Chapter 4
ERICA
“Rix, whatcha want me to do with the Toyota?” Reed yells across the garage even though the music is barely loud enough to hear. “It’s all done and ready to roll.”
I don’t move from my perch beneath the truck I’m working on. Sighing, I bite out sarcastically, “Gee, I don’t know, Reed. If it’s all done, why don’t we just scoot it over to the side and use it as a place to take mid-afternoon naps?”
“Okay then . . . guess I’ll go call the owner?” Reed is still asking, like there’s any other reasonable option.
I hum agreement, never stopping work. But that’s nothing new. I’m always working. Twenty-four seven, three-hundred and sixty-five since the day I turned fourteen and Dad let me start working with him in the garage.
Back then, I played tool bitch, fetching this and that only to return it to its proper place when Dad was done. And I watched, and I learned, and I fell in love . . . hard. With engines. Tinkering and tweaking and making them purr.
I use the simmering frustration at Reed to crank the wrench a little harder, and it gives like I knew it would. The door to the break area opens and Manuel comes out, wiping his hands on a rag. “Where you want me, Boss?”
That’s what I like to hear. Manuel’s ready to work, and once I set him on a course, he’s solid until the job’s done. Phone call to the customer and all.
“Hit the blue truck next. Needs brake pads and rotors,” I call over my shoulder, keeping a mental tally of what we need to accomplish today.
“On it.” Manuel’s voice is already disappearing from behind me, and a moment later, I hear the truck start up, pull into bay three, and then he gets to work.
And all is well for a moment. Work being done, money being made, and grease on my hands. Life is pretty much perfect.
It’s not the norm, a female running a mechanic shop, but running Cole Automotive is what I always knew I’d do, even before I started helping here.
I used to listen to Dad talk shop with the guys and hang on every word, read Car her sweetness, I’m bitter; her trusting nature, I’m cynical to the point of jaded. For as rough as I am, she’s baby’s butt smooth. I’m dirty and greasy, and she’s clean and prissy.
I raise one brow, glaring at her in disappointment. “Then you’d meet when you’re both single.”
She sighs grumpily, deflating. “Not like I’m going to see him again, anyway. I didn’t even get his name and the bartender wouldn’t give it to me. He said he didn’t know it, but I could tell . . . he knew.” She points at her eyes like she could read this bartender’s mind.
“You didn’t even get Dream Guy’s name and number, Em? Shit, he might as well be a figment of your imagination then. Maybe you did dream him up.”
“Nope, and we’re going to the resort bar for a drink tonight after you close up the shop.”
The laugh pops out of my mouth before I can stop it, sounding like a loud bark. “No fucking way am I going drinking at the resort.” Coming from my mouth, ‘resort’ sounds like ‘hell’ because to me, it basically is. Fancy and expensive, and not my couch with a cold beer.
“Come on, Rix.” It’s not begging, but more teasing encouragement because she knows she’s going to get her way.
She always does, but I have to at least put up a fight to maintain appearances.
And because maybe this will be the time I will get out of doing what she wants. Because the resort? Fuck that.
Before I can say no a little more clearly, something along the lines of ‘fuck no, never gonna happen,’ Emily’s phone rings.
“Oops, I need to take this. Back in a sec.” She’s digging her phone out of her tiny purse—what does she keep in a bag that small, anyway—as she hustles toward the breakroom, disappearing behind the door.
Reed meets my eyes. “If you’re getting drinks tonight, I’d be happy to drive so everyone stays safe. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.” He might as well try sticking a flag in my ass, claiming me as his. Just one big problem with that . . . I’m not.
“We’re not getting drinks, and even if we did, I don’t drink to be impaired, you know that.” I can put away my fair share of beer, having earned my alcohol tolerance the hard way . . . in the military against guys twice my height and width, with livers to match. But I’m responsible, always.
Reed shrugs. “Offer stands anytime, Rix.”
I smile, just a little one, because it’s hard to be mean to someone when they’re being that nice, but I also don’t want to lead Reed on. I know he’s onboard with our dads’ grand idea and is patiently waiting for me to come to my senses and marry him.
Which isn’t going to happen. Ever.
An old brown midsize truck pulls into the lot.
“Incoming,” I warn Reed and Manuel. You never know what type of job or what type of person is going to pull up, and I love that moment before I find out.
Maybe it’ll be an engine repair or something easy like an oil change?
Maybe it’ll be a little old lady who needs help or an asshole I can overcharge with the ‘putting up with you’ service fee?