Chapter 6
Ash
I park my bike in the rear of the shop and stroll in through the staff door that leads directly to where we work on cars.
An old-school radio is playing on a workbench.
“Is that you, Ash?” Isaac asks when I let the steel door slam shut behind me.
I look over to where a sturdy man’s jean-clad legs poke out from underneath a ’67 Hemi Road Runner that’s getting overhauled.
I offered to give him a hand, but he declined. Supposedly, he used to have one just like it, and he wants to do that one himself—won’t let anyone else even touch it.
And nobody argues with him. The shop is his baby.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “Where’s Mace?”
We’re a team of five working in the garage, but the three of us are always first to come in and last to leave, not counting Isaac’s daughter Tatum, who runs sales in the front of the shop. Rob and Jason will roll up within the hour .
“Painting!”
Figures . He’s been talking about nothing else since sketching the design.
Pushing the plastic curtain that divides the workspace aside to step through, I find him squatting by the Nova’s right front fender in paint scrubs and mask, the detailing spray brush in hand.
I know he’s got earbuds in, listening to a different kind of music than Isaac, but his sixth sense goes off the second I enter, and he turns my way.
“I owe you donuts.” I toss him the bag, and he catches it one handed, crushing it to his chest.
“I’m glad you remembered.” His voice comes out muffled through the facemask.
“Got your favorite too.”
“The pink ones?” Setting the brush down, he removes the face masks and grins. “Nice. Thanks.”
“Oh no,” I disagree with a laugh. “Thank you .”