He'd never get away from here. It was a thought that always flickered through his mind every morning when he rose, simple denim work pants meeting the usual cotton shirt as he dressed, watching the sun struggle to rise on his family's livelihood. There was nothing exciting or glamourous along these dirt roads, this oil stained concrete floor, his role as town mechanic keeping him from getting too bored, kept him from yearning for the big city. For something beyond this.
The sun was bright, slanting through the cheap window blinds as Ben Solo groggily trudged through the little roadside store, glancing about, ticking off various mental checklists. The garage was ready for any repairs for the day, his cheek already flecked dark from the oil change he did earlier, cursing his friend Poe for waiting so long. His tools were laid out, ready for a quick tune up, though the heavy wrench by the register was for thugs who thought the lanky man was too gentle to fight, as if he wasn't a war veteran. The gas pump stood proud and ready outside, prepared for a long day of business. The man bit back a snicker as he strode past the back of the store, the little commercial icebox sticking out like a sour thumb, his mother's touch on the "masculine" store.
This past year, his mother had insisted on adding the little cooler, stocked with bright, colorful soda pops, much to his father's chagrin. It was an oddly cheerful machine, red and silver chrome standing out among the various bottles of motor oil and car fluid—but it made their little filling station that much more popular compared to the ones down the road, even if those stations were closer to the city. Just one of many reasons an interesting array of customers came through the door, pulled up to the pumps.
Usually the crowd that came by weren't anything special—old family friends, citizens of the little surrounding town. No, the crowd he liked to watch, liked to pretend he was a part of, came from the city.
Ben was sure that at least half of them had connections to the mob—hell, he was sure that his father used to—with their sullen faces and dark eyes. They'd pull up, only nod and he'd get to work—no questions would be asked between them and the lowly gas station attendant that he was, and it was better that way. He'd peek at them, wonder if there was a body in the trunk of the red-haired one they called Hux, if the tall blonde with him was his dame or a part of his gang. He only wondered about them sometimes though, more interested in their occasional company—chicks who looked like they should be at home or trying to go to college, instead nodding along with their bobbed hair and painted smiles.
He felt a simper prick his lips, mind instantly alighting on a particular customer who suited that description…but with a shrug, he banished that particular waif's face. She wasn't his doll—just a looker who came through every Monday with glitter in her navy car's seats, brightly dressed and surrounded by flappers and flaming youths, all snazzy in their dance shoes, shrieking with laughter.
She was noticeable because of her silence. Ben knew that this girl was a canary, that singing was her job, that she was loud and flashy and glitzy on command. When he first saw her face in person, not on some advertisement plastered across every wall in town, despite her shows being inner city attractions, he had expected a grin and excited eyes. He had expected her to talk to everyone, to have a brassy, bold voice even when speaking, that maybe she'd sing more than speak. But she didn't, looking coolly around her, sizing up her surroundings, letting her crowd being the ones to tumble about, shimmying to silence, their pleas for a song from her met with a somewhat cruel teasing slip of a simper.
She never said anything to him in front of them, looking careless, her glassy eyes at one time slipping past him and to the pump. Back at that point, he'd watch her and her movements, her grinning mouth and shrugging shoulders as she laughed at her companions as they called to her from the storefront, arms full of soda from the icebox, turning when she'd tell them to pick whatever they wanted for her. When they turned their backs, her face would slip, and suddenly the rouged mouth was a pout, her made up eyes heavy and glazed with fear.
Rey. Ben only knew her name from her friends' shrieking for her attention, fawning about her like the sheba she was. He had tried not to talk to her much, but she was the one trying to talk to him more now, after coming alone a few times. Of all the times she had come by herself, only twice had he worked up the courage to talk to her first.
The first time, the very first time she came alone, he had asked, "Who are you?" She had looked surprised, eyes wide, as if she just now realized that there was a human, a walking and talking man, pumping her gas, her nails pausing in their tapping on the car door, the dark blue paint glossy under her gloved hand. Her eyes were perplexed, her brows suspicious, touching her hair as she shrugged at him, lips pinched before she reached out, dropping an extra two dollars in his hand and driving off, leaving behind frustration and dust clouds. He was sure that she wouldn't be back, with or without her friends.
The second time, when she had proved him wrong and came back, when he was determined not to look at her, nursing a hangover and a bruised ego, she answered him. "I'm just a dancer." He could hear her fingers tapping the steering wheel now, confidence restored with some sort of rhythm that she was probably memorizing for her performance that night, at whatever club she danced at. She sighed at his silence, as if he was playing hard to get, as if he was the mysterious one who should be opening up, not her.
"Just a dancer?" He had scoffed at her, glancing at her, wondering where her makeup was today, her clothes plain and dark, her brown hair curling naturally at her cheeks, around her ears, not in the straight tresses she usually wore. That day, she was certainly not the glamour gal of previous visits. That day, they were just a couple of people, neither of them lower than the other, a bit more equal than before. She had scoffed back at him. "What are you? An artist or something?"
