Not Them (Firebrook Valley #3)

Chapter One

Brady

“Ma’am, I promise you, if I had any control over this situation, your car would already be done.”

The mechanic didn’t look like a man who had a large reserve of patience. Or any at all. He stood half under the hood of a truck, grease up to his wrists, voice flat and already done with the day.

I wasn’t bothered, and I had nowhere else to be.

“We can come back later,” I added easily. “Or tomorrow. Do you have an idea of when her car will be done?”

The mechanic shot me a look. “I’d like to say tomorrow, but then I’d also like to say I have staff that will show up in the morning, and I have no idea if they will.”

“Tough crew?” I asked.

“Tough flu season.”

The older woman beside me patted my arm. “Let’s not bother the man more.”

I straightened and gave the exhausted-looking mechanic a once-over. “Mrs. Donnelly drives her sister to all her doctor appointments. We can work something out until she gets her car back, but an estimate of when it might be ready would be helpful.”

The mechanic huffed, then wiped his hands on a rag and finally gave us his full attention. “Like I said, Mrs. Donnelly, I had three guys call out today. I’ll get to it, just not as fast as I planned.”

She nodded like she’d expected that answer all along. “I can wait.”

I glanced around the garage. Two lifts occupied, tools scattered, a dented metal fan spinning lazily in the corner, barely moving the air.

“Or,” I said, pushing off the counter, “I can work on some of the easier issues.”

The mechanic froze. “Excuse me?”

I gestured toward the open bay. “You’re short-staffed. I’ve got time. You’ve got work. Seems like a solvable problem.”

He studied me for a long second. “You know anything about cars?”

“Enough to not make things worse,” I said. “Which, based on your current situation, might already be an improvement.”

That earned me another look. Sharper this time. “What’s your name?”

“Brady. Brady Holliston.”

“I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’m passing through.”

He looked me over, taking in my worn jeans and T-shirt before settling on my expensive shoes. “You don’t look like a mechanic.”

“I spent some time in garages growing up. I rebuilt a small block V8 with a friend one summer. It ran better after we were done with it.” Thinking back to that summer and the way Mr. Torres had allowed me to not only trail after him at his garage but watch, try, fail, learn, and try again reminded me of how grateful I would always be to the people in Firebrook Valley.

If asked to list my best qualities, I’d attribute most of them to non-family members.

Harsh as it might sound to some, the greatest gift my father gave his children was proximity to people who were nothing like our family or our New York social circle.

He made a face. “There’s six cars before Mrs. Donnelly’s.”

“That’s better than I expected.”

“If you screw something up, I’m the one they’ll blame.”

“Then don’t give me anything important.” I shrugged. “Oil changes. Basic stuff. I’ll stay in my lane.”

“Minimum wage.”

“I’ll settle for an IOU for my own car if it has an issue while I’m here.”

“What are you driving?”

“Old Chevy Nova,” I said. “Doesn’t look like much, but the engine’s solid.”

“That engine would’ve had to be swapped out for that to be true.”

“It was. By me.”

He gave me a longer look at that.

“And Mrs. Donnelly?” the mechanic demanded.

“My days of working on cars are over,” she answered sprightly.

His mouth twitched like he didn’t want it to. “I was asking if you’d need a ride somewhere in case Brady over here takes hours to change a few tires.”

“Oh,” she said cheerfully, “I don’t mind waiting. I have a book and a growing appreciation of sitting. I’ll be in the lobby.”

After she stepped out, the man exhaled audibly, then jerked his chin toward the back. “Locker room’s through there. If you steal anything, I’ll know.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, already moving.

“Overalls are on the left,” he added. “And if you don’t know how to do something, you ask. Don’t guess.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me that. Name’s Roy.”

“Got it.”

I disappeared into the back before he could change his mind.

Yes, I could have paid to have Mrs. Donnelly’s car taken to another place.

Without batting an eye, I could have replaced her car with a new one, but although that seemed like a solution that would have earned her gratitude and momentarily impressed Roy, it also would have set me apart from them.

Wealth was oddly isolating if a person let it be, and most people, the quality people I chose to fill my life with, didn’t want handouts.

I smiled as I pulled on a pair of already stained overalls that smelled of oil and sweat, remembering something Mabel Weaver, the owner of Cookies and Coffee in Firebrook Valley, had taught me.

Give a starving person a fish and they’ll eat it and be grateful for it.

