by Piper Rayne
“We’re here to see the Shelby?” the skinny guy says, phrasing it as a question. “The Mustang.”
“You the one who called?” I snap. I’m being as off-putting as I can be without outright sending them packing.
The guy nods, but doesn’t speak.
I turn to the black-haired guy. “And you’re here as what, his babysitter?”
I’m not usually this caustic to customers, no matter how much they annoy me. I might’ve been, once upon a time, but I’ve grown up since then. Clearly, seeing Mia again, and her flirting with me, and showing me she hasn’t changed one bit, despite her smart clothes, fancy way of speaking and the lines around her eyes.
“My Mustang’s been acting up,” the guy says. “I was hoping you could take a look at it. I’ve been told you’re the guy to come to on the West Coast. That you’re the best. I sure wish I bought it from you in the first place. The guy who sold it to me ripped me off.”
His tone is grating, bordering on sleazy. What’s with these people thinking they’ll soften me up with sweet words and cash. I’m about to send them both packing in no uncertain terms, when I hear the screen door of the office slam shut behind me.
“You want me to take over?” Diesel asks. He’s just in time to prevent me from going down a road of no return, as always. Usually he just has to look at my face to know what I’m about to say or do. It’s the same for me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Show him the Shelby and I’ll look at this car.”
Diesel motions for the smaller man to follow him.
“And I’m not painting over it,” I call after them. “That’s out of the question.”
Diesel gives me a small wave, indicating he understood without turning around.
“Now tell me what the problem is with your car,” I say to the black-haired guy.
He gives me a wide, much too toothy grin and extends his hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot for some reason. The name’s Lester Miles.”
His teeth are so unnaturally bright they gleam in the sun, and the smell of his cologne almost makes me gag now that he’s so close. and now that I know who he is—the guy who’s been turning my hometown into a getaway for big city burnouts—he’s even more repulsive.
“Axle,” I say and shake his hand regardless.
“And I assure you I’ve done nothing to harm that lady friend of yours,” he adds.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you did or didn’t do,” I say pointedly. “But you’re here about the car.”
“Yes, right,” he says and proceeds to explain to me what’s bothering him using language and words I don’t really understand. It’s always the same with all these yuppies who think they can handle muscle cars. They can’t fucking handle Kias and Mazdas, let alone those fancy German cars so many of them insist on driving. Whatever. Not my problem.
If there’s something wrong with his Mustang I’ll fix it as a matter of principle and pride. That’s my calling in this world, such as it is, and my one true talent.
In the end, I interrupt and tell him it’d be better if he just showed me what the problem is. It entails taking a ride, since his problem seems to only show up at high speeds.
It’s a ride I’d much rather take alone, especially after I realize the smell of his annoying cologne or perfume or whatever he’s wearing is absolutely overpowering inside the car. What the fuck did he do? Douse the leather seats with it?
I keep the ride as short as I can, which was mostly achieved by driving as fast as I could. By the time we pull back into the garage lot, he’s as pale as a sheet and trembling slightly. Like I already knew. This guy cannot handle a muscle car.
“Seems to me the guy who sold you this car really did do a number on you,” I say as I exit the car. “The engine he put in was either faulty somehow or not the right type.”
“So what am I looking at?” he asks. “A rebuild?”
Wow, he knows a word.
“Replacement,” I say. “It’s not gonna come cheap and it could take me some time to find a good fit.”
He opens his mouth and closes it again, clearly not knowing what to say.
I shrug. “Or you can keep it as is. It runs fine, it’s just not all it could be.”
Back in the day, my pride and principles would not let me say that. I’d insist he fix up this car and make it what it’s supposed to be. I’d possibly even do it for cheap, not charging for work, only the parts, just so the problem was set right. But now I just want him gone.
It’s shocking to realize that. And it’s probably just another sign that I’m ready for something new.
“Well, can you give me an estimate?” he finally asks.
I nod. “Sure, but you’ll have to leave it here so I can go over it and see exactly what I’m dealing with.”
“Today?”
“Or whenever,” I respond.
Diesel and the skinny dude are walking back towards us.
