Chapter 77
Seventy-Seven
“What crawled up your ass?” Remy says as I drain used motor oil from the Mustang.
The Chevron closed a half-hour ago, and he’s keeping me company, if you can call it that, while I change the oil. I cast him a blank stare. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He narrows his blue eyes at me. “You’re being even more broody and closed off than normal.”
A sarcastic huff is my only answer.
“See?” He takes a hit off his cigarette and speaks through the exhale. “You need to get laid.”
“You think I require help in that area?”
“Actually, you can probably screw any broad you want. They like that broody shit for some reason.”
Canting my head to check the progress on the oil dump, I throw back, “Not so sure about that. And the ladies seem to love your lying, charming ass just fine.”
Remy grins. “That they do. But you’ve got the whole mysterious thing going on, and you’re so damn pretty on the outside too. Chicks lap it up…and yet, you hardly give them the time of day. So, what gives?”
I shrug, despite knowing the answer—and that I don’t want to talk about it. “You reading Psychology Today or something, man? Getting all Freudian on me?”
“Answer the question, dickhead.”
He’s like a dog with a bone. “Haven’t met anyone that interests me.”
“Then just dip your wick and let some of that pent-up anger or angst or whatever the fuck’s lodged in here loose.” He taps my chest.
I fling his fingers off. “Blow me.”
He grins wide and flexes one of his biceps. “It’s obvious you’ve always wanted a piece of this, but I’m straight.”
I roll my eyes.
“Heyyyyyy,” he says, drawing it out. “Karin has a friend who’s a real looker. Cora. You know the one I’m talking about? I could hook you up.”
Cora’s image flares in my mind as I work on replacing the filter, wiping the area down then screwing the new one on. Big hair, heavy makeup, not bad looking, but a little trashy. “Not interested,” I mutter.
“Fuck, man, why not? I’d hit that.”
“You’d screw anything that breathes, Remington.”
He cackles. “I have some standards.”
I cast him a doubtful stare before closing the drain plug. “You’re a dog.”
“Woof woof.” His eyebrows waggle over mirth-filled eyes.
“Look, I’m a little restless lately, that’s all. No need to worry about me, brother.” I funnel fresh oil into the engine.
“But I do worry about you. Always have.”
The sincerity of that statement lands uncomfortably in my chest, and my knee-jerk response is to shot put this conversation into the stratosphere. “Yeah. I’m good, though. I swear.”
“If you say so. Just…bang someone, why don’t you? It’d be nice to see you smile for a change.”
“Maybe I’ll meet the girl of my dreams tomorrow,” I say with utter sarcasm.
Remy grins again. “That would be fucking killer.”
I smirk, but don’t rain further on his little “cheer Mick up” parade.
“You done here?”
I nod and dislodge a cigarette from my pack, grabbing it with my lips.
“Good. Let’s smoke a joint and drink a few beers.”
“Don’t you need to meet Karin? Isn’t she making you dinner or some other domesticated bullshit?”
He brushes the air with his hand. “It can wait.”
I shake my head. For better or worse, this guy is my best buddy, a brother except in name—and the closest I’ve been to another person.
I know he cares about me, that’s why he’s giving me the business right now and hanging out.
Deep down, I appreciate it, even while hating the attention and getting viewed under his microscope. Remy means well.
I’m not sure there’s any way I can ever repay him for all he’s done for me, or the way he still looks out for me. Not that he’s keeping a tally, or score, or views it that way at all. He’s just being Remy. And at his core, he’s genuinely a good human. To me, at least.