Give them a fish a day and they’ll begin to resent the meal and you’ll both be miserable.

Put time into getting to know people before you help them, find the beauty in them, and only then will you know how to guide them toward feeding themselves.

Plus, she always said, who wants to eat fish every day?

Mabel is a wise woman.

Fifteen minutes later, I had a sedan up on the lift and was working my way through a tire change, one bolt at a time, steady and efficient. Nothing cleared my head like work I could finish in one session.

If my oldest sister, Bella, was here, she wouldn’t understand what I was doing at the garage. She’d tell me I needed to focus on the highest priority task. Everything else could wait and would sort itself out.

I had the opposite philosophy.

I focused on what was in front of me and found that if I dealt with the smaller issues, the larger ones resolved themselves.

Roy didn’t hover, but he didn’t leave either.

I felt him there. Watching. Waiting for the moment I’d hesitate or reach for the wrong tool.

I didn’t.

The first tire came off clean. I rolled it aside, lined up the next without rushing it.

No reason to. Fast came from doing it right, not forcing it.

But on the rear passenger side, I hit a snag.

The lug nuts spun off cleanly under the impact wrench, but the wheel itself refused to budge.

The aluminum alloy rim had oxidized directly against the steel brake rotor, welding the two together.

I spun two of the lug nuts back onto the studs by hand, then stepped back and delivered a single, controlled kick with the heel of my shoe straight to the outer edge of the rubber tire.

A sharp, loud THACK echoed through the garage bay. The loose lug nuts caught the rim perfectly, I backed them off, and rolled the freed tire aside.

When I straightened and reached for the new tire, Roy shifted his weight behind me.

I almost smiled.

Being underestimated wasn’t new.

I was the youngest. My older siblings were faster, bolder, louder but that didn’t make their techniques better. Sometimes it was easier to let them take the lead. They stepped in. I stepped back. It worked for all of us.

When life didn’t run as smoothly as Bella planned, and my brother Evan either went head-to-head with our father or left again, I sat with the wreckage and let them all believe they’d sheltered me from it.

Simply because I chose not to ride the roller coaster of family drama didn’t mean I was oblivious to it. I saw. I cared. My presence was my go-to mode of support and often the only type they’d accept.

College had given me both the freedom to make my own mistakes and enough exposure to others to understand that not all families were in a constant state of crisis. There had to be a better way, and that belief was the engine behind my decision to step up this time.

I tightened the last lug nut and lowered the lift with controlled ease.

Roy grunted behind me.

I moved to the next car without making a thing of it.

Halfway through the oil change, Roy walked off.

I heard him cross the shop, heard a drawer open, tools shifting. A normal rhythm. Like I’d already been absorbed into his crew.

A few minutes later, he came back.

I didn’t look up when he stopped beside me.

He watched for a second, then let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Not bad.”

That was it.

I hid a smile and kept working.

By the time I finished the second car, my hands were dirty, my shirt stuck slightly to my back, and the backlog didn’t look quite as impossible.

I wiped my hands on a rag and glanced over at Roy. “What’s next?”

Roy nodded toward the counter. “Water’s over there.”

I grabbed a bottle, took a long drink, then pulled my phone from my pocket.

The screen lit up with a map of this area and surrounding states.

Half the markers I’d added were crossed out.

Dead ends. Wrong Steeles. Nice families, though.

I’d actually spent a weekend with one of them.

The invite started with an offer to share a meal, but they were so much fun I spent the weekend in their guest bedroom.

I learned that a 10-year-old can beat me at stock car racing at least in the digital world. Also discovered pet hamsters are fast and tend to hide under refrigerators. Didn’t know that. Vowed to be quicker when someone says, “Grab him before he makes it to the kitchen.”

Thankfully, these Steeles were not novice hamster owners and Wilfred was quickly retrieved and returned safely to his colorful, multi-level plastic kingdom.

Did any of that solve the puzzle I was working on? No.

Would I see them again? Probably. The world offers up endless opportunities to deal with assholes. But genuinely nice people? They’re gold. When you meet some, hang onto them.

I zoomed in on a section just outside town. One large, conspicuous spot sat there without a label. No business name. No listing. Nothing.

Definitely worth looking into.

I pushed off the bench and walked over to Roy. “Hey, can I ask you a question about a place just outside of town?”

Roy glanced at the screen, then at me. “You a cop or something?”