Motor Co hits you in the face like a hot wall of noise and sweat.
Someone’s blasting a scratched G-Funk CD. Fourth Grade’s camcorder hums. Boards smack against concrete like gunshots.
He pushes the door open for you, grinning.
“Yo! This is my cousin. She’s helping out.”
You barely make it two steps in before someone slams into you hard, knocking your shoulder back and sending a cloud of grip tape dust fucking everywhere.
“Watch where the fuck you’re walkin’, damn,” the guy snaps.
You look up and — of course — it’s Fuckshit.
He stands there grinning like he did it on purpose, which… he definitely did.
His shirt’s half hanging off his shoulder, chin up like he owns the whole damn shop.
He looks you up and down like you’re wasting oxygen.
“Oh, sick,” he says. “Fourth Grade brought his family in here. What, we runnin’ a damn daycare now?”
Fourth Grade adjusts his camera. “Dude. Chill.”
“I am chill,” Fuckshit says, throwing his hands up. “She’s just in my fucking way.”
You glare at him. “Try not shoulder-checking every person who walks through the door.”
He grins wider — a sharp, annoying, sexy little menace of a grin.
“Damn, mouthy. You sure you’re related to Fourth Grade? Dude don’t talk at all.”
“Shut up,” Fourth Grade mutters.
Fuckshit winks at him, then at you — but the second wink is mocking, not flirting.
He loves that you hate him.
Your cousin decides that you can work in the back and do inventory with fuckshit, and hopefully work out your already rocky relationship.
You get shoved in the back with Fuckshit because apparently the universe hates you.
He kicks a box the moment the door closes.
“What the fuck is all this?” he groans. “RAY—why the fuck I gotta do this shit?”
Ray calls from the front, “Because you never do it right.”
“That’s bullshit!” Fuckshit yells back.
“You labeled everything ‘stuff’ last time,” Ruben adds.
“So? It was all stuff,” Fuckshit argues, then turns to you.
“You better not be slow, swear to God. I’m not tryna be here all fucking night.”
You flip him off. “Don’t worry. I work better when people aren’t breathing down my neck.”
He laughs — loud, cocky, like the idea of you being annoyed fuels him.
You crack boxes open. He slices tape aggressively with a box cutter like he’s mad at it. For a while it’s quiet, except for him muttering curses under his breath every time something doesn’t go his way… which is constantly.
At some point, he watches you sorting bolts and scoffs.
“Nah. Nah, nah, nah,” he says, marching over. “You’re doing that shit wrong.”
You don’t look up. “I’m literally just counting.”
“Yeah, wrong,” he insists, grabbing a deck off the ground. “You gotta re-grip the boards first. Who the fuck taught you anything?”
“No one?” you say. “I’ve been here forty minutes.”
“Well fuck, that explains it.”
He pulls a sheet of grip tape out, slaps it down with quick, practiced movements, then shoves the board toward you.
“Do it. Don’t fuck it up.”
You roll your eyes and smooth the grip onto the deck, getting it surprisingly even.
And that’s when it happens.
Not at your face — at your hands.
He immediately looks away, scoffing so hard he almost chokes.
“The fuck you lookin’ at me for?” he snaps.
You raise an eyebrow. “You were staring first.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I thought you were gonna butcher it,” he shoots back too fast.
His cheeks are faintly pink.
“Relax,” you say smugly. “I’m not completely useless.”
“That’s debatable,” he mutters, turning away so fast he nearly trips on a box. “Move over. You’re in my space.”
“It’s a warehouse,” you say. “There’s space everywhere.”
“Yeah, and you somehow found the one part that’s mine. Congrats.”
You throw a bolt at him. It bounces off his shoe.
His grin comes back, wider than before, dangerous.
“Oh, you got jokes,” he says. “Aight. Bet.”
After about an hour off goofing off and sorting, your two surprising get all the work you need to get done, done for the day.
Fourth Grade pokes his head in. “You guys done?”
“Yeah,” Fuckshit says, stretching like a cat. “If she didn’t slow me down, would’ve been done an hour ago.”
You throw another bolt at him. He dodges it easily.
Fourth Grade eyes the freshly re-gripped boards with surprise.
“Yes,” Fuckshit says at the exact same time.
