Chapter 5
FIVE
WESTON
It’s an excuse. A shallow one at that. I know it. He’ll probably know it. I just hope he doesn’t call me out on it.
Gravel crunches beneath my work boots with each step I take toward Gonzo’s Garage. Its namesake is nowhere in sight when I approach though.
Just my warm, welcoming older brother.
Like a mug of warm apple cider.
Warm apple cider vinegar maybe.
I’d call out in greeting, but it’d be no use. He’s decked out in his gear, coveralls and a welding hood, shade down as he finishes working on a body panel.
My eyes roam the place while he finishes what he’s doing rather than risk startling him with a jump scare and getting treated like the Tin Man.
Large, open space, cleaner than I remember it being. Three bays, doors wide open, in the front of the garage, one with the Oldsmobile that seems to be missing a body panel, another with an ancient Mercury Sable, and the third with a Sprinter van that shouldn’t make my stomach leap up into the space reserved for my heart. Only one four-wheeled ride is supposed to do that, and it’s my own.
Behind the cars in the front of the shop, an assortment of small and large vehicles fill the rest of the space, up to the back bay doors, currently closed. One wall appears reserved for workbenches and every tool a mechanic might ever need, plus a restroom and a small office that’s probably in complete disarray if Gonzo uses it. The other wall has a sink, an eye wash station, and a first aid kit, with more equipment for more specialized jobs, like his welding cart, plus a washer and dryer for shop rags, and some cabinets. There’s an assortment of chairs that I think Gonzo considers a waiting room along the wall too.
Scanning the ATVs, RZRs, motorbikes, and cars they’ve got stored in here, I’m starting to think he wasn't just being a dick when he said it might take a few days to get to Amelia’s diagnosis and estimate. This place is packed .
And in the back corner, near a large boombox that’s probably almost as old as I am, I spy a dirty tarp slung across a familiar shape.
Bingo. My excuse for being here.
The sizzling and hissing of the welding stops, and I turn to see my brother emerge from behind the shade as he pushes it back up and removes the hood entirely.
“Gonzo lets you play with the big boy equipment now, huh?”
He doesn’t even crack a smile or try to jab me back. “It’s just me here now. Gonzo’s all but retired these days. Had a heart attack.”
Oof. Buzzkill much?
He must see the look on my face because he softens those words—which is shocking enough on its own. “It was a minor one, but it made him reevaluate his priorities. Old lady has him on a health regimen that doesn’t include shoveling honey buns and Moon Pies while hitting his head on shit in the garage.”
“Well, fuck.” What else is there to say?
Changing the subject in a flash, my brother is getting better at conversation than I remember him being. “You seen Mom yet?”
“Nah, but we’re catching up this week.”
His mouth flattens into an even tighter line somehow. “Good.” He sniffs. “She’ll be happy.”
Wyatt unzips then steps out of the coveralls, down to his usual—a dark Henley and a pair of charcoal Dickies. The grease and engine soot blend right in. I look down at my cargo pants and white tee. The shirt is fairly clean, I buy a new pack practically every week. But the pants are covered in swipes of at least a dozen different paint colors.
Now that I’m seeing just how messed up this pair is, I might be slightly regretting not changing into something clean before dashing over here, but I didn’t want to miss her.
Today was my first day on the job, and yeah, sure, maybe I got a little bit of a late start, but it also took longer than I expected to finish the rooms I was working on today, and I didn’t have time to change first. But I’m here now and going to see it through, dirty pants be damned.
I had to know if last night was a fluke. If that instant attraction, that deep draw I felt toward her was just the full moon, or if my mind was playing tricks on me, knowing I’ll be sentenced to months of celibacy. Surely she wasn’t as hot as my libido has been telling me she was. Delicate features that scream innocence, with something lurking under the surface that tells me she’s anything but. And that sense of humor of hers, dark, but adorable at the same time… A blend all her own, Amelia hasn’t left my mind since I dropped her off last night.
On the side of the road when a girl is stranded and you’re her only hope isn’t exactly the time to make a move, as much as I might have wanted to. Plus, Amelia’s the kind of girl that seems like she’d run in a heartbeat if you pushed her the wrong way. Too shrewd to fall for a random pickup line. Asking for her number while I was her only recourse on a dark, deserted road would’ve probably spooked her and cost me a nut shot, if not worse.
