Chapter 3 #2
But she’d heard her mother mutter often enough that Jesse’s real dad, bless his soul, would’ve been better.
Bill interrupted her reverie. “Can you afford to go down there? I gotta stay at the garage. We’re almost done with the Charger and a buyer’s coming to look at it next week.”
The business couldn’t afford to send her, as if there was a valid write-off for “travel to brother’s court date for moral support.
” She’d pay for it like she did her last trip—by doing graphic design through small-time internet jobs.
Her brother was responsible for her interest. He used to doodle, then progressed into drawing mock-ups of people’s tattoos.
Eventually, it was about the software, and being the little sister, she’d always wanted to know what he was doing.
She didn’t mind the work, it was something she could do at home under Bill’s radar.
When combined with the money her neighbor Penny gave her to watch her two older kids when she took the youngest to the doctor, she scraped enough together for her Moore trips.
“It’ll work out,” was all she said.
“Good.” He rubbed his chin. “Good. Listen, while you’re down there, I need you to make a stop and buy a car for me.”
With what funds? Until the Charger sold, the only liquid asset around this place was the oil waste canister.
“What is it?” Pointing out a lack of money only meant more bits and pieces entered the house for painting.
“Swing around to Detroit Lakes, before or after you’re in Moore, I don’t care, and talk to this guy who has a ’68 Shelby GT500 for sale. Guess he’s picky about who he’s going to sell it to, but it’s going for thirty-five grand.”
How much? “Is it worth it? Sounds like he won’t part with it for much less than we could sell it for.”
Bill’s expression was serious. “Didn’t you hear the year, Jo? It’s a ’68. I could make a hundred grand minimum on the flip.”
Josie made a choking sound, glad she didn’t have a mouthful of dry sandwich.
“I have an interested buyer already, but we need that car. Go ahead and take your normal ride, I’m all done with it.”
He’d let her go wheel and deal for a car and not complain about her wasting more time and money on another trip to Moore? Plus, she’d get to drive a real car—her real car?
She glanced out the window to see a perky little brunette strutting down the street, a big smile on her face.
Gage was marching out to meet her, his body language tight and he was gesturing to the house.
Hmm, not Camilla. Another of Gage’s rumored conquests?
The one who was seeing him through his loneliness after Josie had left him?
She turned back to her dad. “How ’bout I go talk to the guy a couple days before Jesse’s court date?”
It was another blistering day and Brock was navigating backroads to reach the address of the Shelby GT500. Mr. Blackwood lived well outside of Detroit Lakes city limits. Brock had already missed a turn and had to find an approach to turn around in.
He checked his GPS again. Dammit, it said the turn was here.
He looked around. Fences and wheat fields and trees dotted the countryside enough that he couldn’t see a thing.
He punched in the address and waited for it to register. Same directions. Turn where there’s no fucking turn.
Puffing out a breath, he took the first right he came across. There was a copse of trees that the road disappeared into. It came out the other side and swung another right. Suddenly, his GPS was back on track.
He fumed and followed the directions to the house arriving exactly ten minutes late.
An older man with a stooped back was pulling some weeds from a flower bed. The car wasn’t in sight, likely stored in the old garage across the yard from the house.
Brock parked and got out.
The man straightened and eyed Brock with disapproval. “Brock Walker?”
“Yes, sir.” Brock scanned the expansive yard with a square farmhouse that had at least fifty years on his own place.
Make eye contact when greeting someone.
He pulled his gaze back to Mr. Blackwood.
The man shuffled to him and stuck out his hand. Brock shook it dutifully.
Apologize when you’re late, Brockie. It’s expected.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Hmph.” Mr. Blackwood shuffled to the house’s wrap around porch. “I been waitin’ on ya for twenty minutes.”
Brock followed. “I’m ten minutes late.”
“Ever heard the expression ‘If you’re on time, you’re late’?” Mr Blackwood shook his head and muttered, “Kids these days.”
“I’ve heard the expression, but I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-five.”
That earned him a scowl. Brock tensed. What had he said wrong?
Mr. Blackwood reminded him a lot of his Grandpa Walker.
Gramps had dealt less well with Brock than Brock’s father had.
Brock and his dad managed a small bond over their cars, but Gramps had several other grandchildren that weren’t awkward and quiet.
He’d gravitated toward them more than Brock.
“Have a seat.”
Brock planted himself in the plastic deck chair. Two glasses of lemonade sweated on a round, green plastic table. A small breeze made it tolerable to be outside of air conditioning, although he doubted the house had AC anyway.
“Why do you want the car?” Mr. Blackwood’s keen gaze studied him from under his worn cowboy hat.
“I want to fix it up.”
“Son, I’ve about had it with you already. I’d think long and hard about your answer if you’re serious about the car. I bought that gem when it rolled off the line and drove my wife all over town. Showed ’em both off.” His voice hitched and he fell silent.
