Blood and Engines

Gasoline & Ghosts

People think 23 is grown.

Like just ‘cause you’re past eighteen, the trauma evaporates. Like the bills don’t pile up, like your past don’t still press its thumb into your throat at night.

Let me tell you something—twenty-three is just teenage pain with adult responsibilities.

I was workin’ at Vargas Auto & Salvage, a dusty little chop shop on the west side of the city. Not the kind that got commercials on TV or fancy uniforms. Nah, we had grease on our jeans, secondhand tools, and a guard dog named Tito who barked at butterflies but slept through break-ins.

Didn’t matter. It was honest work. Dirty, loud, back-breaking—but honest.

I showed up every day at 6:30 a.m. in my boots and busted hoodie, hair tied back, brows drawn sharp. I wasn’t tryna impress nobody. I was just tryna survive.

"Morning, Nia,” Marco would say, hands already black from oil.

“Yuh. Another day in paradise,” I’d mutter, tossing my backpack in the corner and rollin’ up my sleeves.

There was somethin’ about engines that made sense to me. People were messy. They lied, broke promises, smiled with knives behind their teeth. But cars? Cars told the truth. You listen close, and they’ll tell you exactly what’s wrong. They whine, they stutter, they spit smoke. But they never fake it.

Wish I could say the same for men.

I’d been single since nineteen. Not ‘cause I couldn’t get someone. Trust me—I got looks. I just don’t trust. Not no more. Boys my age? They played too much. Men older than me? They just hid their games better. Either way, they all had one thing in common: they saw girls like me as a challenge, not a choice.

I wasn’t here to be someone’s “spicy phase” or their “ride-or-die” until jail or boredom do us part. I was building my life piece by piece—same way I rebuilt engines. Careful. Focused. On my own.

But even independence got a weight to it.

Some nights, after the shop closed and Tito snored at my feet, I’d sit by the garage window, pop open a can of cheap beer, and just breathe. The kind of breathing that feels like fightin’ to stay alive.

And sometimes, I’d wonder if this was all life had for me.

Cracked nails. Steel-toed boots. A busted phone.

No lover. No freedom. Just oil stains and overdue rent.

But then I’d remember Mami’s hands—scarred from years of cleanin' rich people’s floors—and I’d remember how she’d smile at me with all her teeth even when her back screamed. And I’d think: At least I ain’t invisible. At least I’m still fightin’.

I wasn’t soft. But I wasn’t numb either. I still wanted things.

I wanted more clients. A better shop. My name stitched on the pocket of my own jumpsuit.

I wanted to stop lookin’ over my shoulder every time a car I didn’t recognize pulled up.

And deep down, under all the sarcasm and rolled eyes—I wanted to be wanted. Not for my body. Not for my mouth. Not ‘cause I could twist a wrench faster than some dude with a GED.

I wanted to be wanted for all of me—even the broken pieces I kept hidden under sarcasm and engine grease.

I just didn’t expect that he’d be the one to see them.

I didn’t expect Diego Bishop to roll up in that all-black Camaro with the engine hummin’ like a panther in heat, windows tinted, and trouble written all over him.

Didn’t expect him to lean against the hood like sin in human form, sunglasses low, lips curled just enough to make you nervous.

Didn’t expect him to look at me—like really look—and smirk like he already knew my blood type and what made my knees buckle.

Didn’t expect him to walk into my life like a lit match in a room full of gasoline.

But that’s what he did.

That’s how it started.

And if I had known what that look would lead to?

Maybe I woulda ran.

Or maybe… I woulda met him halfway anyway.

Either way, the damage was already in motion.