But also, what would getting her number even do for me? If Wyatt fixes her engine in a day and she’s gone, what am I going to do? Write her sonnets and poems over text about how perfect her tits looked underneath that sweatshirt she was wearing? Send her dick pics like every other schmuck online (even if mine is worth looking at)? No thanks.
That girl’s a rolling stone if I’ve ever seen one, outside of the mirror. A day of stewing on it told me my only chance to see her again was gonna be right here, right now.
If Wyatt is gonna get her back on the road, I might as well shoot my shot with her before she’s gone, get my one night of happiness for the rest of my damn stay in town and have the memory of that night to hold me over until I’m out of here.
My brother stares at me, a question that he doesn’t bother to ask in his eyes. What are you doing here?
I thrust an arm out to point at my baby in the corner. “Came to see the Charger.”
Wyatt’s brow and quasi-beard twitch in a way that’s unusual.
Emotion on his face is what’s unusual.
Unease? Discomfort? Not sure, but also don’t care.
“You sure you’re not here to spy on a five-foot nothing spitfire?”
Pretending he didn’t just see right through me, call me out like that, I ignore the remark, heading over toward the dusty tarp, his weighted footfalls following me. In one swift motion, I yank the material that’s kept my baby safe for years and pull it away.
Dust and particles fly everywhere, but it doesn’t matter. I’m reunited at long last with my only real belonging of value. My grandfather’s legacy he left to me. It might not be the hectares and hectares of family land my brother got, but it’s a hell of a consolation prize.
The 1970 Dodge Charger in Go Mango Orange with black racing stripes.
Might get half-hard just looking at her, if my brother weren’t standing here ruining this moment for me and her both.
My boots crunch slowly over the sawdust-coated cement floor as I walk my way around the car, taking her in. I’d run my fingers along the side as I go, but I don’t want to disrespect her like that. She’s not some trashy, cheap ride to feel up, ride hard, and put up wet, abuse and turn into a rental car. She’s worthy of worship and reverence.
Small vehicles might be what I’m best at—they might be what you’d call a passion, if I were to have one. Not that I’ve done it much since leaving town, but motorbikes, ATVs, dirt bikes, the shit I grew up working on with my brother was the only job that ever had a piece of my soul. But this timeless beauty in front of me holds a special place in my heart.
She’s stunning.
Sleek, with curves in all the right places.
She might be a bit older than me, but I know how to treat her right and keep her happy.
Sure, she needs a little work, but don’t we all?
And damn if she isn’t still as gorgeous as ever, paint a little more pumpkin pie than vibrant mango these days, but that’s nothing we can’t fix.
I bet she’s missed me as much as I’ve missed her all this time. This might’ve been just a handy cover story to pop on by, but seeing this beast of a machine in front of my own eyes again, it’s reminded me what it felt like to drive her, feel her roar to life beneath me as we hugged the pavement of the curvy mountain roads, going faster than sensible when it was too dark to see beyond the light of the moon. Fuck, I might actually get under that hood and make her purr again before I leave town.
I mean, look at her. Sexy, perfect body with—what the fuck is that? On the trunk?
The sound of tires rolling over gravel is in some distant corner of my awareness, but that’s not important right now. What is on my trunk?
Wyatt steps away, toward the arriving vehicle, but he’s got a little more acceleration in his gait than usual. Instead of a casual amble, it’s hurried. Another chalk mark in the weird behavior column in the mental tab.
I hear his wife’s voice and the coos of a baby and am going to assume his eagerness is just wanting to see them after spending the whole day apart.
I’m too busy rubbing a gentle finger over the finish of my car’s trunk, caressing the mark, trying to see if it’ll come off, if there’s texture to it, if we’re dealing with a—gasp!—scratch, or what on earth is going on, to pay them any more attention.
But when minutes pass, my nose practically pressed to the paint, and he hasn’t come back, my patience has worn as thin as this mark right here. “GRADY!” my voice booms, deeper than usual.
“Talking to yourself?” Rory’s melodic voice teases me, but I can hear her heels tip-tapping and click-clacking as she approaches.