You glare at him. He smirks — head tilted, lip curled, eyes dancing like he’s waiting for you to take the bait.
Under the sunset light, he looks both infuriating and unfairly pretty.
And this is only day one.
outside Motor Co, golden hour LA heat
The sun is barely hanging over the rooftops when you clock out.
The boys are still skating in the lot — loud as hell, falling all over the place, talking shit to each other between tricks.
You sit on the curb with your beat-up board by your feet, flick your cheap lighter a few times, and take a slow drag from your cigarette. The smoke curls into the hot air, catching the orange light.
Ray lands a clean tre flip.
Ruben immediately tries to copy it and eats concrete.
You’re mid-exhale when the door behind you slams open like someone kicked it.
Fuckshit steps outside, rubbing his face with the back of his wrist like he’s exhausted from simply existing. Then he notices you.
Squints at it like it just personally offended him.
“…What the fuck is that?” he blurts.
You don’t even turn your head. “Pretty sure it’s a skateboard.”
“That’s not a skateboard,” he insists, walking closer. “That’s a crime scene, holy shit.”
He crouches down, pokes the tail with his finger dramatically.
“Damn, this thing looks like it got jumped. You ride this?”
You shrug. “It still rolls.”
He flicks one of your wheels and it rattles like a dying shopping cart.
“Oof,” he winces. “Nah, that’s disrespectful. To you and the ground.”
“Thanks,” you say flatly. “Love the support.”
He smirks, taking your cigarette out of your hand without asking and taking a drag like it’s his.
“Relax.” He passes it back. “Damn, you get pressed over everything.”
You blow smoke toward him on purpose. “Maybe stop snatching shit.”
He grins wider — genuine this time, but still cocky as hell.
He stands again and nudges your board with his shoe.
“This thing’s cooked,” he says, shaking his head like he’s deeply disappointed in your life choices. “You really rolling around LA on this?”
You kick it lightly. “It works fine.”
“Yeah, and I could ‘work fine’ with, like, one leg, doesn’t mean I wanna.”
You snort despite yourself.
He notices — of course he does — and his smirk sharpens like he just won a bet.
“Why you even have this?” he asks, hands in pockets now. “You don’t look like you skate much.”
“I used to. Haven’t in a while.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he says immediately, tapping the chipped deck. “This thing been retired since ’92.”
You flick ash at his shoe. “Shut up.”
He laughs — actually laughs — then looks at the shop door behind him.
“…I could make you a new one,” he says casually, like he’s offering gum.
Then he corrects himself, scowling:
“I mean — not, like, make it. But I can put one together. Swap the wheels, put new grip, whatever.”
You blink. “What, for free?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing.
“First day of work, whatever. Ray’ll let it slide. Or I’ll just take the shit out the back like always.”
“Wow,” you say. “Such generosity.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, kicking a pebble away. “I’m just sick of lookin’ at that board. Offends my eyes.”
You grin. “Sure. You’re doing it for your eyes.”
“Damn right,” he fires back instantly. “I got standards.”
He cracks open the shop door again.
“You want it or not?” he asks, not looking back at you.
You hesitate — not because you’re unsure, but because accepting something from him feels weird.
He snorts. “Whatever. I don’t care. Keep riding that busted-ass thing. I’m just sayin’, I can make it not embarrassing.”
You roll your eyes and stand, grabbing your board.
“…Fine. Make it less embarrassing.”
He smirks without turning around.
“Good. Bring it in tomorrow. I’ll fix your shit.”
He disappears inside before you can answer.
Fourth Grade skates over, raising an eyebrow.
You flick your cigarette and crush it under your shoe.
But the boys are still watching you.
And Fuckshit definitely glanced back through the door’s window before it closed.
Fourth Grade finally stops filming when the sun goes down and the boys start heading out. You’re sitting on the curb again, your beat-up board at your feet, when he walks up jingling his car keys.
You nod and follow him to his car. His passenger seat is a graveyard of tapes, wrappers, and one random sock. You shove everything aside and climb in.
He starts the engine, and the drive is quiet for a minute — windows down, warm LA air rushing through.
“So… how was your first day?”
You stare out the window. “Fine.”
“That didn’t sound fine.”
“It was fine,” you repeat, a little too quick.