Brock rattled off everything he knew about the make and model. “The ’68 Shelby GT500 has a seven liter V8 engine and cranks out well over three hundred horse-power. It’s a drag racer’s favorite.”
A suspicious gleam entered Blackwood’s eyes. “Into racing?”
“No.”
The older man sipped his lemonade and reclined in his chair. “What do you think it’d go for nowadays?”
“Fully refurbished, they’ve been known to sell for over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, some up to two hundred thousand.”
Blackwood set his lemonade down and slapped his hands on his knees. “Well, I think we’re done now. You can go on home.”
Brock blinked. “But I haven’t seen it.”
“You don’t need to.” Knees cracked as Blackwood stood. “I’ve got someone else coming to interview.”
Brock’s mouth set, but he remained where he was. “I’d like to buy the car.”
It was the one he and his dad talked for years about working on together.
“So would a lot of people, but what you don’t seem to understand is that it isn’t just a car.”
No, he didn’t understand. And if he did, he wouldn’t be able to explain it anyway. What did Mr. Blackwood want other than to sell the car? Brock answered every one of his questions honestly. What had he done wrong?
He rose and stormed to his truck.
Always say good-bye.
“Bye,” he nearly shouted before he slammed his door.
He left while replaying the conversation. Were there any parts where he forgot to heed his mom’s advice? Running through the whole visit, all three minutes of it, he couldn’t find the place where he upset Mr. Blackwood.
He neared the turn to the bigger gravel road he’d been lost on and rolled to a complete stop.
A red sports car raised a cloud of dust in the distance. It drew closer and Brock stayed parked.
Candy apple red, the Mustang stood out against the brown dirt road and green countryside. Like the car Brock had hoped to purchase, it was a Shelby GT500, only fifty years newer.
The car slowed and the outline of the female driver became visible. She had sassy, dark hair that was all too familiar.
It turned in front of him, the driver wearing large sunglasses that covered half her face. Josie Alvarez.
She stopped next to him and lowered her window. He did the same, with a stirring in his stomach that threatened to move south. Matching emotions with what his body was feeling was always a challenge, but this was more obvious. She was sexy, and her car was nice, too.
“Why the long face, farm boy?”
Farm boy? What was she doing out here? There was nothing behind him except the spread of an ornery car dealer. “Are you going to see Mr. Blackwood?”
Her mouth curved in a sly smile. “It’s a nice car he’s got for sale.”
“I wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t let me see it.”
Surprise registered. “That picky is he?” She shrugged. “Eh, I can sweet talk him.”
She’d definitely have an advantage and not just because she was striking with her wild hair and yellow tank top. From the height of his truck, he got a peek of her toned legs bared from her impossibly short shorts. She wouldn’t succeed because of her looks, she’d be able to actually talk with him.
He swallowed hard with frustration and ran through his mental turmoil identification list to sort out what he was feeling beyond frustrated.
He was irritated with Mr. Blackwood for brushing him off.
And at himself because he wanted to hang out with Josie longer, ask about her car, peek under the hood. “Why do you want the car?”
His voice came out gruff and the way she peered at him, she must suspect he was angry or infatuated. And she was probably right on both accounts.
“It’s a nice hunk of metal.” Her tone lightened, but she didn’t offer a deeper explanation.
He studied her car. He was more of a collector guy, but there was no doubt her ride was sweet. Sleek, hot, and fast…like the girl behind the wheel.
“You like Mustangs,” he said.
“Um, they’re nice cars.” Her tone was odd, but he couldn’t identify it.
“That’s why you were in my barn.”
“I thought it was your shop.”
“It is.”
She stared at him and like always, he couldn’t figure out what he’d said wrong.
“How can it be your barn and your shop at the same time?” Who’d want to work in a barn?
“It was a barn first, and part of it still is, but it functions mostly as a shop.”
“What about the large shop you have all locked up?”
That wasn’t a shop, it was his long garage. Something in her words stalled him. “How’d you know it was locked?”
Her eyes briefly widened, then she turned a stunning smile back on him. “Because you would’ve been worried about it the day you tackled me in the field. How is Deputy Max, by the way?”
“Dunno. Were you really in my barn to look at my Mustangs?”
She leaned out. “I’m just a little girl, why would I have a thing for Mustangs?”
“Being a girl doesn’t matter for whether you like cars or not.”
“Tell that to my dad and my ex,” she muttered as she turned back to look out the windshield. She pushed in the clutch and wiggled the gearshift, but didn’t put it into gear. “I hate to cut our chit chat short, but I gotta go sweet talk this guy.”
A dull ache settled in Brock’s chest. His dad rarely came back to Moore, but Brock had hoped he’d come back and help him work on the ’68.
“Later, Brock Walker.” Her purr was smoother than the engine as she threw it in gear and took off.
He was left with a mouthful of dust and the strangest sense of loss. Over the car or the girl?