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Jack’s Garage had been the family business for most of Grimmjow’s life. His father and grandfather started it together back when the town of Harlow still had a population in the quadruple digits. Back when work was steady, the coal mines were still in production, and the people had money. The last two decades saw a decline, and the end of mining for most of the county.
With that came fading businesses and for sale signs galore. People that had lived in Harlow for generations were off and gone to new places. New states, new countries sometimes.
Not that Grimmjow minded the absences most of the time. It meant grocery trips were done and over, and there was never a line when he went to the drugstore. But there wasn’t much else around. All the bigger, flashier businesses left with the fading population. The town center even went under when Grimmjow was still a kid.
Grimmjow sighed and hauled himself out from under the old sedan. He wiped his hands on his bandanna and closed the hood. The car was probably old when it was new, he reckoned.
It belonged to his old junior high English teacher, Ms. Maybell. She was his steadiest customer, coming by once a month for some odd or end or inspection. He tried to tell her she’d be better off trading in for something new, but she’d always smile at him, drop a Hershey kiss into his hands, and tell him it’ll keep one more month.
Grimmjow knew she’d never change. He doubted anyone in Harlow would, but it’d be nice to see something, anything, new. Maybe even someone new. Just every now and then. Someone to talk to that didn’t remember him as a kid. Who didn’t bring up all the trouble he started as a teenager.
Or look sad at his dad and grandpa’s picture in the office and remind him they were gone.
Grimmjow inhaled. It wasn’t a bad town, just… quiet. And Grimmjow had never been very good with quiet. Not since his Pa and Gramps went. One right after the other.
The overhead speakers played a rock song he barely remembered adding. Must have been around the time his dad took sick. The music lowered, replaced by the electronic chirp of his alarm. Grimmjow scrunched his brow and glanced at the clock.
“Well, shit.” He’d been so focused on what was wrong with Ms. Maybell’s old junker this time, he’d forgot how close it was to lunch.
His stomach growled at the thought, and Grimmjow went to pull down the garage doors. He locked the garage and headed to the back for a quick shower and to change out of his filthy dickies.
Wouldn’t do to head into town filthy. His mama would hear about it by dinner. Didn’t matter if he was a grown man. The old ladies in town never stopped henpecking. Grimmjow hurried into a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt with only a few small holes. No sense retiring it until it became holy in of itself.
He checked the backdoor again: when a town faded, something had to come in to replace what was gone. That usually meant meth, and Grimmjow’s equipment might have been old and out of date, but it’d still catch a fair price if someone knew where to fence it.
Satisfied, Grimmjow headed out the side door for his truck. Pantera was an old girl in faded blue. His Gramps bought her at auction back when Grimmjow was barely five. He remembered bouncing in the bucket seats in back all the way to the flea market a town over.
Grimmjow eased into the driver’s seat and slotted his key into the ignition. Pantera rumbled to life with a purr like a real cat. She could be a little persnickety, too like any good cat. Wanting her recognition and affection. Grimmjow smoothed his hand over the worn dash and felt her engine even out.
“My girl,” he murmured like his Gramps did so many times.
Grimmjow put the truck in reverse and backed out of the lot and onto the main road.
Harlow had never been a big town even in its hayday. Grimmjow doubted it even fit the definition of a town. Maybe a village? They had an old courthouse at the center of town, a library, and a movie theater. Churches here and there, with a flower shop and trinket places, a mini mall that he didn’t know how it stayed open, and the best little diner in the whole county. Though Grimmjow was bias., seeing as his cousins ran and owned it.
Grimmjow supposed they just needed something big to lure in out of town traffic like a celebrity, or an attraction. Maybe even a museum or a fancy degree school.
The traffic light on main turned yellow. Grimmjow slowed as it turned red. An engine growled beside him, and he lifted his head to see a shiny, green mustang pull to a stop at his passenger door. He leaned his head forward, noting it was an early 2000 model, ‘05 maybe. They all had that compact, sleek look about them. Damn fine car. Never saw it before, but he’d like to get his hands on it. See how it ran.
The windows were tinted pitch black, illegal without a good reason, and the driver turned off when the light turned green. Grimmjow admired the back of the car while it pulled onto an old residential street. There wasn’t much left down there now aside from a cemetery, old apartment complex, and the Cifer house at the top of the hill. Must have been family visiting someone at the complex.
Grimmjow rolled forward when he spotted the diner’s sign. Gamuza Grub was a horrible name, but the Oderschvanks had always been horrible at naming things. The diner was old fashioned and long with a big neon sign depicting some kind of… Nel called it a centaur. Grimmjow called it a sausage horse. Because it looked like he was made outta sausages. Didn’t help he was carrying a plate of bacon and eggs either.
