Chapter 4 Fix my car, break me 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. I have to drive to Massachusetts, and I don't want to--" I don't get to say what my problem is because the little 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 shit!" He exclaims enthusiastically, and on a normal basis I wouldn't mind talking to him, but I'm in fucking New 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 the little guy 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 wouldn't fix it, I would 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.

"Ok," 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 to talk from professional to YOO, but when it did, I think it short-circuited, and the heart that was shattered and barely beating, started fucking racing at an abnormally high speed.

But it can't be him. I mean, there are a lot of other Tristan's 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, that comes 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 wants 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 bum, 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 breath 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 3, and I'm 6 ft 1, 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 as the first time when I heard it, and as every fucking 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 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 also 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, hurting my ribcage, and 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 ok?" 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 teenager 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 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.

The pain that I felt when I heard Dee's name can't be put in words. My eyes haven't stung like this since the day I caught them, my insides, which were already broken, feel like they are put in a blender which destroys me all over again, this time even worse, if that's even possible.

I see Dee, or a blurred image of him, fact that tells me that I'm about to cry, and I bite my cheek hard in order not to, focus on the pain and the metallic taste of blood that floods my mouth, then close my eyes shut for a second to push the tears away, and without wanting, my eyes land on him again, examining him, trying to see what he has that I don't, trying to figure out why Tristan chose him.

We look different, but he's also black, just a darker shade than me, his hair is still cut short, he's taller than both Tristan and me, bigger than both of us, like always. Maybe that was it, the fact that he's bigger, taller... Oh, God... I gotta stop.

"What happened?" He asks as he helps Tristan to sit on the ground, and the need to go and never look back is bigger than it ever was because the pain is more than my body can handle, but again, I can't, I'm way too numb and way too broken to move a muscle.

"B.b.ba..m..bi..." Tristan barely stutters, and I see Dee shaking his head.

"It's gonna be ok, you'll see. We'll talk later about it. Now calm down, and try to breathe." Dee says in a somehow sympathetic and worried voice, and I want to curse him, oh, God, I want to do so many things...

"N.no... Ba...m...bi" Tristan repeats through very hard attempts of taking a breath and shakily takes the hand that up until now fisted his jumpsuit, and pointed it at me.

Dee follows his movement, and when our eyes locked, the motherfucker smiled.

"J.J.!" His voice is cheerful, and his smile gets bigger, and I look at him confused, but then I realize that he's probably smiling because I got to see that they are still together and I'm still an outsider.

"Fuck you," I curse in a low voice because I can't talk really good, or loud, or clearly, and his smile turned into a disappointed frown, but then, he shrugs his shoulders.

"Understandable, but still not nice." He states with a sigh, and I open my mouth to tell him everything I wanted to tell him then but I was too hurt, too busy to beg, but now I mostly want to curse at him, but my voice is really lost, my body is numb due to the trillions of feelings that are assaulting me, the excruciating pain that doesn't allow me to do anything but stay frozen and pray that I won't die, even though death sounds pretty fucking good right now.

The sound of Tristan struggling to breathe takes both of us from our silent conversation, and as I see Tristan's lips turning blue, and tears running down his cheeks, I almost cave and go to him, but what he said that night came back to me and stopped even my heart.

"Oh, shit! T., man, breath..." Dee tries to soothe Tristan... my Tristan... not mine... but... mine. He was mine and...

Oh, shit!

Don't cry, Jamal! Don't you fucking cry!

"Don't pass out on me again, man... come on... breath... please!" Dee pleads, but Tristan's eyes slowly close as he loses consciousness.

"Help me take him in the back room." He says with a sigh as he looks at me, and I bet that my teary eyes went comically wide.

"I'm not touching him... or you... no..." I barely talk, but I'm doing my best to show the disgust in my voice and on my face, and Dee scoffs.

"I can' move him alone, J.J., he's damn bi--"

"DON'T YOU FUCKING CALL ME THAT!" My voice echoes the shop as I finally snap, surprising even me, and causing the little guy to jump startled.

"Yeah, yeah, you're angry, I get it, but come and help me, then you can punch me." His voice, even if it's deeper, it still sounds like it used to, and I hate it, and I hate the smile on his face, I fucking hate everything that has to do with them... I hate them...

"Fuck you and fuck him! Fuck off!" I yell and turn around to go, but his voice, which for once sounds serious, stops me.

"We need to talk. Now, come and help me, then you can punch me, then we'll talk."

"I have nothing to talk to you. I tried once, and you didn't even acknowledge me, so now, as I said before, fuck you, and fuck off!" I snap again, and he sighs heavily in defeat.

"Corry, come and help me. As for you..." He says, pointing at me.

"Don't go. We really need to talk." He continues, and I try to fight the side of me that wants to stay, and listen to my brain and go the fuck away until I'm still breathing.

"Help you, how?" The little guy, Corry, asks, and for good reasons, because he couldn't support 10 percent of Tristan's big body, then looks at me with pleading eyes.

"No. I'm not touching them." I state before he has the chance to even ask, and he sighs hard.

"I'll pay for the dry cleaning. But please, Aaron is not here today, and we have no one big or strong enough to help him." Corry practically begs, and my eyes land on Tristan, who's passed out on the ground with wet trails of tears on his face.

"There is no dry-cleaning in this world that could save this suit if I touch them!" I snap and curse my legs for going towards them.

Turn around, Jamal! You don't owe them anything! You also begged, and they... Just turn the fuck around, and go far away from here!

But what does Dee want to talk to me? Apologize? Maybe this is what Addis was talking about, maybe I will get my closure.

I curse myself, but even if I almost throw up, disgusted by my weakness, my brain lost the battle and another organ, which I officially declare as being useless and stupid, won, and before I know it, I'm crunched next to Tristan.

Good God... he's... God... no! Just help him and go.

He helped me also, even though I don't know why, but he did, so I'll help him as well. Not because I... there's no reason except for that one!!!

"Well... let's take him there, and you can stare at him for as long as you want once we lay him on the sofa." Dee's voice brings me back from... Oh, God, I should stop thinking!

"I was not staring!"He chuckles in disbelief, making it very fucking hard for me not to punch him, but I remind myself that I have to keep my cool, not show them that I'm still hurting, even though I don't know how good my body masks my pain, and I have no control over it, I never have when I'm in Tristan's...

Just stop!

"Do you want my help or not???" I snap, and he purses his lips as a sign that he won't say anything else, then, with very shaky hands, I reach for Tristan's hand, which is as warm as I remember, but more calloused, and it's still bigger than mine, giving me that feeling... those feelings...

No! No! No!

I'm ok, I hate him, I despise him, I don't even stand him...

I fight the stupid urge that I won't even talk about and which I hardly succeed to push it at the back of my head, then wrap one arm around his waist as I put his arm around my neck so I can keep him up, and Dee does the same.

The mix of feelings that assaults me is like a Molotov cocktail, bombarding me with sensations that I never thought I'll ever feel, and they are so many, so bad, and so... good.

I can smell his scent, it's the same, even though the oil that covers his jumpsuit masks it a little, but not in a bad way... it's even more...

Damn me! Damn him!

STOP, JAMAL!