“Talking to your husband,” I reply, deadpan. Never thought I’d say it, but this isn’t the time for humor. “Get over here, Wyatt Andrew!”
“You’re not Mom, asshat. You can’t middle name me.” Lucky for him, his voice sounds from right next to me.
“I’m about to call you a lot worse than your God-given name. What the fuck is this on my trunk?”
My eyes finally part with the scuff-skid hybrid—as I’m refusing to believe it could actually be a scratch—and I meet his gaze. Something cocky shines back at me.
“Looks like a scuff to me.”
“You’d better hope it’s just a scuff. I left her in pristine condition, so what is this from?” My eyes narrow on his, but Rory’s cheeks flushing distract me for a second. She quickly looks down at the baby in her arms and nuzzles her, nose-to-nose, rather than look at me.
Wyatt decides to take the bull by the horns. “That’s from my wife’s heels.” The way he owns those words, the pride in them, it creates a drop in my stomach that might be considered envy. Longing, just to even know what that’s like.
“Why were you walking on my trunk?” I stare her down, arms crossed, but she keeps talking to the baby, not the pissed off brother-in-law in front of her.
Wyatt’s smirk turns unbearable. “She wasn’t walking.”
His meaning hits in an instant.
“Aw, dude, gross! Come on, bro.”
Rory blushes, cheeks turning a shade of pink I’ve never seen on her before, and she drops her head further, burying herself in the adorable rolls of their child instead of looking me in the eye.
“Tell me that baby wasn’t conceived on my fucking car .”
Wyatt’s eyes narrow on me, like he doesn’t love the tone I’m using when it comes to his precious girls. “Of course not. Your car was just the background to the hottes?—”
“NO!” I cut him off, not letting him finish the word, much less the sentence I don’t want to know the ending of.
I don’t need nightmares when I look at my pride and joy.
“Not cool, man. Not. Fucking. Cool.”
I shake my head at both of them, as stern as I probably have the ability to be if we’re not throwing fists, and I realize Rory’s shoulders are shaking. She’s laughing at all of this?
The disrespect. Not even to me, because my brother has never respected me. But at least to the car. He’s a mechanic, oil runs in our family blood. He knows better. That’s like when a rock star smashes a guitar. Nothing cool about it, you just look like a prick, trashing a creation you proclaim to love.
“Fucking fix it. I’m going to get her up and running again, starting tomorrow. And you’re going to not just buff that shit out, you’re going to make her body sparkle .”
“Well, now you’re just making Van Gogh jealous,” comes a higher pitched voice that I wasn’t expecting. That little rasp in it rakes its nails across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
I flinch, jumping and turning around to face her. Was I so absorbed in my car that I missed her arrival? Luckily, I collect myself quickly.
“Aww, no need to be jealous, darlin’. She can get the full treatment too. Just as soon as Wyatt’s done with mine.” I shoot her a wink and hope she can’t see my veins throbbing, pulsing beneath my skin, from the electricity racing through them right now.
Nope, yesterday definitely wasn’t a fluke. This girl is even hotter than I remember.
Short, toned legs on display beneath those tight little shorts, most of her upper body hidden beneath the same NYA sweatshirt as last night, but she’s got makeup on today.
Her hair is styled a little more carefully. Messy waves that frame her thin face and dust her shoulders. Bone structure that any woman would kill for. Something tells me that’s not filler in those full lips, those plump cheeks. She’s naturally both soft and sharp, all at the same time.
I want to draw her close, even though I have the feeling she’d claw to keep her distance. She’d be worth the scars of any battle it took to win her time.
Speaking of making our vehicles jealous, my car should be green with envy over the thoughts I’m having about this girl right now. My Charger is used to being the sole object of my affections.
Lust is a mistress I’m familiar with.
Love? Never met her.
But lust, I’ve been pretty much exclusive with her since I was a teen.
This? What lights me up when I look at Amelia? It’s a potent hit of that shit that doesn’t come around often.
If Wyatt weren’t here, if I weren’t under his rules for my stay in the Heights, if she and I were anywhere else, I’d be taking my chance, exploring this live wire of a connection between us, see if her senses are telling her that my body was made for hers too.