“No go?” I ask once they’re within ear shot.
“He’s very set on the red and white stripes,” Diesel says. “And that it has to be a Shelby.”
“Guess it’s not gonna happen then,” I say not ever trying to not sound happy about the outcome.
“I could bring mine in on Monday morning,” Miles says. “Would that work for you?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “I’ll be here.”
They get into the car, the man with the glasses looking everywhere but at me. I watch the Lester guy maneuver the Mustang like it’s his granny’s station wagon hoping I’ll never see him again. At least not before Mia tells me what he did to deserve her hate. It’s always been very important for me to know what was bothering her, and I’m finding that’s another thing that hasn’t changed much in the last twenty years. I don’t know if taking her out tonight is a good idea at all.
10
Mia
My mom and I spent the whole day packing up her salon. Everything is in boxes now, which are stacked neatly in the three rows, two high, along the central space. Mom cried when she saw the empty shelves and tables, but she hid it from me. I didn’t say anything, not wanting to intrude on her right to grieve in private.
I actually packed up most of the boxes. Even today, she was unable to fill any of them all the way, let alone seal them shut. My philosophy has always been that it’s better to rip off the band aid quickly, she is more of the soaking it off type.
“Look what I found wedged in this drawer. I got this when you were little,” she says. “Do you remember it?”
She’s holding it up for me to look at. It’s a metal, fine-toothed comb, the handle shaped like a seahorse.
“I do remember it,” I say, my eyes watering. “You always used it to cut my hair until I was like 10.”
“Take it,” she says, pushing it into my hand. “As a souvenir.”
Her voice cracked, and a tear rolled down her cheek, tinted black with mascara. I take the comb and pull her into a hug.
“It’s going to be OK, Mom,” I say. “Everything will work out for the best, you’ll see.”
I don’t even know why I’m promising her that. It sounds empty, but I love her and I want her to feel better.
She hugs me very tightly, then releases me and smiles widely, even though her eyes are still filled with tears.
“Of course it is,” she says. “And we should go now. You have to get ready for your date.”
A nervous pang twists my stomach at her words—not painful, but not entirely pleasant either.
“I think it’s best I cancel,” I say. “We can stay in, order some dinner, watch a movie or something. I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”
She smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Nonsense. You should go have dinner with Axle. You two haven’t seen each other in ages and I’ll be very poor company tonight. All I want to do is sit on the back porch and watch the stars tonight. Maybe have a glass of wine or three.”
She chuckles, but it’s not a happy sound.
“Then I’ll keep you company on the back porch,” I say. “I don’t think me and Axle have much to talk about. I don’t think it’s a good idea we even try.”
I’ve been thinking about this all day. What good will come of us rekindling our friendship now, after all these years of having no contact? My mom’s moving away from here, soon nothing will tie me to this place. And, as I knew he would be, he is even more entrenched in this town now than he was when we broke up. Even if the sparks between us reignite, we’ll just be right where we were all those years ago. And what’s the point of going through all that heartache again?
My mom cups my cheeks. “Honey, I’ve watched you live your life alone in the big city and I’ve watched him live his life alone here, and I often wondered what the point of it was. Maybe it’s time to see if a second chance is possible.”
“Whoa, Mom. Where’s this coming from?” I say and chuckle. “It’s just dinner. Not a meeting to discuss us getting back together.”
“All I’m trying to say is that working or running a successful business isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she says. “It’s not enough. I mean, look how quickly it all turns to dust and nothing.”
Her voice cracks again, but no tears spill this time.
“Part of the reason I’m leaving it all behind is because I think I still have some time to find what’s truly important in life. Love, family, those are the things that’ll keep you warm at night in the end. Not a business. Not work.”
Her voice is strong, tinged with anger, but there’s no denying the truth of it. I’d be a liar, if I said I didn’t worry about staying single for the rest of my life. My biological clock is ticking very loudly. I’m almost 40 years old. In a decade, maybe less, my ability to have children will be gone. But I vowed I would rather have a child on my own than stay in a relationship that isn’t working. And lately, I’m not even sure I want children at all. I’m happy with my life.
