Chapter Two
Ollie
The shuttle made a grinding noise, but the sound quickly disappeared. Today was the senior center. A chance for the seniors to get out and actually socialize with people instead of produce.
As I turned the corner, the grinding noise returned, louder this time, like the shuttle had swallowed a bag of bolts and was trying to digest them.
I ignored it.
Maybe if I pretended the sound didn’t exist, it would take the hint and disappear.
Behind me, the usual symphony of senior chaos filled the shuttle.
Irene was decked out in lavender today, tracksuit, scarf, even her eyeshadow matched.
The woman had commitment. I’d give her that.
She’d tried to sneak a box of chocolate-covered cherries into her purse at the pharmacy counter, claiming they were “medicinal.”
“These dentures are staging a mutiny,” Walter announced from the middle row, working his jaw with that distinctive clicking sound. “I’m calling my dentist. This is unacceptable.”
“Your dentist is going to tell you the same thing he told you last week,” I said, eyes on the road. “They fit fine. Your gums are just being dramatic.”
“My gums are patriots.” He slapped his frail hand against his knee. “These dentures are tyrants.”
Greta leaned forward, gripping the back of my seat. “Ollie, I showed my grandson your picture. He thinks you’re cute.”
“Miss Greta, we’ve discussed this. Your grandson is still in high school.” I stopped at a red light, watching two men use the crosswalk. One guy was wearing a hot pink pleated mini skirt and black chunky boots. His sunglasses were too large for his face and he had a riot of bracelets on one wrist.
“He’s a senior. Very mature,” Greta said as the light turned green.
“Still illegal.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m very fun. Ask anyone. Just not anyone who wants me to commit a felony.”
Artie adjusted his navy blazer, the one with gold buttons that looked like they’d been liberated from a yacht club. Tufts of hair sprouted from his ears like tiny antennae, picking up signals from the ladies’-man dimension he believed he inhabited. “When I was your age, I had three girlfriends.”
“At the same time?” Edith asked, clutching her coupon binder.
Artie held up a finger. “Consecutively. But they overlapped.”
“That’s the same thing, Arthur.”
“Semantics.” He winked, maybe. His eyelids drooped, so I couldn’t be sure if it had been a wink or further sagging.
The shuttle lurched halfway down Route 12. Not a gentle bump, but a full-body convulsion that made everyone grab for something to hold on to. Then came the sound. A metallic screech followed by a death rattle that belonged in a horror movie.
“What was that?” Irene asked, lavender-manicured nails digging into her armrest.
“Nothing good.” I eased off the gas, but the shuttle was already making the decision for me.
Power drained like someone had pulled the plug. The shuttle coasted to the shoulder, hazard lights blinking their pathetic little confession to the world.
Dead. Completely, utterly dead.
“Well,” Walter said, “this is inconvenient.”
I turned the key. Nothing. Tried again. The engine responded with a click so faint it might’ve been my imagination.
“Everyone okay?” I asked, twisting in my seat to do a head count. Five seniors, all accounted for, all staring at me with varying degrees of concern and annoyance.
“Define okay,” Greta said. “Because I have book club in an hour, and Brenda will steal my seat if I’m late.”
“Your seat isn’t assigned.”
“It is in my heart.”
Pulling out my phone, I dialed the office. Maureen answered on the third ring, her voice carrying a mix of exhausted patience that came from managing a senior transportation service.
“Speed Escapades, this is Maureen.”
“Hey, it’s Ollie. The shuttle just died. We’re on Route 12, about halfway to the senior center.”
A pause. Typing in the background. “Define died.”
“It made a noise like it was gargling nails then gave up on life. The shuttle won’t start. It won’t do anything except sit here looking sad.”
“Passengers?”
I glanced in the rearview mirror like one of the seniors might’ve evaporated since the last head count. “Five. All present, all getting restless.”
“I’ll send a tow truck. Sit tight.”
“Do I have a choice?” I should’ve called her the moment I’d heard the noises. If I had, we would’ve been in town with shops and civilization instead of being stuck on a back road with nothing but open fields on either side of us.
“Not unless you want to push a shuttle full of seniors down Route 12.”
“Tempting, but no.” As hot as it was outside, I’d drown in my own sweat after ten steps. Besides, I couldn’t have pushed the shuttle with my skinny arms even with a running start and unrealistic hope.
She hung up. I pocketed my phone and turned back to my audience. “Help’s on the way.”
“How long?” Edith asked.
