Chapter 3
Kipp
It may be five o’clock somewhere, but it ain’t here.
At least not for another five minutes.
Five more minutes and I can shut the garage.
Lock up the shop.
Go upstairs and shove cold pizza in my face while flipping through this car mag for the fourth time because I don’t have any side jobs booked for the night.
Fuck, I wish I did.
I love working on foreign beauties when the lights go out.
I love when it’s just me, a performance kit, and classical music on repeat.
Other gearheads judge.
I mean…who the fuck likes classical shit?
Who the fuck chooses to listen to Bizet and Beethoven and Bach over Def Leopard or Cannibal Corpse?
Who under the age of fifty who has had his dick touched by more than just himself purposely picks Puccini over Pink Floyd?
And I have had mine touched.
And sucked.
And fucked.
It’s just…been awhile.
Which is my fault.
I typically prefer the car in my presence more than the woman getting out of the passenger side.
Just like I prefer the money more than the pussy that’s sometimes offered instead.
Nolan’s content either way.
As long as I am.
It’s when I’m not that there’s a problem.
People see me and think screwing me over will be an easy gig.
People see him, and they know it’s not.
I may be “the brains”, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be the brawns.
Once upon a time, Miles Nolan wasn’t always around like he is now.
I had to defend myself from my old man.
He was great with a wrench.
In both good and not good ways.
Not Nolan, though.
He’d never do that type of shit to me.
For me?
Yeah.
He has.
Beating some asshole within a couple inches of his life with a tire iron because he tried to scam me out of four grand may have just been another Tuesday for that hard ass, but turning that rage on me?
No day that ends in y.
He’d rather die first.
I know that shit because he’s said it.
Truth?
So, would I.
Without a doubt, living and working with Nolan is the second-best thing to ever happen to me with my old man accidentally drinking windshield wiper fluid seven years ago being the first.
The sound of his old tow truck approaching diverts my attention away from the magazine I’ve been mindlessly turning the pages of while humming along to Franz Schubert and up to where he’s partially pulling into the empty garage with a vehicle, surprisingly, in tow.
Huh.
Maybe I’ll have something to do tonight after all.
His skewed parking and immediate exiting reveal to me two more unexpected things.
The first?
He’s pissed.
We’re talking half a bottle of whiskey, four beers, two cigars, fuck dinner I’m just gonna drink it tonight level of pissed.
I ain’t seen him this mad since the day he caught his stripper ex-girlfriend banging that priest on a Sunday between church services. She was definitely on her knees, but the good lord damn sure couldn’t make out what she says saying if you know what I mean.
The second?
A long-legged, brown skinned beauty who happens to also be wearing a similar scowl along with teeny tiny red workout shorts I get the feeling she’s never actually worked out in.
Not that she’s out of shape.
No.
Between the tits falling out of her tank top and her round ass asking to be looked at in those bottoms, I can connect the curves on her like a fucking Maserati I wanna stick my dick in.
Um.
Her.
I wanna stick my dick in her, not the car.
Just to be clear.
I’m not one of those.
I’ve never been, nor will I ever be one of those.
I simply meant the shorts look brand new versus worn in.
Sliding the paper object to the side, I warmly ask, “New customer?”
“Not until tomorrow,” Nolan shoots back as he walks towards me.
“And why the fuck not?” sasses the female who parks herself on the opposite side of the counter from me.
“We close in four minutes.”
My correction is quietly muttered, “Five.”
“It was five minutes when I parked.” He emotionlessly flicks a finger to the clock on the wall. “Four now.”
“Your truck says you’re open twenty-four hours,” she snaps on a harsh stomp of the foot. “I can read, asshole.”
“Which is surprising,” Nolan unreluctantly jabs back.
“He uh…he just means…we get a lot of out of towners who seem to struggle with that…that…concept when it comes to…our…uh…services. I’m Kipp, by the way. Kipp Woods.” I attempt to clean my greasy palm by rubbing it on my stained light gray shirt before extending it in her direction. “You?”
“Cash,” my best friend states upon his arrival beside me.
“Huh…” Confusion causes me to instantly quirk an eyebrow. “Like Johnny?”
“Like she doesn’t exist, Kid.”
“But she does exist.” My eyes help themselves to another sweep of her curves that could make a classic Corvette Stingray do a doubletake. “And she’s fucking beautiful.”
Nolan grumbling his disapproval is easy to ignore thanks to her bashfully blushing. “Very smooth, Casanova.”
“More like Caranova,” I poorly flirt.
“Bunny,” she sweetly announces at the same time she shakes my hand. Almost instantly afterward she shoots the man beside me a glare. “Yes, it’s my real name. No, it’s not a nickname.” Her palm falls defensively to her hip. “And if one of you makes any sort of joke related to Bugs or Babs or Playboy, I will bear mace you and eat a Kit Kat bar like a fucking carrot while waiting for you to go blind.”
Alright.
She’s hostile.
Question is…was she like this pre or post my best friend picking her up.
Nolan does his best not to smirk at the same time he braces his arms on the counter. “Towing services are twenty-four seven. Mechanic services are eight to five Monday through Friday and ten to four on Saturdays. Closed on Sundays.” He cocks his head in a condescending fashion. “Guess the F in Friday today stands for fucked.”
“Are you always this sunshiney?”
“Yes,” I answer in a small airy chuckle. “And he starts drinking at five to not get grumpy.”
This time it’s her who smirks.
“Since we can’t get you in today-”
“Won’t.”
“How about we store your car free of charge until the morning?” It’s impossible to keep hope out of my voice. “Will that help?”
Frustration I couldn’t recognize more if it bitch slapped me in the face has her flinging loose strands away from her dark eyes. “Fine.”
“You mean thank you,” Nolan practically growls.
“I mean lower my car from its flat prison to the driveway, so that I can crawl into the backseat for the night.”
Consternation and dread battle for reign in my stomach prompting me to practically bark, “You can’t sleep in the backseat of your fucking car.”
“I don’t think I was asking, Codename: Kids Next Door.”
“But-”
“And I don’t think I need yourpermission.”
“No, but-”
“And I’ve done the shit before.” Both hands slam on the counter space prompting me to jump back in surprise. “And it looks like I’m about to fucking do it again.”