3. 3
Electric Love - B?RNS
T he shop’s a bloody oven, and my head’s pounding like a sledgehammer on metal.
Sweat clings to my back under the T-shirt I barely managed to throw on this morning. First mistake? Drinking last night. Second mistake? Showing up to work today.
This place—these four grease-stained walls—belongs to me and Harrison.
Officially. A couple of months back, Joe signed the papers over, said it had been a long time coming.
That it was always meant to be ours. He’d owned the place since before he got with Mum, kept it running through good years and rough ones, and never once made us feel like we didn’t belong here.
He’ll never know what that meant to me.
Joe came into our lives when I was a scrawny teenager who didn’t talk much, didn’t trust much either.
I’d already learnt that fathers were temporary things.
That they left damage in their wake and called it love.
Joe never asked for our trust, just showed up every day and earned it in quiet ways—showing Harrison how to pull apart an engine, slipping me a set of keys to my first bike, teaching us how to stand our ground without swinging first.
He’s not perfect, but he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real dad. And this shop… this is more than a business now. It’s proof we made it through. Proof we built something worth keeping.
“Michael! Where’d ya put that torque wrench?” Kevin’s voice slices through my skull like nails on a chalkboard. Kevin is our new trainee, barely eighteen, and all limbs and questions.
“On the shelf where it always is, mate,” I snap, pointing towards the wall stacked with tools. I expect him to walk over and grab it, but he’s still fucking standing there.
“Uh, old man Mr. Whittle hasn’t come to pick up his car yet. Know anything about that?”
“What time was he supposed to show?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
“Eight-thirty.”
I glance at the clock. Nine-thirty. Figures. “Did you call him?”
“Uh, no? Should I?”
I swear under my breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Yes! Call him. See what’s the delay. We need that car out of here.”
Harrison walks by with a smirk that grates on me even more. “Rough night, little bro?”
I don’t bother answering. I just dig into my pocket for a cigarette and head out front, flipping him the bird as I go. The lighter sparks, and I take a long drag, welcoming the sting in my throat and the spin in my head. God bless nicotine.
I pull out my phone, scrolling aimlessly through messages I won’t answer and memes that barely make me chuckle. Anything to drown out the noise in my skull.
The sound of screeching tyres snaps me right out of it. I look up just in time to see a white Mercedes roll in, smoke billowing from under its hood.
“Looks like we’ve got some work to do, boys,” Jono calls out.
“About time,” Jack mutters. “I was starting to think we’d have a slow day.”
I take another drag of my smoke, staring at the car with a sinking feeling. Fancy cars always mean one thing: fancy problems. And fancy problems mean a pain in my hungover ass.
The driver’s door swings open, and out steps not just anyone, but a hurricane in human form. A woman. She’s in a white sundress that clings in all the right places, heeled sandals, and massive fuck-off sunglasses. Definitely not from around here.
Sam steps up beside me, crossing his arms. “Looks like trouble.”
I blow out a cloud of smoke. “Trouble with a capital T.”
The sun beats down on us, and I squint as I flick the cigarette to the ground and stomp it out.
Walking up, I get a better look at her. Long hair tumbles over her shoulders, her curvy figure outlined perfectly by the dress.
Her creamy skin looks too soft for someone with such a hard-ass attitude, but hey, appearances can be deceiving.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” The words come out before my brain catches up. Ma’am? Jesus Christ. She yanks off her sunglasses, revealing eyes full of fire and a scowl that could curdle milk. Beautiful features, though, I’ll give her that.
“Ma’am? Are you serious? You make me sound like my mother.”
“Could’ve gone with ‘princess,’ but I figured you wouldn’t like that any better.” I shrug. Her attitude is already grating on me, but damn if it doesn’t spark something else, too.
“Oh, great. A mechanic and a comedian. Must be my lucky day.” She crosses her arms. “What’s next? Are you going to tell me my car’s problem is that it’s broken?”