“Maureen didn’t specify. Soon, hopefully,” I said, already fanning myself.
“Technology,” she muttered. “In my day, vehicles were built to last. Now everything’s computers and planned obsolescence.”
I twisted my lips to the side as the overhead sun made things hotter. “This shuttle is from 2006, Miss Edith. It predates most modern technology.”
“Exactly. Should still be running.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic, mostly because it didn’t follow any actual logic. There was nowhere to go from there. She had constructed another Edith Logic Loop.
Instead, I climbed out to pop the hood. Maybe I could spot something obvious. Probably not, since my mechanical knowledge topped out at “gas goes in the tank,” but standing around looking useful beat sitting inside while everyone debated the merits of vintage engineering.
The hood released with a metallic groan, and I stared down at the engine like it might confess its sins if I looked stern enough. Wires. Tubes. Metal bits that probably had names. Nothing obviously broken, but then again, I wouldn’t know a broken engine part if it introduced itself.
Traffic hummed past on the country road. Hot asphalt smell mixed with something burning.
Probably the shuttle’s dying breath.
Sweat trickled down my back. Late summer in all its miserable glory, and here I was playing mechanic with an audience of seniors watching through the windshield like I was about to roll up my sleeves and rebuild a transmission on Route 12.
Twenty minutes crawled by. Long enough for Walter to complain about his dentures three more times, for Greta to suggest we call her grandson to pick us up—absolutely not—and for Artie to wonder aloud if the tow truck driver would be a woman.
Odds were low, but hope springs eternal in the heart of a seventy-seven-year-old in a blazer.
Then I heard it. The rumble of a diesel engine, deep and powerful, growing louder as it approached. A tow truck rounded the bend, red and chrome catching the sunlight, Deluca’s Auto Repair painted on the side in white letters.
The truck pulled up behind us, air brakes hissing. Then the driver’s door opened, and a man climbed out.
Not just a man. A mountain wearing a leather vest.
Easily six-four, maybe taller, with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the shuttle. Dark hair cropped short, blue eyes that caught the light like a predators, and arms that looked like they could bench-press the shuttle without breaking a sweat.
A chain hung from his belt loop to his back pocket, glinting with each step he took toward me.
My brain went offline. Just completely shut down, packed its bags, and went on vacation. Somewhere tropical. Somewhere that didn’t involve standing on the side of a road trying to remember how words worked.
I imagined him on that tropical beach with my vacationing brain, sun glistening off all those muscles, his skin wet from the ocean, and now all I wanted to do was lick those droplets off his naked, heated body.
I blinked, forcing myself to focus. On the present. Not the mountain I wanted to climb like a horny cat. I had no idea men came in that size, then snorted at the “came” pun.
Behind me, the shuttle door slid open. Greta appeared first, followed by Irene and Edith, all three of them forming a line like they were about to critique a pageant contestant.
Too late. My brain had already declared this hunk the winner.
“Well,” Greta said, her voice loud enough to carry to the next county, “hello there.”
The mountain, the mechanic, glanced at them then back at me. Something that might’ve been amusement flickered across his face.
“You the one who called for a tow?” Jesus. His voice matched his size. Deep, rough around the edges, and made my cock twitch.
My body immediately attempted a hostile takeover. Don’t you dare embarrass me. Remain flaccid.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “I mean my dispatcher did. But yeah, this is the shuttle.” My hands gestured toward the vehicle like I was revealing a game show prize.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I sounded like I’d never operated a vehicle before in my life. Or a brain cell.
He walked closer, and I caught the scent of motor oil and something woodsy that I wouldn’t mind breathing in for the next hour or ten.
The mountain stopped a few feet away, hands on his hips, looking down at me with those blue eyes that seemed to see straight through my complete and total lack of composure.
“What happened?”
“It made a noise. Like a—” I tried to recreate the sound with my hands because apparently I’d regressed to charades. “Like a grinding sound? Then it went errrrrrrr-clunk-nothing and died.”
Those sexy lips twitched. Definitely amusement now. “Errrrrrrr-clunk-nothing.”
I tilted my head, hiding my own smile. “Very technical term. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
“Can’t say I have.” But he was smiling now, just barely, and something about that almost-smile made my knees forget their primary function. “Name’s Diesel.”
It fit him perfectly. Only someone built the way he was could’ve been named after a powerful engine.
“Ollie.” I managed to get my name out without tripping over the syllables. Small victories considering my brain was still picturing him naked.