7. Rhodes #2
Tallulah gets three steps in and stops dead. Her eyes drop off my face to the jack, the stands, the sockets thrown across the concrete, the old starter lying in a puddle of grime by my boot, and then back to me, grease black to the elbows and more of it dragged down my shirt.
"What are you doing, Rhodes?"
"Had the day free, figured I'd take a look at your truck." I drag a rag off the fender and wipe my hands. "Starter's a starter, same as a bike, mostly."
"So you just decided." Her chin comes up. "Of course. God forbid a Stone lets a problem sit five minutes when he could throw a wrench at it. Or money. Or whatever's handy."
The money part rubs me the wrong way. I drove to that parts store myself so I wouldn't do the exact thing she's standing there accusing me of, and I open my mouth to say so.
"This is Trey." She cuts me off before I can get it out, tipping her head at the guy. "He runs the engines on the reef boats. I talked to him about it on Friday. We’ve been planning on him coming out here today to look at it."
And the bottom goes out of it.
She had it handled. She made the call, set the time, waited on a working man's one free afternoon.
The Cruiser dead at my curb was never her letting it rot.
It was her plan sitting on a shelf until Trey, or whatever the fuck his name is, could get here.
She never mentioned it because there was nothing to mention.
It was her problem to solve, and none of my business.
Trey lifts a hand, easy about it, but he doesn't bother shaking my hand. Neither do I. “You get it tested? Is the battery holding?”
“The battery’s fine.” My voice comes out dry. “Lights are strong, but it won’t crank. I’m getting one click from the starter.”
His eyes drop toward the Cruiser. “You already put the new one in?”
“Almost.”
I don't know why that question irritates me as much as it does. It could be because I have spent the last hour under this thing and he has been standing here for thirty seconds. Maybe because he showed up at my house, apparently thinking he's the expert.
Either way, I am not handing him the job when I am two minutes from finishing it.
I drop back onto the creeper and roll beneath the Cruiser.
The last bolt is already started, so I get the ratchet on it and tighten it down, then reconnect the final wire.
Sweat has started collecting beneath my tank despite the cold pavement against my back, and grease is streaked halfway to my elbow by the time I shove myself out again.
I sit up and wipe my hands on the rag before looking at Tallulah.
“Go ahead and turn it over.”
Trey drops into the driver’s seat and turns the key.
The Cruiser catches on the first crank without a hitch, then settles into a steady idle, exactly the sound it is supposed to make.
On any other day, that would make me proud. I did a thing. Something dead brought back with my own two hands, no call made and no check written.
Instead, the satisfaction barely registers, because whatever point there was in doing this folded up the second Trey’s truck pulled in behind me.
“There it is.” Trey lets it run for a few seconds, listening, then gives a nod that irritates me more than it should. “Sounds good.”
“It is.”
He shuts it off, and I crouch to gather my tools.
The sockets have gone cold in the tray. I wipe each one against my thigh before dropping it into the case, then shove the old starter into a grocery bag. Once everything is clear, I jack the Cruiser up enough to pull the stands, then lower it slowly until the front tires meet the pavement again.
Tallulah stands a few feet away with her arms crossed. She has been quiet since I slid back under the car, which is strange enough that I finally look over at her.
“So it works now,” she says.
“It works now.”
She presses her lips together for a second. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I mean it. I just wish you’d asked me first.”
“I saw something that needed fixing. I had the time, so I fixed it.”
“That is exactly what I’m talking about.”
I straighten with the jack handle in my hand, flip the flannel shirt over my shoulder, and meet her eyes. “Your starter was dead, Tallulah. I wasn’t reorganizing your life.”
“No, you were just handling something for me because you decided it needed to be handled.”
“I was helping.”
“I know.” Her shoulders drop a fraction. “That doesn’t mean I need everybody doing things for me before I get a chance to do them myself.”
There is nothing I can say to that without turning a dead starter into something bigger than it is, so I fold the stands and pick them up.
“Car’s fixed.”
Her mouth tightens. “Yep.”
I head toward the garage with the stands in one hand and the bag of tools in the other. Behind me, Trey says something too low for me to catch.
Then Tallulah’s voice carries across the driveway.
“You still hungry? I owe you lunch, at least, for taking the time to come all the way over here.”
My hand stills on the tool bag before I get it moving again.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Trey says.
“I’d like to.”
A socket rattles loose somewhere in the case. I stop inside the garage and set the bag down to fix it, although I could swear I latched the damn thing.
By the time I straighten, Tallulah is walking past the Cruiser I spent the better part of the morning underneath. She opens the passenger door of Trey’s puny-ass truck and climbs in.
She spreads her legs to get in. I’m drawn to the way her hip creases, her long thigh, and the strip of her back where the shirt lifts.
I have to catch my breath.
I stand inside the garage with grease ground black into every crease of my hands while his truck backs away from the curb.
He drove over here, did absolutely nothing, and somehow he is the one getting lunch. I got a thank-you and a lecture.
Apparently, being a good guy is a hell of a lot more satisfying when nobody else shows up to take credit for it.