"No…just a mechanic." He felt self-conscious, feeling the grease staining his jeans all the more, wondering if she'd prefer an artist, someone to paint numerous portraits of her, someone to write countless songs for her to dance to. Rey had simply smiled at him this time though, dropping a five in his hand as she started the engine. "Good—I never much liked artists anyways." Her nod of approval made her face solemn, and he wanted to laugh at her as she concluded: "Practical. Useful. Don't really need artists anyways."
She was a mystery, and Ben wondered if she ever thought of him onstage, from her artistic perch, if she ever wanted him to watch her. He wondered if she considered him a friend. She certainly acted like it, her bored and sophisticated façade dropping when her friends walked away, instantly asking a million questions of him, ignoring how he struggled to keep his face smooth and un-invested. He was very much invested, and he could rattle off a hypothetical conversation of theirs in a second—all questions for him, no answers from her, like:
What was his name?
Ben Solo.
How old was he?
He turned twenty-nine this past June.
What was he planning for the day?
Just working on the cars, visiting his friend Poe at the grocer's, maybe pick up some potatoes for dinner, like his mother asked.
Oh, his mother—is she nice? What's his pa like?
And on and on.
It was a frivolous thought, one that wouldn't change this Tuesday morning into anything special, he decided with a jerk of his head, ears pricking up at an automobile's rumble outside. Business as usual. He rubbed his eyes, dragging his hands down his face in exhaustion, stifling a yawn as he reached up, yanking the blinds up and taking his first look outside.
He recognized the car—how could he not, the navy hue screaming out to him. Ben found himself wincing, seeing how the paint was flecked off in spots, though scratched may be a better word, seeing how the metal had been torn—maybe by a railing, maybe by another car—along the passenger side. He could make out the shape of Rey's head, there, lounging back against the seat's headrest, eyes closed, breathing ragged, and his heart choked for a second.
His strides to the door were long and fast, ducking outside, gaze sweeping across the store's lot, wondering if there was some hidden car, someone waiting to finish the dancer off. He didn't want to even entertain the thought, stopping short of the car, peering at the girl's stiff form. Ben knew that Rey was mixed up with a few gangs, having heard a few of her companions brag about their connections, whining about how she seemed to get all the good attention, dropping names. Other times, she would be in a car with that mobster Hux, grimacing whenever he mentioned someone named Snoke.
"Rey!" Ben felt foolish, his whisper loud, knowing that if someone wanted to gun him down, they'd have done it by now. The girl's eyes instantly snapped open, her dazed look taking a moment as she attempted to focus on him. She was paler than usual, her makeup smeared, the eyeshadow and mascara smudged around her eyes almost macabre. There was a wet red flicked across her pale pink dress, the material torn, and the mechanic muttered a prayer that it was wine, that maybe she had driven drunk, that maybe this was a giant misunderstanding.
"Oh, hiya Ben! Got a light?" She had a cigarette in hand, and she held it out to him, smiling crookedly, as if this was any other day, as if this was just another casual conversation starter. He stared at her, stunned at her nonchalance, almost relieved when she lost her nerve, hand dropping, shoulders slumping.
"The blood isn't mine." Rey gestured down at her frock, watching the man before her ease and then tense at the information, sighing with annoyance as he sputtered. She hadn't said that she had killed someone, for pity's sake—but then again, she had to remember that Ben hadn't been to the city in some time, that he didn't know how rough the clubs could get, or how jealous other men could be. She shuddered at that thought, jerking back from a gentle weight on her shoulder with weary instinct, instantly stilling, mollified. It was just Ben touching her, checking on her. This was normal behavior on his part, and so she kept her mouth shut, offering a tight lipped smile as he opened the car door for her, trying not to feel flattered at the gesture.
He wasn't trying to be a gentleman. The girl had to remind herself this as she winced upon standing and he instantly told her to lean into him, swooping her up into his arms when she protested. She knew, from movies and magazines, that she was being carried like a bride. Considering the rough and tumble crowd she found herself around, Rey never expected to be carried like one, especially not when she was covered in another man's blood, especially not after showing up at the front stoop of a man she barely knew in a wrecked car at the crack of dawn.
"Ben, you can put me down. I can walk just fine." She scowled at him, as if to emphasize that she was not dainty, that she was gritty, but he rolled his eyes at her. "If you want, I can throw you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Either way, I'm carrying you." He smirked at her huff, her gaze trying to fall on anything but him, eventually settling over his shoulder.
"The car…can you fix my car?" There was that fearful glaze again, her eyes far off. He knew she wasn't thinking about the car, that she was focused on whoever owned the car and what they could do to her if she didn't turn up with it.
If he was a smart man, Ben Solo would have turned Rey away, sent her to one of the mechanics up the way, kept himself out of this dangerous business this girl called her life. But he knew he wasn't a smart man. He had never claimed to be.
"Yeah. I can fix the car." Rey's sigh was heavy in his ears, and as he headed past the store, to his family's little ramshackle farmhouse far behind it, he tried to ignore her whisper. "I don't think I'll ever be able to repay you."
He muttered something back, and the girl feigned not hearing, appreciating the murmur despite herself. "You don't have to worry about that." It was unusual for her—but Ben was an unusual man; simple, unassuming, harmless. Rey didn't question it, letting herself be carried away from the car, feeling a bit freer with every step.
