Until We Crash: Carter's opening POV

Welcome to the #TuesdayTease

The other day I shared Jess’s opening POV for Until We Crash. Miss it? Find it HERE. Today I’m sharing the second half of chapter one: Carter Cooper!
If you’ve read the From The Wreckage series from the start, you’ll recall Carter from books one and two. There’s also a little conversation between Jess and Cassie in After The Fall which should have clued you in that this book would someday happen. Here it is if you’ve never read that story:

(Cassie POV)
“So tell me more about this crush you had. Maybe it’s time to make a move. Is he here at A&M?”
“Nah, he got a scholarship to Oregon. We haven’t spoken since graduation.”
“He’s a football player, too?” Not like this surprises me. I scoop my phone from my lap and search for Oregon’s team. “What’s his name? You know I need to see this guy.” 
“Oh gosh,” Jess moans. “You can’t tell Katie or Jules. Carter Cooper.”
“Carter. Cooper.” I repeat as the roster pops on my screen. “Why don’t they know about him?” 
“Oh they do. I mean, they don’t know I liked him, but they know Carter. He dated their best friend Tanya right before senior year. Actually, he was there with them the night of the tornado.”
My eyes settle on Carter. “Wow.” Tan skin, dark hair, light eyes. He has this exotic look about him. I understand the appeal.
Jess steals the phone from my hands.  “Yep, that’s him. My lady parts just cried a little,” she whines, handing my cell back.

And now you have all the history you need to go ahead and read on. I hope you love Carter as much as I do.

Until We Crash releases August 27, 2020
This is a STANDALONE New Adult ‘return to hometown’ sexy romance
Rated-R for language and sexual situations.

One
Carter

“Hey,” her muffled voice says as she nudges at my calf with the toe of her shoe. I yank out my earbuds and roll out from beneath the chassis of the pickup I’ve screwed around with all afternoon. “Coach Dolino called.”

“And?” I spare her a glance. Her hands land on her hips as she peers at me, an impression of our mother’s glare on her face. Damn, she’s good. She’s like an angry giant hovering over me. Unhappy with that image, I level the playing field by sitting up. The wrench resting on my stomach clatters to the garage floor, and she retreats a step.

“Carter.”

“Cha-a-ase.” I mimic her resigned tone while holding her glare. She is the only person who manages to string my name out that way. As usual, the first fold goes to Chase, and I smirk. A small victory for the big brother.

“Whatever.” She huffs, her eyes rolling as they tend to do whenever she speaks with me. “Why do I bother with you?”

I chuckle at her red-faced glowering and lift a brow. Good question. Why does she bother with me? Why does Coach? Why do Mom and Dad? I’d ask, but no matter the line of shit they feed me, nothing changes. What’s done is done.

“How is this place so quiet?” I change the topic while leaning sideways for a glimpse of the clock Chase is blocking while lording over me. “Wait, it’s after five? Did the guys head out without telling me?” I straddle the creeper and push to my feet. The awkward movement sends a knife-like slash of pain from my right knee down my leg, and I hiss at the jolt. Chase observes my clumsy maneuvering with pursed lips, but she’s smart and keeps her big mouth shut.

She ignores my question until I’m on two feet and stretching toward the ceiling, trying my damnedest to cover my discomfort. “The twins are hanging about, and Owen’s in the office on the phone.”

“Huh, okay.” My spine pops and cracks as I work the kinks out and survey the shop, taking in our current projects, “the rent,” as Owen prefers to call them. They are the jobs we do to keep the garage cash flow positive. The work we suffer through so we can afford our passion—restoring and customizing cars.

The Chevy I’m installing a lift kit on appears to be the last unfinished job of the day. The twins’ customized WRX sits in her bay shiny and ready for her owner to drool over in the morning—a day in advance. A win since fast turnaround time is vital for repeat business.

“Where’s the Z Owen was working on?” I ask Chase while walking toward the office.

“Finished. He’s on the phone with the paint shop.”

How did those three finish their shit without me noticing? Metal clinks behind me, and I check over my shoulder and find Chase straightening my workspace. Typical.

“Hey, go on, sis. There’s no overtime in your employment contract.” I wave my hand like she’s a bothersome fly before pushing through the glass doors to the reception area. She shoots me a scowl and continues messing with my tools. I let her be.

Owen’s voice floats my way as I walk around Chase’s desk and down the short hallway to our one office. “Yeah, Meteor Gray Metallic”—he hums in agreement with whatever is said on the other end of the line— “it’ll look sharp. Yup, I’ll drive her over if you’re willing to hang for twenty.”

