Chapter 15 #2
As we step in, the faint smell of gasoline blows out through the open doors, and the concrete floors are scattered with oil stains in between the uneven cracks riddling the bay floors.
What’s more assaulting is the hiss of an air compressor and bursts of clanking metal that grates in my ears coupled with the pungent odors—this is the making of a migraine.
A man stands over by a disorganized workbench, tools hung from pegboards along the wall while spare parts litter underneath, and he raises a hand at Noah.
Noah returns the greeting and leans down close to my ear. “That’s Tommy.”
“I figured.”
He gently elbows me. “Beautiful and witty.”
I grin at him, wanting to play. What the hell is wrong with me?
Luckily, Tommy makes a wet gurgling sound, like he’s hawking a loogie, but it got stuck. It’s impossible to ignore. It’s disgusting and phlegmy, and it cuts through the heady tension ruining me.
Tommy is the opposite of Noah in every way. He embodies grease and pit stains dressed in a navy-blue mechanic’s uniform with an embroidered red name tag that reads Hot Stuff instead of his actual name, and no offense to Tommy, but I’d argue the title of Hot Stuff.
His muddy brown hair is straggly and grimy, like he absentmindedly swiped his fingers through there leaving a trail amongst the sweat-slicked strands. His blue eyes glint with mischief as he does a provocative gesture and nearly humps the air at Noah—I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.
I avert my eyes, choosing to stare off at a stack of tires in the corner of the garage.
“Noah! My man. Gotta love it when you and your fine ass graces my shop.”
Is this guy high? Please tell me he’s not the one working on my car.
“And you brought your girlfriend. How nice.”
“What’s up, Tommy. This is Lily,” Noah gestures to me, and I cringe.
No, no, no. I don’t want to be introduced. Wait—girlfriend? How come Noah didn’t correct that? I’m definitely not his girlfriend. I just want my car and to get out of this filthy cesspool.
“Hi,” I mutter, watching as he glides over my baggy T-shirt and leggings. His blue eyes are judgy, and I raise my eyebrows at him, challenging him. As if to say So what? You look just as bad. Piss off.
The corner of Tommy’s mouth curves up enough to suggest he’s amused. He wipes his hand across his nose, leaving a black stain in its place.
“Lily owns the car I had you pick up from the gas station last night. We’re here to check on it.”
“Ah. That piece shit is in rough shape.” He laughs, and I glance at Noah who doesn’t seem fazed. More like he’s been dealing with Tommy for a long time.
“Where is it? My car,” I ask. Because she may be a piece of crap, but she’s still mine.
“Out back. After we diagnosed it was a worn fuel pump, I moved it while we wait for the part.”
“What do you mean wait?” I ask, again.
Tommy winks at me. “I mean, pretty little thing, that a fuel pump for your make and model isn’t something I keep on hand. I had to order it. Should be here sometime next week.”
Next week? Damn it. No. I have to get to work. I’m already short hours as it is, and Mitch is probably dying to find other reasons to trim down my time drastically. Plus, I need the money. Pinebrook has gotten too weird, and too …
I look at Noah. Complicated.
I don’t have nearly enough to feel comfortable moving on and finding another town and job yet. Add to that I practically need to bribe Ms. Sullivan to eat and take her meds …
“We’ll figure it out,” Noah says.
“Can’t you just put a universal fuel pump in or something?”
Tommy lets out a gut rumbling laugh. “Where did you find this girl at, Noah. She seems a bit feisty for you to handle. Me on the other hand …”
I roll my eyes. It’s clear he’s joking by his playful tone and expression, but Noah’s face goes predatorily still and the muscles in his jaw twitch as he clenches it.
“Listen. Replacement fuel pumps aren’t universal. They have different pressure requirements, electrical compatibility, flow rate.”
Honestly, I stop listening after “flow rate” and turn to scowl at a pristine white Lexus up on the lift. Ugh. Pretty sure an old Ford Taurus is low on their list at this point.
Dust motes dance in the light filtering through the windows in the garage, and as they float down my breaths become heavy. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
What am I going to do? I need to get to work. If I can’t get to work, I can’t make money, and if I can’t make money, well, hell. How am I supposed to pay for my ultra-specific fuel pump?
“Tommy. How about you work up an estimate for her and take down her number. Call us as soon as the part is in and installed.”
“For sure. Anything for you, man.” Tommy waddles off past Noah, and it’s only then I notice how short he actually is.
I spin around in a circle, looking at the gross shop filled with luxury cars surprisingly clean and being worked on with care. This shop, I’ve decided, is a contradiction.
