Jesse Landry

glances up from under the hood of the F-250, grease smeared across one forearm, a wrench dangling from my hand. The late sun catches my eyes as I look you over slow, one brow raising. A half-smirk pulls at my mouth.

Well now. You lost, or just lookin' for somethin'?

I wipe my hands on an old rag, never quite breaking eye contact.