02
“Thanks again, Janet. Seriously, I don't know what I would’ve done without you.”
“You definitely wouldn't be driving to work tomorrow, that's for damn sure.” The mechanic’s voice came muffled from under the hood. She was leaning deep over the engine bay, wrenching on something in Brandon’s beat-up Ford.
The car had been leaking fluids for months—nothing new there—but whatever was dripping had gotten aggressively worse on his drive home from work.
He’d noticed it pulling out of the club lot, and after wrestling with the sputtering ignition, he finally swallowed his pride and admitted he needed Janet's help.
“It was one of the hoses. At least for the leak.” She straightened up, rounding the Ford toward the rear. “Now I’m checking the fuel pump. That's probably what's killing your ignition. Well, mostly that. Jesus, Brandon. Either buy a new car or scrape together enough cash to actually fix this one.”
Her scolding glare, paired with her compact frame and short-cropped hair, made her look straight out of an anime as the quintessential tomboy. Naturally, Brandon doubted she even knew the word, let alone watched anime, but the visual triggered an entire reel of tropes in his head.
Brandon had never dared ask her age—he was terrified of setting her off.
She was perpetually prickly, scolding him with the bossy energy of an older sister.
Still, he figured she couldn't be that much older than him; definitely in her thirties, but not pushing forty yet. Janet’s toned, grease-smudged arm brandishing a wrench at his face while lecturing him on basic vehicle maintenance was all the deterrent his curiosity needed.
“I’m trying. Maybe with this new gig, I can finally afford it,” he said once she wound down her lecture.
“Good for you. But I’m not running a charity here forever, you know that.”
Janet talked tough, but she’d never once left him stranded. It had taken him a while to get used to her sharp edges, though that didn't make her any less intimidating.
“Two years! Honestly, I should be impressed the damn thing even tries to turn over for you.”
“It only runs because of you. You get all the credit.”
“Damn right! At least you know it.” A smirk cracked through her gruff facade, and her voice softened. Her tense shoulders dropped, allowing Brandon to unclench the fingers he hadn't realized he'd balled up in sheer nervous reflex.
Janet dropped to the floor and slid beneath the chassis. Her grease-stained jeans, frayed at both knees, practically vanished under the frame until only the scuffed steel toes of her work boots stuck out.
She’s so tiny—must be why she’s always so pissed, Brandon thought. All that attitude packed into such a small frame.
They spent nearly forty minutes like that.
Janet would bark an observation, and Brandon would soothe her temper without daring to rush her work.
No dumb questions, just letting her set the pace.
Down deep, he really liked Janet, and he suspected she tolerated him far better than the rest of her clientele.
Not trying to puff out his chest and challenge her was probably why.
Brandon had watched other guys—mostly older blowhards—question her know-how as a mechanic.
That was a spectacle you didn't forget, especially when a tire iron went sailing past a customer’s head to bounce across the street.
She rolled out from under the car, dusted herself off, and wiped her grime-caked hands on a rag pulled from her back pocket.
“That should hold until...” Janet sighed, eyeing the beater with open disgust. “Until you drag it back here again. I didn't replace the pump, just rigged it the best I could. It's gonna die soon, so don't come crying to me. Consider yourself warned: you need to replace it.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
For a second, Janet narrowed her eyes at him, trying to gauge if he was being a smartass or genuinely respectful. She seemed to settle on the latter.
“Come on, get it out of the bay. I need to lock up.”
“Seriously, thank you so much. Sorry for keeping you late.”
Brandon slipped out his wallet—painfully lighter than he would’ve liked—and fished through the meager bills left inside. “How much do I owe you?”
Janet let out another sigh. “Whatever... give me fifty.”
“Are you serious?” Brandon thumbed through the bills, his chest constricting when he realized he only had two twenties. Janet was already doing him a massive favor, cutting her rate way below what she’d charge anyone else, and he still didn't have enough to cover it.
It didn't seem to faze her. She just scratched the back of her neck and shrugged.
“Pay me the rest when we replace the pump.” She jabbed a finger at him, though her expression was noticeably gentler than before.
Janet plucked just one of the twenties straight from Brandon's wallet and arched a brow. “If anyone comes around here asking for discounts, I'll know you ran your mouth, and you can kiss my charity goodbye.”
“Of course not. Wouldn't dream of it. Seriously, thank you, you have no idea how much—”
“Move it already,” she cut him off.
Brandon smiled and backed the Ford out of her bay.
Afterward, he helped her drag down the metal rolling shutter, locking up the shop.
