2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
E zra Curtis gritted his teeth as he navigated around yet another cluster of blue hairs inching toward the casino, undoubtedly intent on squandering their Social Security checks. Honestly, someone should staple slow-moving vehicle signs to their backs. Maybe that’d speed them up.
The heat hit him like a hammer as he reached the hotel’s entrance. This trip was one irritation after another. From the sycophantic ass-kissing of the Wheels Network execs pitching their reality show—insisting America would love another look inside a garage, this time against the picturesque mountains of Wintervale, Montana—to the snail-paced octogenarians clogging every walkway, every moment gnawed at his last fraying nerve.
And then there were the staffing issues.
Ezra snorted, his disgust palpable. Weeks later, the betrayal that caused those problems still felt like acid clawing its way up his throat. Antacids didn’t help. Neither did bourbon.
Staffing issues, for Christ’s sake—a problem that could make or break their business and the Wheels deal. The truth was, they needed the influx of cash from the show, plus the product endorsements and the tourism dollars it could bring to Wintervale.
But with him and Aaron both away, Curtis Garage was barely limping along, held together by a skeleton crew. What a fucking joke. He didn’t have to like the situation, but he’d damn well handle it. Sometimes doing what was best for everyone else was the hardest thing to stomach.
As the head of the family and the business, Ezra carried his responsibilities like a badge of honor. He didn’t run when things got tough, and he never turned his back on those who depended on him.
“Are you even listening?” Aaron’s exasperated voice dragged Ezra from his thoughts. He swallowed the bitter tang of regret, refocusing on whatever his brother was ranting about now.
“Stop worrying this to death, Ezra. It makes perfect sense! God, it’s like kismet, destiny, or some kind of divine fucking intervention is dropping the perfect opportunity right into our laps. We’d be idiots not to take advantage.”
Ezra had no idea what his brother was rambling about—and he told him so. His gaze drifted over the automotive projects and displays in the convention center, but beyond the car and trade show, he didn’t have a single clue what Aaron was worked up about. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn. There was plenty of shit back home demanding his attention. Just one more night of flashing lights, bells, whistles, and Elvis impersonators, and he could finally get back to work where he belonged.
“Look around, you dumbass,” Aaron shot back, undeterred. “AMAC is hosting the first-of-its-kind hiring event. Twenty-three certified mechanic trade schools, all in one place, with the best and brightest from each school right here, ready for open interviews!”
Ah, fuck. Not this again.
Ezra started to shake his head, but Aaron plowed ahead, his words spilling out faster, driven by a near-desperate urgency.
“There are at least one hundred and fifty fresh graduates right under our noses. You’re telling me we can’t find one or two who’ll meet our needs and be willing to move to Montana?”
Ezra reluctantly took a closer look at the nearest booths. Most of the candidates milling around were fresh-faced and eager, but there were a few older guys scattered among them too. Yeah, fresh out of school and green as hell—probably in desperate need of real-world training. Babysitting was not on Ezra’s to-do list.
“We already know what we’re willing to offer someone with experience,” Aaron continued, as if reading Ezra’s thoughts. “For someone just starting out, we could offer a temporary or probationary position with a baseline salary. If the guy works out? Awesome. Give him a bump in pay and the full benefits package. If not? Send him packing, and we’re no worse off than we are now, right?”
Ezra hated making snap decisions; he preferred taking his time, weighing problems from every angle. Still, it had been weeks, and no one qualified had responded to the ads he’d placed.
“Finding affordable housing could be a problem,” he admitted. Rental properties were listed at a premium in their little tourist town.
“Manny has an extra room he might be willing to rent out for a bit,” Aaron suggested. “Or, if you’re open to it…we could clean out Uncle Grant’s place. Turn it into an affordable room-and-board incentive.”
Ezra smoothed his fingers over his mustache and beard, a habitual gesture whenever he was deep in thought.
Grant’s place was an efficiency apartment built above the garage at their family home. Neither he nor Aaron used it—they still lived in the main house, the one their parents had built a few years before things had gone to shit between them. Ezra shoved thoughts of his parents aside and instead focused on Aaron’s suggestion.
He nodded reluctantly. It would take some work, but it was probably time. Other than clearing out the fridge and cupboards, the apartment had been left untouched since his uncle had died. It hadn’t been cleaned in more years than Ezra cared to count.
“Call Manny,” Ezra said finally. “See if he’d be willing to host someone and what he’d charge for room and board. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll go with Grant’s place.”
He needed a game plan. Doing things on the fly made him anxious and irritable, but this was an opportunity they couldn’t dismiss just because of his need for control.
Once again, Aaron seemed to know exactly what Ezra was thinking and quickly offered a plan to ease his rising anxiety. “Let’s take a walk through and observe before approaching anyone. We’ll make a list of potential candidates.”
“Yeah, good idea. After lunch, we can start the interrogations. They’ll be more relaxed.” And so would he. Waiting would give him time to adjust.
“Uh, don’t you mean interviews?” Aaron asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Isn’t that what I said?” Ezra shot back, curling his upper lip in a sneer that could turn even the best Elvis impersonator green with envy.