“Nah, I was just going to say it’s probably a user error,” I shoot back, watching the way her cheeks flush. “But hey, I’m sure you’re a real pro at handling… things.”
Her jaw tightens, and she takes a deliberate step closer, her presence like a brewing storm. “Listen, I don’t have time for smart-ass commentary. Just fix my car.”
I match her step, leaning in slightly, enough to make my own point. “I’ll fix it, alright. But not because you demanded it, princess. You’re lucky I don’t charge extra for bad attitudes.”
She scoffs, tilting her head like she’s considering whether I’m worth another round. A low chuckle escapes Sam behind me. “Careful, boy. Looks like you’ve met your match.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Match? More like a headache with legs.”
Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and I catch the way her fingers tighten around the strap of her black handbag with a large gold ‘H’.
“Can you please hurry and get to the part where you do your job? I need to get moving.”
“Yeah, I got that when you nearly asphyxiated half my shop,” I say dryly, nodding toward the car. “Pop the hood, and I’ll see what’s going on.”
She mutters something under her breath but moves, popping the hood from inside the car.
Her white dress swishes around her legs as she walks, and I catch Sam’s amused glance out of the corner of my eye.
One glance at the engine bay, and I spot the problem—a busted radiator hose spraying coolant and oil everywhere.
That explains the smoke and puddle of fluids under the car.
Harrison appears beside me with a smirk. “Need any assistance, sir?”
“Piss off.”
He chuckles, clearly enjoying the show, but saunters off, still grinning. “I’ll leave you to it, Mikey boy. Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
I sigh and straighten up. “Your radiator hose is shot, and it’s leaking coolant all over. I’ll fix it, but it’s gonna take a bit.”
Her hands go to her hips, agitation practically radiating off her. “How long is ‘a bit’?”
I’m slammed with work back inside, but something about her has me saying, “Not long. You can wait inside if you want.”
She looks behind me at the shop, and I notice her body shift. “No thanks. I’ll stay here.”
“What, you don’t trust me, city girl?” I counter, smirking.
“City girl?” she scoffs. “You know nothing about me.”
“Mhm, sure,” I say, ticking off on my fingers. “Sundress, flashy bag, those heels that aren’t made for gravel—pretty obvious.”
Her eyes narrow, and she fires back. “At least I don’t smell like cigarettes and bad decisions.”
I let out a low chuckle and get to work, hands moving automatically as I replace the hose, tighten clamps, and refill fluids. After finishing, I clean up the tools and wipe down the engine bay.
“Is it done?” she asks, standing by with her arms crossed.
“Yeah. It’s done,” I reply, wiping my hands on a rag.
“How much?”
“Follow me,” I say, nodding toward the shop.
She trails behind, silent but clearly still irritated.
Inside, I jot down the costs and slide the invoice across the counter.
She hands over her card without a word. The name catches my eye.
Zoe De Luca. Now, under the fluorescents, I notice more—the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, and the faint tension in her jaw.
“Got a staring problem?” she asks, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“You sure you know your way around here, Zoe?” I drawl, making sure to linger on her name.
“I’ll manage.”
Once the payment’s through, I slide her card back across the counter. “Not with that attitude,” I say under my breath. “And you’re welcome, by the way. For getting your car back on the road.”
“Whatever. Thanks.” She turns on her heel.
“Laters, Freckles.” I lean back against the counter, letting a slow smirk creep in. “Try not to get lost. Wouldn’t want to have to tow you out next time.”
Her head pops around the doorframe just long enough for “Oh, screw you” to echo back.
Feisty.
I watch her slide behind the wheel, sunglasses on, hair whipping in the breeze as she reverses out like she’s got a pack of demons on her tail. The dust hasn’t even settled when Sam wanders up beside me, letting out a low whistle.
“Well, well. That was something.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, shaking my head with a faint smirk. “Something alright.”
I glance toward the empty stretch of road where she disappeared. Zoe De Luca. My gut says she’s trouble, but damn if trouble’s not the most interesting thing to walk through my doors in a while.