Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
APRIL
The rickety sound of an engine turning over and stalling fills the air. I grin maniacally at the scans on the computer, reading the lines like my sister with the latest social media gossip.
“I hate having to pull off B-pillar panels just to get to a wire.”
“In English please,” screams an exasperated voice. “You can’t expect regular people to understand that gibberish.”
“It’s not gibberish. It’s science. Mechanical engineering, to be exact.” I tuck away a rebellious curl that fell out of my ponytail. “A car is an intricate ecosystem that requires knowledge of chemistry, physics?—”
“Blah, blah, blah.” My sister pops an exaggerated yawn and shuts her phone off. “April, I can’t film like this. Seriously. I love you, but this is not what the people want.”
“The ‘people’ want us in bras and shorts bending over their cars at a car wash, not fixing their engines.” The voice that echoes across our garage is followed by the click, clack of stilettos marching in a familiar rhythm.
I smile when a slim, perfectly gym-toned arm hooks around my neck and squeezes. At the end of that arm, a plastic bag dangles from perfectly manicured fingers.
“Rebel, you angel ,” I mutter as I grab the bag filled with my lifeblood.
“Yes, yes, sing my praises.” She trades the bag of donuts for the OCB scanner.
“I’ll take that,” May says, stealing the donuts in a classic younger sister move.
Hands free, I hurry to the giant sink against the wall. Pushing up the sleeves of my oversized jumper, I grab the lavender scented, industry-grade soap that Rebel special orders for us and lather my hands.
When I return, the donut box is already open and May is staring, slack-jawed at it.
“Are those chocolate covered, jelly-filled donuts?”
“Mm-hm,” Rebel answers distractedly, her eyes glued to the OCB screen.
“But they sell out by, like, six every morning! There’s even a line…” May holds up a precious donut in wonder. “How did you do this?” When Rebel doesn’t immediately answer, my sister turns to me, her brown hair bouncing as she demands, “How?”
“ Doof muf tig ,” I mumble, my mouth crammed with delicious baked goodness.
“What?” May scrunches her nose.
I wave my hand in front of Rebel’s nose. Swallowing before I speak again, I urge her, “Do the thing.”
“Oh.” Rebel startles. “Hold this.” She shoves the scanner at my sister who takes it and watches expectantly.
Batting her baby blues, Rebel moves her long, voluminous blonde hair from one side of her head to the other. Glancing up from beneath thick lashes, she smiles and holds my sister’s gaze. Coquettishly, she bites down on her bottom lip and giggles before cooing, “Please.”
“Ew,” May says.
As if a switch went off, Rebel drops the act. She takes possession of the device again and refocuses on the scan. “It doesn’t work on girls.”
“But it worked on Phil,” I sing-song.
“Wait. T-that’s it? That’s how you got the donuts?” May’s jaw drops.
“Isn’t it the best?” I say excitedly, pulling out another donut. They’re so bad for me, but they taste so good. “I’ve been trying to charm Phil for years, that old geezer. I even offered to do free oil changes in exchange for these donut. As soon as Rebel did the thing, we’ve had zero problems.”
My sister’s eyes gleam with an idea and she holds her phone up toward my business partner and co-mechanic. “Hey, Rebel. Why aren’t you the face of our social media page? I think you’re exactly what our demographic is looking for.”
Rebel pushes the phone down. “I don’t do social media. Ever. Besides, our demographic is everyone who has a car problem that no one else can solve.”
“Exactly.” I grab a relatively clean rag—which isn’t saying much given all our rags, even Rebel’s pink ones, are oil streaked—and wipe the chocolate off my hands.
May rolls her eyes. “Forget it. No filming today.”
My smile plummets. “But you said promoting our store would be good for your résumé.”
“It will, but I need to find another angle to promote the shop.” She mumbles under her breath, “You’d think two female mechanics would be interesting enough, but you two…”
“Are special?” Rebel jumps in, showing off her picture-ready smile.
“Are really smart?” I supply.
“Are boring,” May says.
“Hey!” I protest.
Just then, my phone rings.
I brighten. “Maybe it’s a customer.”
“It’s probably spam or that creep who keeps calling and hanging up,” Rebel says with a shrug. “I’ll change off so we can test those spark plugs.”
While Rebel scampers off and May pilfers another donut, I answer the call. “Hello, this is The Pink Garage. How can I help you?”
“Hi, April. This is Bobby from King Stadium.”
“Oh, hi, Bobby.” I walk a few paces away. “How are you? How’s your car been running since that hiccup on the 1-24?”
“Great. Great. You ladies did a bang-up job. You did so well, that, uh… I’d like to ask you for some more help. You see, the Zamboni’s gone in?—”
“Again?”
“Yes, again. The new owner of the stadium has it on the list to buy a new one, but he’s trying to get the team ready for the season and it could be a while. You know how that goes. Anyway, I can’t do my job well if I don’t have a working machine and the athletes can’t practice on choppy ice, can they?”