Aaron shook his head and grinned at his brother. “Let’s get to it, then.”
***
“Fuckers sabotaged our damned project while we were on lunch.”
Ezra and Aaron had just finished interviewing one of their potential candidates and were walking toward the last two booths on their list when the angry outburst reached them from fifty feet away. Ezra shared a glance with Aaron and quickened his pace.
“You’ve blown a fuse,” a sultry Southern voice countered, calm and firm, against the loud accusation.
“I highly doubt it, babe. Why don’t you march your sweet ass back to your booth and do what you were brought here to do? Let the big boys handle this.” A chorus of male chuckles and catcalls followed.
“Uh-oh,” Ezra was now close enough to catch one of the bystanders whispering.
“Let me guess,” the woman’s voice carried a sugary edge, “one of you big boys decided to use the light-bar as a Jedi lightsaber and broke it. Am I right?” Groans and reluctant chuckles rippled through the group gathered around her, but the woman wasn’t done.
“Then,” she continued, voice dripping with saccharine sarcasm, “knowing the benefactors would only allow one light-bar per team, you tried to replace it with a previous model—probably from some shady discount website—thinking no one would be the wiser. Except you didn’t do your research. You didn’t read the attached literature or any related articles, did you?”
Ezra and Aaron slowed as the woman’s words rang out, laced with a quiet authority.
“The previous model, which has almost identical specs to the one we were issued, was recalled due to a design flaw—you guessed it—that causes blown fuses. How’s that for ‘doing what I was brought here to do’?”
There were curses and begrudging grunts of approval as part of the group shuffled off down the row, clearly trying to escape the fallout. As Ezra drew closer, he could see the project in question. The remaining team members belonged to one of the schools he and Aaron were most interested in interviewing.
Three of the boys stood red-faced, glaring at the retreating figures who’d obviously botched the project.
“Bitch doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about,” the loudmouth grumbled to his teammates, his tone thick with frustration and bitterness.
Ezra was willing to bet the woman being bad-mouthed did know what she was talking about. In fact, he’d read the same article almost a year ago. He shared another glance with Aaron and mentally crossed these guys off his list. There was no way Curtis Garage would take on another liar or a mechanic who practiced shoddy workmanship.
That left one group of candidates to talk to, but he wasn’t feeling too hopeful. This trade school was based in Orlando, Florida, and sure, students could attend from other states, but the odds of finding someone willing to leave Florida for rural Montana were slim. Probably like finding a '71 Hemi Cuda convertible in mint condition.
Ezra walked around the final team’s project, examining the workmanship and observing while Aaron struck up a conversation.
“Cool idea, man. Can it really drive on both land and water?” Aaron asked a student sporting James Dean hair and Buddy Holly glasses. The kid’s forearms were covered in tattoos, on display beneath the short sleeves of his garage-style shirt. Ezra had noticed earlier in the day that students from this school all rocked a ’50s retro grease-monkey vibe to match the cherry-red 1953 Cadillac ambulance they’d restored and customized as their project.
“It sure can,” the kid responded enthusiastically. “I was just bringing up the video and slideshow now if you want to see it in action.”
Ezra, who had watched part of the video earlier, stepped closer to take another look.
“How’d you come up with the idea for an amphibious rescue vehicle?”
The kid shook his head. “I’d love to claim the idea, man, but then I’d be lying—and probably get my ass… uh, butt kicked.” He lowered his voice, scrunched his shoulders, and glanced behind him like he was about to get throttled, though the playful smirk on his face gave him away.
“Tate is the real mastermind behind this beauty. But once we were all on board—no pun intended—we put in the hours to make it a reality.”
Aaron laughed along with the kid as he eagerly described the build. He led Aaron around the car, pointing out features and recounting stories about the process. Ezra’s lips twitched with faint amusement. He was about to follow, but something in the slideshow caught his attention, and he stared hard, waiting for another glimpse.
When Aaron returned to the front of the vehicle, he was still talking details, now with a small entourage in tow. It was subtle, but Ezra could see his brother’s elation shining through.
“Hey, Ezra, got a minute? I’d like you to meet Tate.”
Ezra reluctantly pulled his focus from the images sliding across the computer screen.
Oh, hell no. His brow furrowed, and his lip curled in distaste. He knew exactly what Aaron was up to. The reality TV executives had made it clear—they wanted at least one woman on the team, “the prettier, the better,” they’d said, their words still grating on him. And this one? She was stunning.
But as gorgeous as she was, Ezra wasn’t about to let another woman disrupt morale or stir up drama with his crew—or, worse, their customers.
Aaron ignored the sharp look Ezra sent him and pressed on, introducing the woman with borderline obnoxious enthusiasm. Ezra didn’t need a psychic to know his brother was about to insist on hiring her, all “for the good of the show.” He also didn’t need one to know that this woman was going to be trouble.
“Jorie Tate, meet my brother Ezra, co-owner of Curtis Full-Service Garage & Customs.”
Fuck.