smirk that said I know you been thinkin’ ‘bout me, mami.

I ain’t give him the satisfaction.

He leaned against the hood like sin had hips, arms crossed, biceps stretchin’ that tight black tee in a way that should be illegal. I didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just wiped my hands on a rag and kept it movin’.

"Engine’s knockin’ again," he said, voice low like smoke. “Thought I’d get a second opinion. Yours.”

I didn’t even look up from my socket wrench. “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

That made him laugh. Deep. Soft. Like he enjoyed me not playin’ along.

“You always this warm to your regulars?”

“You ain’t a regular.”

“Yet.”

I finally looked at him. He had that look—like a man who ain’t used to being told no. Made me wanna say it again just to watch his mouth twitch.

“You want me to pop the hood or you just here for the vibes?” I asked.

He walked slow, like he had all the time in the world. Like he already owned the room. I hated that. Hated how calm he was. How fine. How I noticed.

“Can’t it be both?” he said, then handed me the keys.

I took ‘em, fingers barely brushing his. Still felt like I touched fire.

Engine was fine. Of course it was.

But I still made a show of checkin’ things. Poked around like I was suspicious. He stood behind me the whole time, arms folded, eyes on me like I was the problem he really wanted to fix.

“You always work alone?” he asked.

“Most times.”

“Don’t get lonely?”

I closed the hood with a snap. “Lonely’s safer.”

“Yeah,” he said, quiet. “But it ain’t as fun.”

The way he said it made something in my stomach twist. Not in a cute way. In a what-the-hell-you-want-from-me way.

I didn’t answer. Just walked back to the front desk and started scribblin’ out a fake invoice. He followed, of course. Like a shadow with too many secrets.

“Name?” I asked.

He tilted his head. “You don’t remember?”

I gave him a dry look. “Diego... what?”

He licked his bottom lip like he knew I was bluffin’. “Bishop.”

“Mm.”

“You gon’ write it down or pretend you forgot already?”

I gave him the invoice without lookin’ at him. “Car’s fine. Don’t waste my time next time.”

He slid a folded bill across the counter. I didn’t touch it. Not yet.

“Consider it a tip,” he said.

I waited till he was out the door before I opened it.

Two twenties wrapped in a matchbook from some hole-in-the-wall place called Redline. Scribbled on the inside in thick black ink:

“Midnight. Come see what I really drive.”

Cocky bastard.

I flipped it closed, heart beatin’ a little too fast. Wasn’t fear. Wasn’t excitement neither. More like that feelin’ right before lightning cracks.

Tito barked at somethin’ outside and I jumped. Scoffed at myself.

“Dumbass,” I muttered.

But I didn’t throw the matchbook away.

I slipped it in my back pocket—just in case.