He hums, like he doesn’t believe a word. “You and Fuckshit didn’t kill each other. That’s cool.”
You roll your eyes. “Barely.”
Fourth Grade laughs under his breath. “He’s an asshole to everyone. Don’t take it personal.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” you lie. “He’s just… loud.”
“And annoying,” Fourth Grade adds.
“And kinda funny sometimes,” he says.
You hate that you hesitate.
“…Yeah, I guess,” you mumble.
Fourth Grade snorts. “Damn, he already got to you?”
He just laughs again and makes a left turn.
A few minutes later, he pulls up in front of your house.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks.
He waves you off, then leans out the window before driving away.
“Don’t let Fuckshit stress you out!”
You flip him off affectionately. He drives off laughing.
Your place is quiet — too quiet compared to Motor Co. You toss your bag on the floor, kick your shoes off, and flop face-first onto your bed with a loud groan.
But your brain is apparently choosing violence tonight instead of sleep.
Because the second you close your eyes—
His stupid laugh when you flicked ash at his shoe.
The way he stared when you laid the grip tape down clean.
The offer to fix your board, tossed out like it meant nothing.
Why are you thinking about him.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.
“What the hell,” you mutter out loud.
He’s the rudest person you’ve ever met.
He talks like he’s allergic to shutting up.
He walks around like God personally gave him the keys to LA.
You bury your face in your pillow.
“He’s annoying,” you remind yourself. “He’s so annoying.”
…But he wasn’t that annoying when he offered to make you a board.
And he didn’t call you slow after you gripped that deck.
And he didn’t laugh at your tricks or make fun of you skating.
Your heart is doing something stupid and you hate it.
You grab your pillow tighter, annoyed at yourself, annoyed at him, annoyed at your brain for picking the worst person possible to obsess over.
“I don’t like him,” you whisper into the dark.
But your chest feels weird.
Like maybe you’re lying a little.
You groan into your pillow again.
You roll over, frustrated, and close your eyes again.
And unfortunately, he’s still there.
You wake up groggy, hair sticking every which way, feeling like you got run over by a truck and then insulted by it.
You stretch, crack your back, and stare at yourself in the mirror.
Today’s your second day at Motor Co.
You tell yourself you don’t care.
You tell yourself you just want to look presentable.
You tell yourself it’s normal to… brush your hair a little nicer… pick a shirt that fits better… re-lace your shoes so they look less dead.
Definitely not for some loudmouth skater with a god complex and a nicotine dependency.
You spritz on a little perfume.
You immediately choke on it.
“Yeah,” you mutter, waving the air. “Not for anyone.”
You grab your beat-up board, your bag, and head outside. Fourth Grade’s car honks once in its usual death-rattle way.
You slide into the passenger seat. Fourth Grade gives you a quick once-over — not judging, just… noticing. He raises an eyebrow a millimeter.
“You look… awake,” he comments.
You glare. “I’m always awake.”
“You look extra awake,” he corrects with a tiny smile.
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Shut up.”
He shrugs and starts driving.
He doesn’t bring it up again.
The windows are down, the air warm, the radio crackling out old hip-hop. You pretend not to check your reflection in the side mirror.
Fourth Grade pulls into the lot five minutes earlier than yesterday. Weirdly responsible of him.
The shop is cracked open but not fully alive yet — just Ray inside wiping down the counter and Ruben drinking half a warm soda.
You wander to the couch — that ripped, disgusting, somehow legendary couch — and sit. Fourth Grade joins the boys at the counter, leaving you to soak in the atmosphere.
Ruben does a small two-finger salute.
They start telling you dumb shit about Motor Co — like the time Ruben tried to ollie over the counter and took out a display of wheels, or how Fuckshit once labeled every single box in inventory as “shit.”
You’re laughing when the front door gets kicked open hard enough to rattle the glass.
Fuckshit walks in like he owns air.
He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s barely 9 a.m., shirt half-tucked, hair doing something wild. He looks like he slept in a ditch but is somehow still the most confident person in the building.
Then he keeps walking like nothing happened.
He drops into the couch next to you — not just next to you, but right up on you, shoulder brushing yours, knees spread so wide he takes up half the couch.
He smells like smoke, sun, and cheap cologne.