“No, absolutely not,” I agree.
“So, I was hoping you could maybe pop on by and help me service the thing.”
“Of course. I could come over right now.”
“Well, see, the thing is…”
Unease spreads through me. “Yes?”
“You know Gunner’s uncle, Stewart Kinsey?”
I bristle.
“He’s who we usually work with. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that I don’t want to step on Gunner’s toes, the team being one family and all…”
Unpleasant memories roar up in my head, bringing the taste of bile. I actually do know how territorial the Kinsey family can be.
“Are you asking me to fix it on the down low, Bobby?” I ask quietly.
“If it’s no imposition, I’d mighty appreciate that.”
Something about the request rubs me the wrong way. I don’t relish feeling like a thief sneaking through the back door for a job, but it’s so difficult saying no to Bobby. He’s such a sweet soul. Besides, we need the money.
“Alright. Text me when the coast is clear and I’ll come by.”
“Neat. Thanks, April. You’re the best.”
Rebel’s voice sounds behind me, “Who was that?”
“Just another timid customer who doesn’t want the Kinseys to know they’re calling us.” I turn and shake my head at my best friend.
She scowls. “You’d think the Kinseys own this town the way everyone’s scared to get on their bad side.”
“On the bright side, everyone loves an underdog,” May says. Tapping her bicycle, she grins mischievously. “Are you heading out now? Want a ride?”
“No, thanks. I’ve still got some stuff to do around here.” I pinch her cheek. “Ride safe, squirt.”
“Stop calling me squirt. I’m twenty-one.”
“Still a squirt.”
“Squirts can’t legally drink.”
“Legal squirts can.” I wink.
She groans and mounts her bike. “See you at home, you doof. Later, Rebel!”
Rebel grunts, focused as she is on the car.
For the next few hours, we work together to diagnose the problem. We’re making great strides so when Bobby texts me the last thing I want to do is leave.
Rebel offers to go in my place, but I reject it. First of all, she doesn’t want to leave in the middle of a diagnosis any more than I do. Second, I don’t want her knowing about Bobby’s request or she’ll throw an absolute fit.
“Be back soon,” I say, waving and grabbing the keys for my personal truck.
“Aren’t you going to take the company car?” Rebel asks.
I freeze halfway to the door. My eyes fly to the bright pink car that we invested most of our savings into re-painting. Rebel was convinced it could act as a mobile advertisement but she’s the only one brave enough to ride around in that ostentatious Pepto Bismol on wheels.
“Uh…” Pretending my phone is ringing, I put the device to my ear and yell loudly, “Hello? Yes, this is April. Would I be interested in learning more about alien abduction insurance? Why yes I would.”
“You’re such a bad liar, April!” Rebel yells at my back as I dive into my car and speed down the road.
I’m not just a bad liar.
I’m also a pushover.
But hey, no one’s ever died from either of those things… I think.
The ride across town doesn’t take long and before I’ve belted my lungs out to two Whitney Houston classics, I’m already pulling into the stadium’s parking lot.
Inside, the arena is dark except for the rink which has the spotlights on. I’m surprised to see a player skating back and forth this late at night.
For some reason, my body can’t turn away from the skater. The way he moves on the ice is mesmerizing. Someone as tall as a giraffe should be all gangly knees and discoordination, especially when he’s pushing around a stick half his size. Instead, he’s graceful, skilled, and totally in control of his body.
The skater successfully pushes the puck around the last cone and skates to the other side of the rink. He leans against the rail and takes off his helmet.
I have a mini heart attack at the sight of an out-of-this-world, hewn to perfection, David sculpture of a face. The mini heart attack turns into a full-on 911 emergency when he throws his head back. The harsh fluorescent light glitters against the spray of sweat from his hair. Little dots of light fall around him like stars that flash brilliantly before disappearing.
I’m suddenly reminded of that scene in The Little Mermaid when Ariel surfaces to croon about wanting to be a part of the human world.
Except this guy is no slim, red-headed mer-gal.
He’s every bit a Prince Eric with his black hair and ginormous height. I watch as he skates to pick up the cones and set them behind the divider. Even in the bulky hockey uniform, I can tell his shoulders are about the size of two bus engines…
“April.”
“Gah!” I shriek.
My voice reverberates around the stadium and I panic when I see the hockey player look up in my direction.
Mayday, mayday! My brain cells fly the coop, and I do what every empty-headed woman would when faced with flight or fight.
I go with option c.
“April?” Bobby whispers, staring at the top of my head which is all he can see since I cannon-balled right into the ground and hunkered beneath the benches.
“Where’s the Zamboni?” I whisper back, fighting back a blush that’s so hot, it’ll probably melt a few cartilages in my nose.
“This way,” Bobby says.
Thankfully, he leads me away from the rink.
Away from the new hockey player who’s a little too hot to be playing on frozen water.
Away is good.
Because something tells me Prince Eric On Ice is a show I would pay to watch, but in real life, it’d be way too much drama for me.