He thanked her one last time, climbed into the driver's seat, and headed home. At least he hadn't burned through his absolute last dollar. The second his first paycheck cleared, he’d have to bring Janet something nice to show his appreciation. She’d bailed him out more times than he cared to admit.
It took Brandon all of three days to confirm his theory: the more money people had, the further detached from reality they became, drifting through a bubble of blissful ignorance and quiet condescension toward the staff busting their asses to keep the fantasy afloat.
By the third or fourth complaint that "the lemon water is way too cold" or "these towels aren't truly crisp white," he caught himself rolling his eyes and had to actively check his attitude before a member caught him doing it.
Biting his tongue and playing the eager-to-please attendant was mentally exhausting.
Still, he’d worked worse jobs, and they’d certainly paid less.
So Brandon obeyed, pitching his voice into the most accommodating, subservient tone he could muster, hustling through his shift to cater to the members' every whim.
If he had a more confrontational bone in his body, he probably wouldn't have lasted the week.
“Keeping busy?”
Brandon stepped into the spa corridor. He wasn't even scheduled here today, but he’d quickly learned his shifts were going to consist of being shuttled back and forth across the entire club to fetch things for the guests.
Once an errand was done, he was expected to return to his assigned post. Today, that meant patrolling the tennis courts.
“Oh! Brandon. Just the usual. God, you startled me,” Monica gasped, jumping slightly as he approached from behind.
“I need to book a massage for Mrs. Sally.”
“Oh, sure. Did she specify a time?”
“Late afternoon. Said she's waiting on some friends to arrive.”
Monica pulled the yoga studio door shut after finishing her tidy-up. She turned to face Brandon, pushing up her glasses where they had slipped to the bridge of her nose. A rosy blush dusted her cheeks, radiant with bashful self-consciousness.
“Got it. Let me check which therapist is open then.”
“Much appreciated.”
Brandon turned to leave, but heard Monica stammer the start of a sentence. He glanced back, watching the flush deepen across her face. I thought I was shy. But her? he thought.
“I really hate to impose... but...” Monica adjusted her glasses again, even though they hadn't budged. “Could you do me a favor?”
“Of course.” Brandon offered an easy, encouraging smile. “Happy to help.”
“Thank you so much. I just... well, I'm flying solo today, and I can't leave the spa unattended.”
“Makes total sense. What do you need?”
Monica parted her lips to answer, but held up an index finger asking for a second before jogging toward one of the back offices.
It was an endearing sight. She was nearly his height, slender-framed but remarkably busty.
Watching her trot off with that adorably awkward, bouncing gait was as charming as it was comical.
Brandon chuckled softly as she scurried back, clutching a stapled stack of papers.
“I need these delivered to Laura as soon as possible. It's the spa inventory and purchase order for restocks. If I drag my feet any longer, she’s going to bite my head off.”
Brandon took the paperwork. He could easily run an errand; anything beat plastering on fake smiles for pretentious members.
“Consider it done.”
Monica offered a bashful smile, clasping her hands behind her back.
“Thank you...”
Brandon headed down the flagstone path toward the front reception and administrative offices. Glancing back, he caught Monica still watching him with that signature sheepish look. A thought crossed his mind: Does she get this flustered around everyone, all blush and shy smiles?
Maybe he was reading too much into it. But going straight from Monica’s shy, blushing gaze into the wicked, searching stare of someone else created a contrast that made Brandon suspect there was far more going on than casual curiosity.
When he reached Laura's office, she was deep in conversation with another woman.
A club member, clearly, judging by her designer casual wear.
She was a stunning young blonde, dripping in gold jewelry that screamed old money, with a lush, hourglass figure that would make high-fashion models weep with envy.
Is it just me, or is there an insane concentration of gorgeous women here? Or am I only noticing because I've been single for so long? Maybe...
“Yes?” Laura snapped him out of his reverie.
“Oh. Good morning, ma'am. Monica asked me to drop these off.”
Laura stepped toward him, wearing the same tailored pantsuit cut as on his first day, only in a different shade. It seriously gives her that hot-teacher vibe, he thought. Jesus, man. Get a grip.
She took the papers from his hands and skimmed the top page, looking satisfied.
“Thank you. Will that be all?”
“Yes, ma'am.” Why the hell am I talking like that? Sure, she’s my boss, but this isn't the military.
Brandon turned on his heel to leave and caught the blonde lounging on the other side of the room. She was biting her bottom lip, drinking him in with sharp, predatory curiosity. By the time he caught on, he was already striding down the hall, fighting every instinct to stop and look back.
You're imagining things, he told himself. A woman like that wouldn't give a guy like you the time of day...