6. Chapter 6
“Boy, come here,” Beau called two full hours after he’d gone back into his office.
Bossy.
Colt dropped the pen he’d been using to doodle a box car. The whole day had been one long string of phone calls and absolutely fuck-all otherwise. The mechanics came in to check customers in and out, but otherwise he was standing still alone behind the desk and slowly losing his whole mind.
When he stepped into Beau’s office, he leaned against the door. Beau took off his glasses and set them on one of the neat stacks of papers surrounding him.
“Can I help you, Mr. Moore?” Colt crossed his arms, his lips quirking. “Coffee? Tea? Biscotti?”
“You work at being such a smartass, or does it come to you naturally?” Beau’s voice was even, like it almost always seemed to be. What was behind all that calm?
“Natural born, Mr. Moore.” Colt patted his own head. “Like my hair.”
“Go to Joyce’s and tell her I sent you to help with the lunch rush.” Beau pulled himself out of the chair and rolled his leg like it was stiff. “She’ll have an order for you to bring back when you’re done. Probably gonna feed you, too, since you turned her down this morning.”
Colt’s stomach wrenched. Yeah, coffee and literally nothing else since midnight wasn’t doing him any favors. “Alright. What time do you want me back?”
“Whenever she lets you go.”
“Yessir, Mr. Moore, sir.” Colt tossed Beau a salute and turned to make his way back into the lobby, already unzipping his coveralls. He stripped out of them right there in the lobby before balling them up and shoving them under the front desk.
He blew Camila a kiss as he passed the shop window.
She rolled her eyes and gave him the finger, and he laughed on his way out the back door.
The alley behind the shop led to Joyce’s diner, which he knew from taking out her trash this morning.
His shoes dug into the gravel, and he stood by the shut back door to pull his cigarettes out of his pocket.
He tapped one out and stuck it between his lips before cupping his hand over it and lighting the end.
Smoke burned his throat and filled his lungs, and he sighed as he exhaled into the afternoon heat.
An alleycat darted past him, and when his eyes followed it he caught sight of the Camaro sitting on its stands in the back garage. The paint was deep, midnight blue. Beautiful car. Even better in the daylight, too, every inch of the body pristine. It was, what, a ‘72? ‘73?
Guilt clawed at his chest as his eyes drifted to the rolling workbench full of out-of-order parts.
They’d been all neatly lined up last night, Beau working with methodical attention.
Like meditation, maybe. And Colt had barged in and ruined that.
The crash as he’d walked away had probably been this table full of parts scattering across the floor.
Most of them were back on the bench at least, but he spotted a few shining under the toolbox and sitting against a stack of tires.
Maybe he hadn’t physically made the mess, but he was sure responsible for it, wasn’t he? He’d rolled around all damn night picturing the look on Beau’s face when Colt had mentioned his crash. Spat it out like he had any right to bring that up. God, he was an ass.
Colt looked back toward the back door once before tucking one of his hands in his pocket and making his way toward the diner.
Do better, Rourke.