6 TOBIAS
T he door creaks open and she steps out, her black hair catching the neon light from the sign above. My breath catches - now I get why Corey hasn’t shut the fuck up about the new girl.
Can’t say I blame him.
She shivers slightly in the bar tee, which hangs loose on her frame. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing intricate tattoos that wind down her arms. Her makeup's slightly smudged from the drink incident, but somehow it only adds to her appeal.
She approaches cautiously, almost like she's sizing up a large animal. Which in my case she probably is. I'm a 6'4" jughead with a bad attitude. Not the kind of guy you approach for Sunday dinner.
"Hey, thanks for the save in there. That guy was a real piece of work." She runs a hand through her hair, those green eyes meeting mine. "I'm Rhea."
I shift my weight, trying not to tower over her too much. "No problem Rhea." Her name tastes good on my lips. "Just doing my job."
"Still. Not everyone would've handled it so..." She gestures vaguely with her hands. "Efficiently? I mean, you literally picked him up like he was a bag of groceries."
The corner of my mouth twitches. "Years of practice."
"So do you have a name, or should I just call you Thor?"
I chuckle. "Tobias. Most people call me Tobi."
She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes. "Tobias,"
she says, testing it out. "I like that better. Suits you more than Tobi."
"Yeah?" I cross my arms, intrigued despite myself. Most people can't wait to shorten my name, make it more casual. "Why's that?"
"Tobias has gravity to it. Matches the whole..." She waves her hand at my general existence. "Vibe you've got going on. Tobi sounds like a teddy bear and that… you are not."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "Can't say I've heard that comparison before."
"I like to think I'm one of kind," she answers with a smile. "So what's your story, Tobias? Been working here long?" She leans against the wall, her arms wrapped around herself.
"Few years. Came here with Corey after we got out of the Marines."
“Ahh, well thank you for that service as well.” She says, with a sheepish smile.
“Don’t mention it.” I’m trying my damndest to keep my eyes off her, and on the two guys stumbling around the parking lot.
A shiver runs through her body, disrupting my thoughts.
Without thinking, I shrug off my leather jacket and hold it out.
"Here."
"Oh, no, I couldn't?—"
"Take it before you freeze."
She hesitates, then slips it on. The jacket swallows her whole, the sleeves hanging well past her fingertips. Something primal stirs in my chest at the sight.
"But you're going to get cold," she says, rolling up the sleeves.
"Nah." I nod toward the pair of drunk idiots now circling that candy apple red Camaro. "From Toronto. I’m built for this shit.
Besides, need to keep an eye on those two drunk fucks."
"Where?" she asks, pulling my jacket tighter around her shoulders.
I nod toward the two idiots circling the Camaro like vultures.
"See those two? The one in the blue shirt keeps running his hand along the hood. I know good and damn that nice of a classic car doesn't belong to either one of those polo wearing pricks. They strike me more as the prius type."
She laughs. “Prius. Ouch. Want to see something funny?" A mischievous glint sparks in her eyes.
Before I can respond, an ear-piercing alarm splits the night. The two guys stumble backward, tripping over their own feet. One lands hard on his ass.
"I just wanted to look at the car, fuck!" Blue shirt slurs, scrambling away.
My jaw drops. "Wait a minute. Is that your fucking car?"
"Yup." Rhea's grin widens as she digs a key from her pocket.
"Four-twenty-seven big block, completely rebuilt from the ground up. Bored thirty over, forged internals, roller rockers..." She ticks off modifications on her fingers. "Custom ground cam, ported and polished heads. Should dyno around six-fifty at the wheels if she's properly tuned."
My mouth goes dry. "Where'd you learn all that?"
My heart pounds as I shift my stance to hide the effect she's having on me. A woman who knows her way around an engine?
Who can rattle off specs like that? Christ.
"Dad taught me everything I know." Rhea's fingers tangle in the keys.
"Used to spend weekends in the garage with him, covered in grease, learning every inch of these beauties. He'd quiz me on parts while we worked."
Her voice softens. "Always said knowing how things work was the first step to fixing them."
The past tense hits me like a punch to the gut. I recognize that tone - heard it in my own voice too many times.
"Was?"
She nods, her smile fading. "Cancer. Three years ago."
"Shit. I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate. "Lost mine while I was deployed. Didn't even make it back for the funeral."
"That's rough." She meets my eyes, and there's understanding there, not pity. "At least I got to say goodbye."
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "What was his favorite? To work on, I mean."
Her face lights up again. "Oh man, '67 Shelby GT500. He had this poster in the garage - used to stare at it for hours while we worked.
Said one day we'd restore one together." She laughs, but it catches slightly. "Never did find one in our price range."
The way she talks about cars, the passion in her voice - it stirs something in me I thought I'd buried years ago. Makes me want to show her the Nova sitting in my garage, waiting for someone with the right touch to bring it back to life.
She glances at her phone, the screen lighting up her face. "Shit, I better head back in before I get fired already."
"Yeah." I can't help the smirk that forms. "Corey can be a real asshole sometimes."
A laugh escapes me, remembering all the times he's busted my balls over the years. The sound seems to surprise her – hell, it surprises me too.
She shrugs off my jacket, the movement releasing a hint of vanilla and something floral into the air. "Thanks for this. And for keeping an eye on Betty."
"Betty?"
"My car." She hands back the jacket, her fingers brushing mine.
"Every badass ride needs a proper name. Betty seemed to fit her personality."
"Betty the Camaro." I test the name, and damn if it doesn't work.
"I like it."
She flashes me a smile that hits me right in the gut, then turns toward the door. The way her hips sway in those jeans should be illegal. My mouth goes dry as she reaches for the handle, and I catch myself staring at the curve of her ass.
Jesus fucking Christ.
She's like every fantasy I've never let myself have, wrapped up in vintage band tees and engine grease. Smart, fierce, and knows her way around a four-twenty-seven big block. The kind of woman who names her car Betty and can recite engine specs like poetry.
The door clicks shut behind her, and I'm left standing there like an idiot, still holding my jacket that now smells like her.
I'm so fucked.