Prologue

I was your one-of-a-kind bad girl. I sassed the teachers, toyed with the boys, and pretty much got my way. High school was crappy- the structure, the stress, and the stupidness (the 3 S’s of school), not to mention the drama, threw me over the edge- so I dropped high school at the beginning of my junior year. My teachers were disappointed because I was an amazing student with a photogenic memory, making it easy to remember equations, rules of grammar, laws, etc., but I just told them that my mom needed me at home. That was one of the few things I told my teachers that wasn’t a lie.

It had been three months since my mom crashed her car into a pole while drunk, and she still didn’t care about me or anything else except her stupid band. And she still drank. In fact, she was either sleeping, drinking, clubbing, playing, or in the middle of a hangover. It was wise not to disturb her at any of those times so I took after her. I didn’t have any goals in life- nor did I regret anything in life. I guess you could say my mother and I were two peas in a pod- except for the fact that we didn’t talk much to each other.

We looked exactly alike, however- motorcycle-chick, curly red hair, and a heart-shaped face with a swooping, button nose, stubborn chin, impertinent mouth, and to-die-for blue eyes. I had plenty of guys to drool over me. I was a stubborn, arrogant, rude, little brat- and I was perfectly fine with that.

But I was still in touch with reality. Mom’s band couldn’t support us, so I went to work at a car repair shop’s mini-store. I didn’t get paid much, but it was a start. One day my boss had to see me, so I went into his office within the shop. He wasn’t there yet, so I picked up a book about car repair and started to read it. It actually made sense. I remembered everything- every word on the page, every picture in the book. I got my boss to let me borrow some of the books during the slow hours, and I began absorbing information. Before you knew it, I was a walking-talking car and motorcycle encyclopedia.

After that, during my breaks, I ventured into the auto shop to watch it hands on. I remembered every technique and perfected my book knowledge. Then one day, one of the mechanics- Monty- could not figure out the problem with a gorgeous ’87 Mustang. Being the smart ass that I was, I told him flat out what the problem was. He looked up at me, quizzically.

“Okay, smarty pants,” he said, “now, how would I fix it?” Of course, I had a response ready, and he then quizzed me on everything he knew about cars until the boss came in and yelled at Monty and me to get back to work. But after that, Monty and I became best friends, and he continued to expand my knowledge and look after me.

Monty was probably the closest thing to having a father in my life. A lot of guys tried to take advantage of me and Monty was always there to tell them to bug off. (Well, he used other words- if you know what I mean- but his point always came across clearly.) After awhile, I broke down crying explaining how we had been living off of Macaroni and Cheese and Cup of Noodles for a week and we weren’t going to have enough money to pay taxes, even if we cut back on all luxuries. That was when Monty told the boss about my potential as a mechanic.

At first, the boss wasn’t so keen of the idea- a high school drop-out being one of his mechanics. But he gave me one chance. He gave me an old Mustang- it was a ’78- and told me if I could fix it, I could keep the car and be a mechanic. I worked late at night at the shop, sometimes going through the entire night without sleep- and then waking up in the morning to work in the mini-store. Monty finally just hung up a hammock in the shop, dubbing the room as my new home.

I worked for weeks until it was finally done. To the least, the boss was blown away, and before I knew it, I was a mechanic. I was making more money now, and I even managed to sell the car for 35,000. God bless Ebay.

Even though we had more money in the house, things were still a little shaky. My mom started dragging me to her concerts where I was thrown amongst drunk men, addicts, and jackasses. It wasn’t bad at first- most men recognized that I was hands-off and still young, but after a year, things changed. After getting drunk and almost getting taken home by some middle aged guy (I still don’t know what his name was…), I met a big (6 foot 6 to be exact), strong (I could barely hold my hands around his flexed arms), yet nice punk named Christian. Chris became my protector while at the club. He made sure I didn’t drink, didn’t do drugs, and not one guy tried to take advantage of me. On the other hand, a lot of guys were afraid to ask me to dance because of the big, tall guy always by my side. Chris, like Monty, was also a father to me. He taught me valuable life lessons, protected me, and let me go when necessary.

Throughout my “hot-shot routine”, Chris pushed me to maintain some moral- no sex until after marriage, no drugs, no alcohol…you get the picture. Otherwise, I was reckless and as far as I was concerned, my actions had no consequences. That was how I lived until I fell into another realm- a pick-your-poison sort of world where flirting with danger was like facing a snake getting ready to strike. And all I could do was antagonize the snake more.