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Chapter 1-9
Aissa finds him after lunch. He’s in the garage, the hoods of both run-gun trucks open like cavernous mouths of hungry gators while he leans back in the creaky chair by his workbench, feet kicked up on the table. “You’re hard at work,” she says, tossing a lukewarm can of soda into his lap. Sitting up, Trin winces when the can strikes his crotch, and Aissa laughs. “And I do mean hard. Jeez Trini, didn’t you get enough last night? I could hear you guys all the way down the hall.” “Bullshit,” Trin mutters. The room she shares with Blain isn’t but a few doors down from his, certainly not what he’d call down the hall. He pops the can open, chugs down half of it—the garage is sweltering and even the hot soda tastes good on his throat. “I’m taking a break.” She doesn’t look like she buys that.
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