Sorry once again for the many months of waiting. It wasn't AS bad this time, but still too long. I'll try to update as frequently as I can from now on. This chapter is the last one before Vlad really comes into the story. Enjoy!
-Rixerx64
I stepped back and took a good look at my now three-year-long project. The black body of the 1971 Charger was dented and rusted, but it would hold up. The seats were ripped and flimsy, but comfort was secondary. Three flat tires, but air was abundant. No air conditioning- Okay, you get the point.
It was a piece of crap. But it ran… almost. I only needed one thing now- a small detail really; an engine.
Okay, so it's kind of a big deal. I'd find one. The only problem was, I had no money. My dad never gave me money for anything, I hadn't had a job since we'd moved to Bathory two months ago, and I had never been great at saving up.
So a real job was in order. That I could deal with.
I unhitched my car from the back of the tow truck and pushed it up my driveway. The door opened with a squeak and shut with a groan. I got in, put it in park, and got back out, turning to the driver of said tow truck.
"Thanks Jack, I really appreciate it."
Jack was an old co-worker of my dad's that I got along with pretty well, mainly because he and my dad didn't get along. He was about twenty-five or twenty-six, and had medium length, light brown hair that was always unkempt and greasy. He looked like he hadn't shaven in a few weeks, but didn't really care, or notice.
I'd called him a week ago, begging him relentlessly to bring my baby down here from the city. He had finally given in and taken a road trip to see me, and probably to get away from his wife.
"You'd better, kid. It wasn't exactly a little drive around the block getting here."
He took a look up and down my street, not looking very impressed. He looked at me seriously for a moment, before saying, "No offense kid, but this place looks like it fucking blows."
I smirked and replied, "It's got its ups and downs. Nothing really ever happens, but that can be good and bad I guess."
"You ever gonna get an engine for this thing, or are you just gonna keep it as a driveway decoration?" he said with a sarcastic tone, looking at my Charger.
"I'm working on it… I haven't gotten a job yet. There's not too many around here. And you know my dad doesn't give me a cent."
I heard a door open and close behind me and heard Jack mumble under his breath, "Speak of the devil…"
My dad stepped out of the house with a less than pleased look on his face. He'd always disliked Jack, just because he'd screwed up on one repair. That, and Jack had always been nice to me, which my dad hated.
"How's it going, Dean?" asked Jack innocently.
"Fuck off, Jack. What're you doing here? And why'd you bring that piece of crap with you?" he asked, speaking of my pride and joy.
"Damian asked me to bring it down, and I decided to take a trip down here to see your new town. It looks nice."
Of course, he was being sarcastic, but he didn't want my dad to know that. He had always tried to redeem himself after his mistake in the repair. But my dad didn't care if he was sorry or not.
"Just get the hell out of here," my dad said with a snarl.
"Fine." Jack turned to me and said, "Take care kid. And good luck getting that engine. Give me a call sometime, alright? And if you ever visit the big apple again, make sure you come and see me."
We shook hands and he turned, got in his truck, and left.
My dad didn't say anything, just glanced at my car and went back inside.
I sighed, and leaned against my car. I looked at the keys in my hand, and realized that they're virtually useless when the car they go to doesn't have a damn engine.
Suddenly motivated, I thrust the keys into my pocket, fixed my hair in the rear view mirror and headed into town, set in finding a job.
Three hours, and five failed attempts later, I came upon an old, abandoned- looking house. I would have sworn no one lived or worked there, except for the sign above the door that said "Heathridge Books" and there was a sign that said "Open" in the window.
I walked up the steps, and taking a deep breath, walked inside.
The interior of the store was pretty creepy. The floorboards creaked and everything looked at least a hundred years old. There was hardly any room to stand, almost every inch of the store was lined with bookshelves, filled with books. A wooden staircase led up to what must have been the rest of the house, but a "Do Not Enter" sign was posted on the wall next to the stairs.
A few people walked between the aisles of books, but there was no one standing at the clerk's desk. I walked up to the desk, and seeing an old fashioned bell on the counter, rang it.
A few moments later, a man who looked about four-hundred and seventy-four years old came down the stairs, with the assistance of his black cane. He was dressed as if he was born around the same time the house was built.
He wore a black tailcoat with gold buttons, and black top hat also sporting gold buttons. His black pinstriped pants and polished black shoes complimented the tailcoat and top hat well. There was an old metallic pocket watch dangling from his belt, and a scratched eye piece hung at his neck, waiting to be used.
"How can I help you, young man?" he asked, approaching me slowly.
His voice was deep, and had a slight British accent.
"Um, I was hoping I could get an application to work here, but-" he cut me off.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Sixteen…" I replied warily.
"When can you start?"
"Uh, whenever, but-"
"Then you're hired. You'll work week nights except for Thursdays and Fridays, and you will also work Sundays. You will need to be here by 4:30 every day. And no shenanigans. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Mr... uh-" I realized that I didn't know his name, and he didn't know mine.
"I'm Andrew Heathridge, but you will address me by "sir" or "Mr. Heathridge". And your name is?"
"Damian Garroway," I said, holding my hand out. He shook it feebly and said, "Monday, 4:30 sharp. I'll be expecting you, Mr. Garroway."
"Thanks, for the job and everything," I said, heading for the door.
As I walked home, I contemplated whether or not it was a good place to work. I loved reading, yeah, but the Mr. Heathridge was pretty weird…
I mentally slapped myself. A job was a job, and I was desperate for money. I wasn't going to complain.
I walked up my driveway and before stepping inside my house, I looked back at my Charger. I had a job now, and before I knew it, she'd be up and running.