The front was decorated with little shrubs and a cracked stone path led to the entrance. Grimmjow pushed the door open and breathed in the smell of good food and decent coffee. The blackboard on the counter read Today’s Special: Meatloaf and Mashed Potatoes. Gravy’d cost extra.
The counter itself was full of the local trucking crew. Grimmjow nodded to each in passing on his way to a booth in back. The interior of Gamuza Grub was neat enough with an old school checker patterned floor and wood benches and tables. Frilly half curtains hung over the windows, and the jukebox clicked through a Golden Oldie Grimmjow didn’t recognize.
He didn’t know why Nel refused to switch over to speakers like he had in the garage. He even offered to wire them for her, but “something, something my daddy built this place and loved that jukebox”. As if her daddy didn’t ask Grimmjow to install the damn speakers back at the house.
Speak of the devil, Nel walked out from behind the counter. Her hair was piled high on her head in a messy bun, and Grimmjow could see streaks of blonde at her temples. Well, someone needed to see the stylist for a dye touch. Grimmjow tried to hide his smirk.
“Oh, hush.” Nel sat a mug down in front of him and poured some coffee. “Pesche’s already makin’ your lunch.”
Grimmjow thanked her. “Kinda hungry today, so can I have two slices of meatloaf and extra gravy?”
Nel arched a brow. “Saw you workin’ early this mornin’. Already told him you’d want extra.”
“Thanks, Nel.”
She smiled at him. “Anything for my little cousin.”
Grimmjow hummed. He’d always thought she was sweet. Never could understand how she ended up with such an asshole. Grimmjow’s eyes flickered toward the scar cutting between her eyes where that bastard fucker tried to split her. Nel didn’t bother with makeup anymore. Everyone knew anyway.
Asshole hadn’t even done it for the money in the till. Tried to do worse. Well, Nel got him better, didn’t she? Blinded him with cooking grease. Still fighting, even with her skull cracked open. It’s how his family was.
Grimmjow picked up his mug to sip. She still made shit coffee though.
Nel lingered at his table. “You hear?”
“Hear what? I ain’t the beauty salon, girl.” Grimmjow nodded to the seat across from him.
Nel didn’t hesitate. She put the coffee pot on the counter and settled in across from him and folded her arms on the cracked formica tabletop. Her eyes were wide. “Mr. Cifer died last night.”
No, Grimmjow hadn’t heard that. He put his mug down with a clack. “Shit. Didn’t even know he was sick.”
Nel blew air between the gap in her teeth. Another gift from that slimy fuck, Nnoitra. Grimmjow hoped he got his in prison. Nel said, “Think it was a heart attack? You know Rudbornn won’t say until he’s dotted all his I’s.”
Yeah, Grimmjow knew. The town mortician was infamous for his professionalism. Took his job too serious. Grimmjow nodded and sipped his coffee. “What’s going to happen to his house?”
Salvador Cifer had been the town’s oldest resident. Grimmjow remembered spending summers with his grandpa on the porch of the house. Grimmjow’d spent a few weekends fixing up things, too. Hell, last week he’d just repainted the porch for Mr. Cifer.
Nel drummed her fingers on the table. “Heard his grandson is coming today to start preparations.”
Grimmjow remembered stories about a grandson, but he’d never seen one. “Hate to hear that.”
Nel nodded.
The bell over the door jingled, and Nel slipped out of the booth, smoothing out her skirt. Grimmjow stared at his coffee mug about the same time Pesche came out with his food.
“Thanks.”
“Mhm.” Pesche headed back into the kitchen.
Grimmjow picked up the ramekin of gravy and poured it over the plate. He doubted they’d have Mr. Cifer’s obituary up yet. He’d have to figure out if they’d have his funeral here, or back in his hometown. Send some flowers if the latter, not that he knew much about the Cifer family. Salvador was a quiet kind of man. Nice, but private.
Grimmjow cut a wedge of meatloaf off and drug it through his potatoes. He took a bite and turned to look out at the road.
A few cars drove past, but then he noticed someone new. A man with short black hair came walking down the sidewalk toward the diner. He was pale, dressed in all black, and looked grumpy like the country air didn’t agree with him. Grimmjow cut another piece off his lunch and ate slower.
The man paused in front of the diner, looked up at the sign, made a little nose scrunch, and hung his head. Mhm, best option, pretty boy. He’d eat that disdain real fast. Pesche was the best damn cook in the state.
Grumpy headed for the door. Grimmjow focused on his plate when the bell jingled.
“Welcome in!” Nel called from the counter. Definitely new. She never sounded that cheerful for regulars. Grimm usually got his tab called in most days.
Grimmjow heard the man ask, “Where do I find a tow truck?”
Nel hummed. “Right over there. That’s the town mechanic.”
Grimmjow shoved another bite of food in his mouth before he wiped his face with a napkin. The man walked toward him, and Grimmjow heard a sharp click-clack on the title. Grimmjow dared to wager he was wearing heeled boots. Definitely from the city.
