Garage, Wednesday evening, attn. Matty
One of the few places Brenna loved to be was in the garage, working on her Chevelle. The poor thing still looked like it had been through a minor war, at least on the outside; she was waiting on the paint job until the rest of it was in working order. For now it was primer gray and would remain so.
She had the radio on to a hard rock station as she was bent over the open hood, hands buried in the innards of the engine she had recently repaired, the V6 more than worth the effort. Her hand slipped on a bolt and she cursed. "Son of a bitch!" She pulled her hand back out and stuck the injured finger in her mouth, heedless of grease (her face was already liberally smudged anyway).
"Ah, goddamn it," she muttered, shaking her hand as if that was going to make it stop hurting.