I prop my shoulder against the doorframe.

“Hey, man,” he says when his call ends.

“Did I lose consciousness? How the hell did you three finish your jobs before me?”

Owen scratches his jaw and declines in his chair. “Beats me, you had the pansy job today.”

“The pansy job?” Installing a lift kit sounds simple, but there are a million things to consider when jacking up a truck beyond factory build. I sink into the chair opposite Owen’s desk and prop my boots on the edge. “You know damn well it takes a long time to re-gear and get a vehicle ready for lift. Shit is tedious as hell. I’d work on wing and hood installs all day every day.”

“Yeah, yeah, stop picking the short stick, and you’ll stop landing the pain in the ass jobs.” Owen shifts through the piles on his desk. Finding a notepad, he jots notes before ripping off the sheet and standing. “I’m gonna drive the Z over to Ace. You about done? We’re grabbing drinks and dinner at Bleachers.”

I consider the job. “Sure, I’ll meet you in an hour.”

***

Chase lingers in my workspace when I return to the garage. “What’s up?” I ask. She damn well has opinions to share or questions to ask if she’s hanging around.

Her gaze falls to the ground as she shrugs. Three years have passed, but she resembles the naive girl I left when I headed off to college at Oregon more than the college freshman she’ll be in the fall. My kid sister, who coaxed me into hiring her for a summer job at the garage over working at Mom’s boutique. Her reasoning for the request remains unclear, but I have a good idea why.

Snatching a screwdriver from the table, I speak over my shoulder. “You don’t need to keep me company, Chase, go hang out with your friends.”

She releases a little laugh. “Why would I want to hang out with my friends when you’re this pleasant?”

I ignore her jibe and go to work, adjusting the truck’s headlights, re-aiming them toward the ground to compensate for the new height. Without asking, Chase dims the garage lights while I verify I have the headlights right. I squat and nudge the housing one final time before replacing the covers.

“Did you take something for the pain?” My head snaps at Chase’s question. She cocks hers to the side. “You’re wincing.”

“I’m tired.”

“Bullshit.” She grabs the other headlight cover and screws it on for me. “Your surgery was only eight weeks ago, you’re pushing it.”

“C’mon, Chase.” I toss my screwdriver on the table. “If I wanted to hear nagging, I’d have stayed living at home.”

“Who’s nagging?”

“You are.” I turn and trip over the creeper I left hanging out beneath the truck, and my repaired knee protests at the odd movement as I stumble. “Dammit.” I hiss and catch my weight against the hood. Chase’s worried gasp burns my ears as curses fly from my mouth.

Dropping my head on the truck, I inhale. “I’m done.”

Chase touches my shoulder. “Carter?” Her concerned tone has my body folding in on itself.

“I’ll take something, okay?” I hate my weakness.

Her footsteps echo through the dim garage as she walks toward the office, where she stashed my painkillers in hopes I’ll pop them when needed. I push to my forearms and watch her through the glass door. She’s my self-appointed savior. That is why she’s working at the shop. Chase loved hanging out in the garage with Owen and me growing up. She loves the smell of rubber and grease, but she took a job with Mom at the boutique once she was fifteen. Chase hung around while I was home after my first injury last year, but her daily life remained unaltered. When I returned after the second surgery this past April, my sister dropped everything. The final weeks and weekends of Chase’s senior year, she kept me company by watching every action movie available. She drove me to therapy without asking about my feelings. She let me vent without casting judgment over my decisions. Chase was present. She is present. My pain in the ass baby sister, hell-bent on saving me from the depression my family, friends, and coaches fear will creep in. 

She returns with a water bottle and a giant pill. “I’m roasting a chicken for dinner tonight. Come eat with us.”

She’s aware tonight is Bleachers’ night: Thursday night baseball, sports trivia, and beer.

“No drinking on pain meds,” Chase says after I swallow my pill. I curse under my breath. “C’mon, Mom and Dad will be happy to see your grumpy face. You need to stop by; they miss seeing you.”

During my first two years of college, they were lucky to see me a few hours a month. Since my injury, we have weekly visits. I stretch my neck and think.

I could hang out with the guys without drinking, but my knee aches and sitting on my ass and doing nothing sounds appealing.

“Fine, but you’re running interference. No talk about school, football, or my future.”

Judging by her eager agreement, I’ve ignored my family since moving out of the house last month

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