The man stopped at the table. His hands were in his jean pockets now. “I need my car towed.”
Grimmjow glanced up at him. Short, big green eyes. Those were either falsies, or he had real long lashes. Kinda girly in the face. Didn’t get many pretty boys. Or most of ‘em didn’t stay pretty.
“Sure, but I don’t work during my lunch.” Grimmjow nodded to the seat in front of him. “Want somethin’? My treat.”
The man sighed and drew a hand from his pocket to lay on the table. “It’s not like my car is going anywhere.”
Grimmjow watched him ease himself down onto the bench. Delicate sort. Bet he was about to order a salad and a mineral water. Nel came over with her notepad.
The man lifted his head. “Double bacon cheeseburger with everything, and a large order of fries. And a coke with cherry syrup if you have it.” The man settled his hands on the tabletop. His nails were painted shiny black.
Grimmjow’s eyes widened. His fork paused near his mouth. “Damn.”
The man arched a brow. “What?”
“Nothin’.” Grimmjow hurried to eat the next bite. He put his fork down, intent on waiting for the man’s lunch. It was rude otherwise.
The man sighed and rested his elbow on the table then his chin in his hand. “I suppose it’s par for the course.”
“Mm?” Grimmjow sipped his coffee.
“The curious look.” The man’s lashes dipped. “I’m here to take possession of my grandfather’s house and make his funeral arrangements.”
Ah. “So you’re Mr. Cifer’s grandson.”
His eyes flickered back to Grimmjow. “My name is Ulquiorra.”
Huh. Grimmjow hadn’t pegged Mr. Cifer’s grandson to be cute. Salvador had a pretty prominent jawline, even in the old sepia toned photos. “I’m Grimmjow.” Grimmjow offered his hand.
Ulquiorra took it, squeezed, and Grimmjow was amused to find a strong grip for someone who looked so thin.
“I recognize your name. Abuelito spoke about you often. He said you would do odd jobs for him and visit.” Ulquiorra’s voice was soft but masculine. Didn’t quite fit the face, but Grimmjow found it soothing.
“Mhm. Your grandfather was friends with mine.” Grimmjow nodded. “I liked him. Sorry to hear about his passing.”
“It was to be expected.” Ulquiorra’s eyes lowered to the table. “He’d been ill for some time, but refused to acknowledge it.”
Sounded about right. Grimmjow hummed. “Were you close?”
“Yes. He came to visit every winter. I suppose the climate was kinder to him there than here in Harlow.” Ulquiorra lifted his head a fraction.
So that’s why Grimmjow never met him. If Mr. Cifer left for winter, why have his grandson for the summer? Must have lived somewhere warm, not that Ulquiorra’s complexion gave Grimmjow any ideas.
Nel walked out from behind the counter with Ulquiorra’s lunch balanced in one hand. “Here ya go, hon.” She placed the plate in front of him and sat the soda to the side.
“Thank you.” Ulquiorra reached for the ketchup.
Grimmjow watched Ulquiorra add it and steak sauce to his burger, feeling an odd tug at his heart. He did that, too! Ulquiorra shoved several fries in his mouth then tore into the burger. It was cute how Ulquiorra ate like a ravenous animal. Even cuter when some sauce dripped down the corner of his mouth and he licked it.
Well… Shit.
Grimmjow looked away and carved up his meatloaf.
They ate in silence. Ulquiorra cleaned his plate and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. His eyes flickered from Grimmjow to the counter. Not sure why. All that was up there was the dessert case. Oh. Grimmjow didn’t know how Ulquiorra was still hungry after all that, but Grimmjow’d always liked big appetites.
Something his mama said once about big appetites made for good company.
Ulquiorra sighed. “I shouldn’t. I’ll come back for dinner.”
Grimmjow snickered and pulled out his wallet to pay the bill. “Dinner’s better than lunch. Promise. Where’s your car?” Grimmjow placed the money on the counter, tip included.
Ulquiorra wiped a hand down the front of his shirt. “I made it to the base of the driveway when it stalled.”
“Mm.” Grimmjow bobbed his head and eased out of the booth.
He headed outside and opened Pantera’s passenger door for Ulquiorra. They pulled out of the parking lot a minute later. Grimmjow could see the house in the distance.
The Cifer House sat on top of a big hill dotted with old oak trees and some willowy birches. It was less a house and more a three story estate with a sprawling front lawn and well manicured bushes framing the iron gate. The house overlooked the southern side of town, and Grimmjow remembered nights sitting on the front porch with his grandfather and Mr. Cifer, staring out over the lights.
“Any plans for the old place?’ Grimmjow asked.
Ulquiorra sat up straighter in his seat. “An inspection, first off.”
“Then?” Grimmjow knew no one in town could afford to buy the old place. Ulquiorra looked to be from the city. They didn’t understand country figures. Or real numbers versus bank statements.