It’s the tiny changes in her appearance that tell me I’m not alone in this. Things I’ve been attuned to notice in the fairer sex since high school. Her pupils expanding, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Chest rising with a sharp inhale, cheeks and lips just slightly flushed. If I could see her thighs beneath that hoodie, they’d probably be flexing just a bit. As it is, I can see her cross one white sneakered foot in front of the other, one arm stretched across her abdomen, holding her other elbow.
I can tell when a woman is attracted to me with a blindfold on. And I have, by the way.
This one? Definitely into me.
Not like I can make a move on her right here and now, with this audience. I’m the Lothario who stomps on hearts, according to my only sibling.
Doesn’t matter that I’m always up front with them. I promise them a good time and nothing more. When they get it in their heads that we could be more, that’s when it goes south.
And that’s why I’m a one-and-done, and that’s it.
I sure would like to get just that once with her though.
Maybe once my brother is done going over her van, I can get my chance to get her alone.
“We can go over this later, Weston. I need to go over Amelia’s van with her.”
I nod my head, bowing slightly in acceptance, and let them head back toward the open bay doors. I follow behind because it would be weird to stay in the corner all alone, not because I’m trying to insert myself in her business.
My niece reaches for her father as they walk, making grabby hands and noises of distress until he takes her from Rory. The change in him is instantaneous, becoming a softer version of the guy that I grew up with, someone I don’t entirely recognize.
I catch Amelia watching too. Her face melts as she watches their interactions, the purity of the love between a father and daughter. She doesn’t strike me as the overly sentimental type, but I could swear I see a tear close to dripping from one of those gorgeous ocean eyes. She turns around, both hands going up to her face, and I’m distracted by the noise of my niece starting to cry.
“No, no tears, baby girl. You’re staying right here. Just need you to go to Mama for a minute.” Wyatt’s version of a baby voice isn’t going to get him a YouTube channel for kids anytime soon, but his daughter seems to love it.
“Come here, little love,” Rory soothes her, but she’s inconsolable, reaching back for her father, wailing. Her little screams hurt my chest, and I step in.
“Wanna come see Uncle West?” I hold my hands out to her, and she stops screaming. Her little cherub cheeks, all pink from her sobs, they pull up in a toothless grin, and I swoop in to take her from her mom’s arms. “Come here, munchkin. Let’s do a lesson on why motocross is cooler than street racing.”
Wyatt rolls his eyes at me and Rory snorts a laugh, but we all know it’ll be plenty of time before I’m getting this little rascal into any trouble on anything more than her chubby legs.
My brother steps over to the office for a moment and comes back with a box of tissues. For a moment I wonder if he’s watching Amelia as closely as I am, but her eyes are dry now. He yanks one tissue out and waves it in the air like a white flag. Then he extends one arm, offering her the square box.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you,” he says, so solemn I realize this is his version of humor.
“Is this the hospital waiting room then?” Amelia asks, catching on immediately.
Wyatt nods a couple of times, and she takes a deep breath, seeming to center herself. “All right then. Lay it on me.”
“It’s not just your engine. It’s your transmission too.”
Her face falls, cracking like an egg, and I watch as the shock of it runs down her face.
“Both?” she practically squeaks the word.
Rory’s eyes bounce between her husband and the girl I shouldn’t be so fascinated by, nearly as invested in this exchange as I am.
“Why don’t you start by telling me the van’s history,” Wyatt suggests, leaning back on the hood of the vehicle behind him.
Amelia shifts her weight between her legs, grabs onto one elbow, and speaks. “She’s a 2005, but I got her about eight years ago. She’d been through a lot by then, almost two hundred thousand miles on her dash, but she was all I could afford. She’d been an airport shuttle for a chain hotel out west, and they ran her hard from what I heard. I gutted her and outfitted her for the van life, and I know she looks pretty good for her age, but that’s just because I gave her a facelift. Her guts are still original.”
Amelia wraps one fist in the material of her sleeve that hangs past her free hand before she continues.
“I’ve taken her around the country slowly, tried not to wear her down too fast, but I’ve still put another two hundred or so on her since then.”
Wyatt lets out a low whistle. “Then I say you’re damn lucky. This thing should’ve died on you a long time ago.”