He lights a cigarette without asking.
Then — like it’s the most normal thing on earth — he reaches out and hands it to you.
He smirks. “It’s called sharing. Don’t get emotional.”
You roll your eyes but take it, inhaling the smallest amount before giving it back.
He leans back, one arm thrown across the back of the couch, settling in way too comfortable, way too close.
“So,” he says, turning to look at you, eyes flicking down and then back up like he’s scanning for something.
He grins, wicked and lazy.
“Hell. Inventory. Same thing.”
You groan. “Please don’t tell me we’re doing that again.”
“Oh, we’re doing it again,” he purrs, stretching like a cat. “Ray said we fucked it up yesterday.”
You look at him sharply. “You fucked it up.”
He scoffs. “Damn, already blamin’ me? That’s crazy.”
“You literally labeled half the stuff ‘misc shit.’”
“Because it was misc shit,” he argues.
Ray shouts from across the store, “IT WASN’T!”
Fuckshit doesn’t even look over. “Shut up, Ray.”
He turns back to you, flicks ash into a tray, and tilts his head slightly.
“You look different today,” he says casually — too casually, like he regrets saying it the second it’s out.
He shrugs, eyes shifting away for a split second.
“Dunno. Awake or whatever.”
You feel warmth in your cheeks.
You cross your arms. “Maybe because I slept.”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning back again, expression unreadable. “Sure.”
He takes the cigarette back from your fingers, brushing them slightly — not on purpose, you think.
Then he sits even closer for no reason at all.
Fuckshit sits there next to you on the couch, spreading out like he owns the whole damn thing, cigarette between his fingers, sunglasses still on inside like a menace.
The shop is quiet except for Fourth Grade and the guys messing around behind the counter.
It’s the calmest you’ve seen Motor Co.
Fuckshit nudges your knee with his.
“You bring that busted-ass board?” he asks casually.
He clicks his tongue like that was the wrong answer. “Lemme see it.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Because I said so? Damn. Don’t make it complicated.”
You hand it over and he looks at it like it’s diseased.
“Fuck…” he mutters, flipping it, spinning a wheel. “This thing’s older than Ray.”
“I heard that!” Ray yells.
“Good,” Fuckshit fires back without looking up.
He stands suddenly, grabbing your board by the trucks, and jerks his head toward the back room.
You stay seated. “Where are we going?”
He scoffs like you’re being difficult on purpose.
“The back. I’m setting this shit up before the shop opens.”
He cuts you off, waving a hand. “Yeah, yeah, shut up. You’re not riding this corpse around LA anymore. I refuse.”
He doesn’t wait for you — just storms into the back like this is some noble mission.
Ray calls after him, “Don’t steal parts again!”
“Can’t steal what was already free!” Fuckshit shouts back.
You follow him into the back room. He’s already digging through drawers, slamming tools around like they offended him.
He tosses you a seat on a crate. “Sit. Don’t touch shit.”
He kneels on the floor with your board between his legs, completely focused — almost scarily focused. He’s muttering curses under his breath like an angry mechanic.
He pops the old trucks off, throws a cracked bushing into the trash, spins your wheels with a disgusted face.
“Jesus,” he mutters, “did you run this thing through a fucking freeway?”
You cross your arms. “Maybe.”
He looks up at you through his messy hair.
“Damn. I didn’t know you were stupid.”
You throw a sticker at him. He smirks.
He pulls out a new deck from the shelf — nothing fancy, but clean, bright, untouched.
He doesn’t look at you when he picks it.
He doesn’t ask what design you want.
He just… chooses one, like he already knows what fits you.
He slaps grip tape down with practiced ease, cuts the edges smooth, presses it flat.
It’s sloppy confidence but it looks good.
“You’re surprisingly good at that,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He scoffs immediately. “Obviously.”
Then, quieter so no one can hear from the front:
He realizes what he said.
You realize what he said.
Both of you freeze for half a second.
Then he coughs loudly and goes back to screwing your trucks down way too aggressively.
He definitely tries not to look at you.
When he finishes tightening the last bolt, he spins the wheels once, satisfied, then pushes the board toward you with his foot.
“Don’t fuck this one up.”
You pick it up. It’s perfect — balanced, smooth, light.