“I can take you to work, Lily.” Noah’s hand engulfs my elbow, and he guides me toward him. “It’s no problem.”
“You have your own job,” I spit back.
He shakes his head. “I’ve got vacation time and plenty of it.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t.”
I stare at him. No. He can’t take off work at his important job to take me to my loser one. I’m not even sure about my schedule or hours. He can’t. Why would he even want to?
“No.”
“Oh, come on. Max could use the break.” Noah smiles, and gosh does it consume me.
He runs a hand over his buzzed head and gestures to Max on the garage floor chewing on a rawhide.
It’s amazing how puppy-like he looks when sprawled out, back legs frogged out to the side while he goes to town on his treat, versus the working dog that jumps into action as soon as the commands are out of Noah’s mouth.
“Here ya go.” Tommy appears in my line of sight and shoves a piece of paper in my hands.
When I look down, the floor almost drops out from under me. A thousand dollars? For a fuel pump? Granted, I have zero clue what a fuel pump actually does, but there’s something about seeing the fuel pump part cost as a hundred dollars and then the rest of the bill for the labor that makes me sick.
Seeing my reaction, Noah snatches the paper from my grasp, and I fumble around the waistband of my leggings for my stashed vape pen.
I yank it free. It’s been a hot minute—I’m for sure as hell not going to vape anywhere near Ms. Sullivan—but as I stare at it, then to Noah who’s painstakingly examining the shop bill, something aches in my chest and keeps me from putting it to my lips.
Noah shakes his head as he reads the final line item, which at this point, I’m surprised doesn’t have me paying for someone to wipe Tommy’s ass. “Hey, what if I came in and gave you a hand with the installation. Think you could knock a few hundred off the price?”
Tommy snorts, and I debate whether to flat-out refuse or if I’m desperate enough at this point for any monetary relief.
“Ahh, all right, man. I’ll give ya a call when the part comes in, and we can tackle this one together. Like old times. Just make sure you bring the beer.”
Beer while they work on my car. Great.
Yet, Noah seems thrilled, and he shoots me a grin before tucking the estimate into his back pocket. “Sounds great. Well, we better be off, tell your mom I say hi,” Noah says, before throwing over his shoulder, “Max. Hier.”
Max immediately trots over, soggy bone in hand. It’s limp and wet, and I grimace when he drops it at my feet.
Noah laughs. “It’s been a while since Max has shared a treat or toy with anyone. Consider yourself lucky.”
My skin prickles and I wrinkle my nose, moving back from the half-masticated bone, but Max just picks it up and approaches me again before laying it at my feet.
Just don’t look at it, I tell myself. Though, the image is burned into my brain.
Max’s pleading eyes stare up at me from his perfect sitting position, his paws touching the tips of my boots.
I raise my hand, letting him first sniff my open palm, then I move around to the top of his head and stroke a few long languid pets down his head and neck.
I scratch him behind his ear and let out an airy laugh when his hind leg thumps against the concrete.
“Good boy.”
“Braver Hund,” Noah instructs.
“Braver Hund.” I repeat the words with a wide grin stretched across my lips and I catch Noah staring at my mouth. “I do smile, you know.”
He bites his lower lip. “It’s not that.”
Another beat passes, and the loud clink of a wrench dropping to the floor makes us both startle out of our locked gaze.
Noah clears his throat. “You, uh, ready?”
“Sure.”
We walk to the truck and Max loads up in the back. When Noah and I are both in the car, I can’t help but remember Tommy’s words.
“So … like old times?” I ask, curious.
Noah doesn’t seem like the guy to hang around a mechanic’s garage with the likes of Tommy.
This isn’t me judging. It’s just I learned a long time ago that pretty people attract pretty people, and I, for one, don’t fit that bill—Morgan does, and that’s exactly the type of person I’d assume Noah would spend time with.
It’s prejudice, I’m aware. I think that’s why I was so taken with him. He wasn’t from the “Parker” circles or the elite of Ruin, Mississippi. He was dangerous, and everyone kept their distance, but it wasn’t fair to label someone that way. Of course, I was wrong. Majorly.
Noah turns the key, and the truck rumbles on.
“Tommy and I used to hang out in his garage a lot in high school. His dad … his father liked to rough him up. His mom, too. On nights when his dad would come home drunk, I used to ride over to Tommy’s, and we’d stay up until one or two in the morning working on this old Chevy that didn’t run.
Tommy’s grandparents had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday.
His dad never attempted to slap him around when I was over at his house.