Guilt flashes across her features before she answers him. “My check engine light has been on…a while.” She says the last bit delicately, face alight with a refreshing kind of self-deprecating humor. That buzz inside me gets stronger, and I resist the urge to step into her personal space, busying myself by bouncing my niece in my arms.
“If it makes you feel any better, there’s not really anything you could’ve done to save her life,” Wyatt tells her. “Even humans who live to be a hundred can be taken out by a damn cold. You never know what’s going to be the kiss of death.”
Rory flinches so slightly I bet Amelia didn’t even notice, but Wyatt keeps talking, though one hand does move to his wife’s back.
“We’ve all only got so much in us. But I’d say you got a hundred and twenty human years out of this one here, and to count your blessings.”
Amelia takes another deep breath in and then nods, that hand now rubbing up and down her arm. “So are you saying it’s time for a funeral?”
Wyatt’s mouth turns down, and he shakes his head. “Nah, not unless you want it to be. There are options.” He taps the printout in his hand.
Amelia’s gaze drifts over the paper, stepping closer to take it in, and her eyes widen. “Walk me through what I’m looking at here before I have a heart attack at twenty-seven and you’re found liable for my death and Van Gogh’s.”
“I think our insurance policy covers death by shock from estimates,” Rory says, straight-faced. “As long as you don’t have any gold diggers in your family who’ll come after us for our last few bucks, we should be fine,” she jokes.
But Amelia’s laugh in response isn’t real, like the ones I earned from her last night were. It’s forced, like she doesn’t want to bring attention to whatever it is she’s mentally sprinting past there.
Lucky for her, Wyatt’s never dragged out a conversation in his life. “We can rebuild with OEM parts, or do an aftermarket build. Getting parts straight from the manufacturer is that top number.”
“The arm and two legs,” Amelia tosses out, deadpan.
“Still cheaper than a new van with all the bells and whistles yours has,” he points out.
“Barely,” she mumbles.
“The second number is if we get aftermarket parts and rebuild the engine and transmission cheaper. I checked my suppliers, and I couldn’t find any new or even decent used engines that’ll work for your van, so we’d have to source the parts individually and then put it together here.”
Amelia takes just a second to grapple with the bad news before standing up straighter and nodding her head again. Is it wrong that it intrigues me? That I’m dying to know what she’s been through that she’s so quick to accept the worst-case scenario and go right into moving forward, rather than mourning what she’s lost?
“And that price, how would that be charged?” she asks, all business. I think Rory might even be impressed, which is saying something.
“This right here,” Wyatt taps something on the paper, “is the deposit. It’s the cost of the materials we’d have to order for the job. The rest is labor, which would be due on completion, you’re looking at about three, maybe four weeks until that would be due.”
“Three weeks?” Her brows raise, but she seems like she’s already accepted this change in her course of fate.
“The parts will take at least a week to get here, and then it’s gonna be another week or two to get the engine rebuilt, installed, and ready for ya. Maybe three, with all the work we have backing up right now.” His eyes move pointedly around the shop. Not sure if she catches it, but that was Wyatt for “be thankful I fit you in today.”
“And my alternatives are…?” she trails off the question, waiting for Wyatt to fill in the rest.
“Sell her to someone who wants to put the work in. Scrap her for parts, but that’s a shame considering the condition the rest of her is in. You’ve kept her up well.” Wyatt shrugs a shoulder. “Or tow her to another shop, fifty or a hundred miles away—though the nearest one I’d recommend is about two hundred miles or so—and see if they’ll lie to you and sell you something cheaper that’ll get you just far enough away from them before you break down again.”
“Have you considered writing self-help books?” Amelia asks with surprising grit for someone who’s a good foot shorter and close to a hundred pounds lighter than the man she’s staring down. “If so, I wanna throw a title in the suggestion box.”
Wyatt huffs out some sort of amused breath, and she takes it as encouragement.
“ Life on the Sunny Side .”
Rory bursts out laughing, causing the baby in my arms to giggle too. I don’t blame either of them. Sure as hell can’t help the smile breaking out across my face either.
Something tells me life is gonna be a lot brighter with her in the Heights for the next few weeks. Even if I have to wait to shoot my shot with her.