“Wow,” you say softly. “Thanks.”
He shrugs like he didn’t hear you, stands up, brushes his hands off.
“You owe me a soda,” he says instead. “And not that cheap-ass gas station shit. I want the good kind.”
You grin. “I’ll get you one later.”
He squints at you suspiciously. “Don’t make it weird.”
He points at you, cigarette dangling from his fingers.
“Inventory. Ten minutes. If you’re late, I’m throwing your board in the street.”
You raise your new board defensively. “You wouldn’t.”
“Watch me,” he says, smirking as he walks out the door.
The shop hasn’t even opened yet, and somehow he’s already under your skin again.
Inventory at Motor Co is exactly what Fuckshit promised: hell.
Boxes everywhere. Dust. Way too many wheels, not enough labels. Fourth Grade is trying his best. Ray keeps getting distracted. And you’re convinced the AC is broken.
Fuckshit walks in like he owns the building, sunglasses still on inside, spinning a Sharpie between his fingers.
“Alright, idiots,” he announces, “let’s count shit and not cry about it this time.”
You stand there holding a clipboard like someone handed you a bomb.
“Oh my god,” he groans, taking the clipboard from your hands. “You look like you’re about to do taxes. Here—” he shoves a small box of bearings at you, “count these.”
You look down. “This is like eighty things.”
“Yeah,” he says, already turning away, “it’s inventory, not fucking story time.”
You mutter, “You’re such an asshole.”
He turns back, cocking his head. “What was that?”
You smile sweetly. “I said you’re really helpful.”
He stares at you like he knows you’re lying but can’t exactly prove it.
Then he grins, slow and sharp.
Ten minutes into inventory…
You’re on the floor counting bearings while Fuckshit and Ray argue over whether they already counted the 54mm wheels.
Ray: “Bro, we literally just did this box.”
Fuckshit: “No you did that box. Wrong. Look—”
He opens the box. “Boom. Mystery. Do it again.”
You roll your eyes so hard you see the ceiling.
“What?” he demands. “You got something to say?”
“Yeah,” you say. “You’re terrible at this.”
He puts a hand to his chest like you wounded him.
“Wow. First you insult my counting skills, now you insult my mind? Crazy.”
“Do you even have a mind?”
“Oh, she’s feeling bold today,” Fuckshit announces to the group.
Fourth Grade mumbles, “She’s not wrong.”
Fuckshit flips them both off.
You stand to put a box back on the shelf—and accidentally bump into him as he walks past.
His hand shoots out, grabbing your elbow instinctively so you don’t trip.
He immediately lets go like your skin burned him.
“Watch where you’re going,” he mutters, looking everywhere except your face.
The sun’s low, the air warm, and the empty parking lot behind the shop becomes your new training ground.
You toss your bag on the curb and set your new board down.
Fuckshit watches you from where he’s leaning against the wall, smoking. One foot propped up, lazy, cocky, pretending he’s not waiting for you.
Ray nudges him. “You gonna actually help her or just stand there looking stupid?”
“Shut up,” Fuckshit says, flicking his cigarette. “I don’t look stupid.”
Fourth Grade: “You kinda do.”
But then he sees you tighten your ponytail and step onto the board and immediately shuts up.
He strolls over with that loose, arrogant walk he thinks is cool.
“Alright,” he says, reaching for your shoulders without asking, “show me your stance.”
You freeze. “You could’ve asked.”
He rolls his eyes. “I literally don’t care. Move your foot back—yeah. There.”
He kicks your back foot lightly to position it better.
You try. You don’t land it.
He clicks his tongue, not even mean, just… disappointed?
You do it again. Messier.
Ray whistles. “Damn, she’s bad.”
Fuckshit snaps, “She just started, dumbass.”
You ignore it and try again.
This time you almost get the board under you.
Fuckshit grins — just a little — before forcing his face back into “bored and unimpressed.”
“Do that again,” he says.
You try the ollie one more time.
And land it. It’s tiny, but clean.
“HEY—” Ray shouts, “OKAY NEW GIRL!”
You smile before you can stop yourself.
Fuckshit watches your smile too long.
Then he looks away too fast.
“Okay, relax,” he mutters. “It wasn’t that good.”