Ulquiorra tilted his head. “Does it matter?”
City figures never did. “To a town like this? Yeah. We’re small.” It wouldn’t do for some greedy land developer to set their sights on Harlow. Make it into some retreat for the rich, or worse. Grimmjow heard some doctor a town or two over was selling their house for a million dollars. That town was worse than Harlow, practically a decayed corpse that was too stubborn to realize it was dead. “No one can afford to buy it.” Grimmjow’s fingers tightened on the wheel.
Ulquiorra was quiet. “I intended to move here. If the house was sound. I’m a writer.”
Grimmjow relaxed his grip on the wheel. “Oh.” Then. “Published?”
“A few anthologies.” Ulquiorra waved his hand.
Mr. Cifer never mentioned. Grimmjow hummed. “What genre?”
“Horror.”
Grimmjow snorted a laugh. “That tracks.”
Ulquiorra huffed, but Grimmjow could see his lips twitch. Salvador had been like that. Hid his emotions behind big words and sarcasm. Grimmjow had only ever heard the old man laugh once, but it had been a good laugh. The kind that came up from the belly and hurt your ribs.
Grimmjow could see the car now. The mustang he’d seen at the light. Still a damn fine car. “No ghosts in your grandpa’s place. Sorry.”
“I don’t write about ghosts. They’re too easy.” Ulquiorra leaned forward to peer up at the old house.
Grimmjow pulled to a stop beside the mustang. “Then what’s hard?”
Ulquiorra opened the passenger door and climbed out. He lingered at the door before he said, “Psychological thrillers.”
Grimmjow rumbled an affirmative. A good detective mystery was hard to pull off right, it was true. He closed the driver’s door and walked toward the front of the mustang. “So what’s going on? You said it stalled?”
Ulquiorra unlocked the door and leaned in to pop the hood. Grimmjow lifted it and crossed his arms. Manifold looked fine, for the most part. Must have been something underneath. Ah. No. Grimmjow saw the issue. He leaned over the engine.
Ulquiorra said, “The radiator was replaced a month ago. I think it may have been defective.”
“Happens. Knew a guy who got a whole new computer system installed just for it to be bad.” Grimmjow pointed. “S’not the radiator at least. Looks like your fan belt broke. Might be low on fluids, too. I’ll tow you to the shop for a full look over. Just in case. Where’d you come from?”
“Weston.”
New York. Explained some things. Was a damn near full day’s drive. “And you drove the mustang all that way down here?” To the deep, deep south. Where they fried everything from catfish to ice cream.
Ulquiorra nodded.
Grimmjow clicked his tongue. Poor girl had it rough as hell. “Mm. Yeah. I’ll give her a work up.”
Ulquiorra came close enough Grimmjow could smell his cologne. Woodsy. A little like a thunderstorm.
Ulquiorra murmured, “I suppose it’s good that lunch is over.”
Grimmjow laughed and walked around the side to get his straps. “Sure, but you’ve got a new problem.”
Ulquiorra tilted his head. He reminded Grimmjow of a curious dog. But, Grimmjow had always liked the moody types. The ones who thought too much. Made him want to figure them out, make them blue screen and sputter. They were bad for him, but he never really knew what to do with something that was good for him.
And… well.
Maybe he was a little lonely. Little desperate for new and interesting.
“And what’s that?” Ulquiorra slid his hands into his pockets.
Grimmjow sat about securing the wheels and sliding the hook under the car. He’d do better with a rollback, but Pantera could get the job done. Been modified with a helluva wench.
“I don’t work past dinner.” Grimmjow flashed Ulquiorra a toothy grin.
Ulquiorra’s lashes fluttered, and his cheeks tinted pink. “Oh.”
“You like pot roast? Homemade, by the way.” Grimmjow hooked the suspension. “By me.”
Ulquiorra’s eyes widened like dinner plates before he hid a snort into his shoulder. He looked cute when he smiled. “I like food of any kind, Grimmjow, but especially homemade.”
Grimmjow grinned and walked back to the truck to engage the wench. The mustang lifted off its back tires by about a foot. Enough to roll, but not enough to scrape the ground effects. If Grimmjow was careful.
Grimmjow went to disengage the mustang’s brake. “Maybe I can read some of your stories?”
Ulquiorra moved toward the passenger side of the tow truck. He glanced over his shoulder. “Only if your pot roast is the best I’ve ever had.”
“Best in the whole county.” Grimmjow opened the driver’s door.
Ulquiorra hummed and settled into his seat. “And dessert?”
Grimmjow glanced at him, caught the hooded look in Ulquiorra’s eyes. The way Ulquiorra licked his lips. Oh. Oh.
“Yeah. Think I can find you somethin’ sweet after.” Grimmjow turned the key and pulled out of the driveway.