But he’s smiling too — barely.
While you’re trying not to think too hard about any of that, a familiar voice calls across the lot:
Fuckshit looks up. “Stevie! What’s good, little man?”
Stevie skates over, fist bumps everybody, then turns to you with a friendly grin.
“Oh hey— Uh… are you his girlfriend?”
You almost swallow your own tongue.
Fuckshit literally chokes on air.
Ray drops his board laughing.
Fourth Grade covers his mouth, trying not to lose it.
You: “WHAT? No—no, definitely not—”
Fuckshit: “BRO—WHAT—NO—SHE’S NOT—WHAT THE—WHY—”
Stevie blinks. “Oh. Sorry.”
Then to Fuckshit, dead serious:
“She looks too nice for you anyway.”
Fuckshit looks personally attacked.
He shoves Stevie lightly. “Shut your tiny ass UP—goddamn.”
You try another trick with Ray’s help — just to escape the awkwardness — and Ray holds your wrist to steady you.
Then he mutters to Fourth Grade, too loudly:
“Look at Ray touchin’ everybody’s cousins like he owns the place.”
Fourth Grade: “He’s literally helping her.”
Fuckshit: “He can back up.”
“Damn, bro. You jealous or somethin’?”
Fuckshit: “I will actually throw you into the street.”
Ray laughs and lets go of your wrist just to piss him off more.
Fuckshit walks over, nudges Ray aside with his shoulder, and stands way closer than necessary.
“Okay,” he says low, “my turn.”
You raise a brow. “Oh? Now you wanna help?”
“Yeah. ’Cause I actually know what I’m doing.”
He grabs your hip to adjust your stance—
yanks his hand away like you were on fire.
“Uh—just—just do the trick,” he stammers.
Fuckshit lets out a breath, like he’s proud but physically refusing to show it.
“See?” he mutters. “Better.”
The boys exchange another round of knowing looks.
But you catch him watching you a little too long again.
The parking lot is quiet now.
Motor Co is dark except for the dull glow of the vending machine.
You, Fourth Grade, and Fuckshit sit on the curb with a cheap six-pack and a pack of cigarettes someone definitely did not buy legally.
Fourth Grade is nursing a beer like it’s medicine.
You’re halfway through yours, legs stretched out.
Fuckshit is leaning back on his hands, one knee up, blowing smoke into the warm night air like he’s posing for an album cover.
He eyes you out of the corner of his eye.
“You look dead,” he says.
“You all look dead,” you shoot back.
Fourth Grade nods solemnly. “Inventory kills the soul.”
Fuckshit raises his bottle.
You light another cigarette. He steals it halfway through and finishes it just because.
Everything feels… weirdly peaceful.
Then Fuckshit’s phone buzzes in his pocket.
Then he answers with a grin.
“Ayyy, Estee. What’s good?”
You look away fast, pretending you’re not listening.
Fourth Grade watches you like he knows exactly what you’re doing.
“Yeah?” Fuckshit says into the phone. “Right now?—”
He laughs, low and messy.
“Bro, we’re just chillin’. Why? What’s happening?”
“A party? At your place?”
You hate how your stomach dips at the casual, easy way he talks to her.
Fourth Grade nudges you with his knee.
Fuckshit turns slightly away, voice going quieter.
“Yeah… yeah, we can slide. I’m not going alone though. I’m with Fourth and—”
Then looks away again, rubbing the back of his neck.
Fourth Grade snorts into his drink.
Finally Fuckshit hangs up.
“Alright, losers,” he announces, shoving his phone into his pocket, “party at Estee’s. Let’s go.”
Fourth Grade groans. “Bro, we worked all day.”
“Cry about it in the car,” Fuckshit says, kicking his empty bottle off the curb.
He looks at you next, eyes lingering one beat too long.
“Why?” you ask, trying to sound bored.
He shrugs like it’s obvious.
You stand up. “Of what? Your shitty taste in music?”
Fuckshit’s jaw drops. “Wow. Okay. I try to be nice—”
“—and this is how I get treated.”
He tries not to smile back.
Fourth Grade is already halfway to the car, muttering, “I’m too tired for this shit.”
Fuckshit walks beside you, kicking gravel, hands in his pockets.
He keeps glancing at you.
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