“I’m happy with my life the way it is, Mom,” I tell her. “And don’t think I haven’t thought about what you’re saying either. But me and Axle, we’re just too far apart in what we want out of life. Always were.”
“All right, all right, I hear you. I’ll stop giving you unsolicited advice,” she says and smiles. “Lord knows, I’m no expert on love or relationships.”
She dated only sporadically while I was growing up, and after I moved away she devoted herself to her salon and her gardening. I always thought it was because she was still in love with my dad, but maybe we’re just built different, my mom and I. Maybe we’re built to be alone.
She wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Come on, let’s go home and get you ready. I need a glass of wine and you need to go do something fun after enduring my sour mood all day.”
I let her lead me to the door. “It’s my pleasure helping you with this, Mom. And there was a lot less sour mood than I expected.”
I grin at her and she gives me a light slap on the shoulder.
“I’ve been sparing you,” she says jokingly. “But now I need to wallow in my own misery, so don’t you be coming home from your date early, you hear?”
I roll my eyes at her and grin at her lewdness. I’d be a liar if I didn’t imagine tonight’s date with Axle not ending before tomorrow morning. So I won’t even pretend to be offended at her suggestion.
11
Axle
I changed my pants twice and my shirt three times before finally settling on a plain black button-down shirt and a pair of dark jeans, the outfit I’d originally put on. I also cut myself shaving three times, something that hasn’t happened in years. Though to be fair, I’ve also not shaved this closely in years. Who the fuck cares what the mechanic looks like? Right?
I’d also debated whether to roll up on my chopper or pick her up in a car. While I love working on and restoring old cars, I do love riding my bike too. Perhaps more. But I figured asking Mia to get on the back of my bike was too close too fast. For both of us.
Next, I had a hard time deciding which car to actually take. I still have the old truck with the bucket seats that we went on most of our dates in. I got my first kiss from her in that car. But she remembers that as well as I do and it’d be a statement.
In the end, I said fuck it, got in my pickup and only after I was halfway to picking her up remembered I took her virginity in the back of a pickup that looked a lot like this one. And she mine. But by then I was done overthinking any of it.
So, rolling up to Mia’s mom’s house, I was feeling all sorts of stupid and way more nervous than I should. My palms and my brow were sweaty, my heart thumping right up until the point she walked out through the front door at precisely seven thirty, the screen door slamming behind her, her heels tapping against the cobbled driveway echoing in the silent fragrant night.
She’s wearing a pair of dark blue skinny jeans, a shiny black shirt tucked into them and a black stilettos that make her shapely legs look a mile high. The only pop of color is her hair, pulled back into a high, perfectly curled ponytail. It gleams red like sunset over the desert in the streetlamp.
By the time she walks up to the car, none of my nervousness is left. Or any of my doubts. This is precisely where I am meant to be.
“Good evening,” she grins at me through the open passenger side window. For some reason we had begun greeting each other formally early in the beginning of our relationship. It was a gag, and I don’t remember the precise origin of it, but it stuck. And I’m happy to be reminded.
“Good evening,” I greet her back, grinning too.
She opens the door and climbs in.
“We dressed the same,” she remarks whimsically after giving me a very thoughtful once over.
I notice she’s right. “Yeah, but you wear it better.”
She smiles and fastens her seat belt. “So, where are you taking me? Somewhere cool, I hope.”
“You’ll see,” I say and start the engine and drive.
I’m taking her to Black Stallion Bar and Grill up on the hill overlooking Pleasantville. Though I’d much prefer to be taking her back to my place for a nice relaxed dinner and everything that comes after, which is still the stuff of my dreams.
12
Mia
The ride was pleasant, with soft music playing on the radio, scents of the redwood forest coming in through the window and his solid presence next to me, filling the car, reminding me just how safe and complete I always felt with him.
We started dating when we were fifteen years old. We were babies then, and babies when we broke up seven years later. But the bond we forged then is still there. Still iron strong. Still as confusing as it was always comfortable.
Night has fallen completely by the time we reach our destination—a large, wooden hacienda type building on the side of a hill. A stallion outlined in white fluorescent tube lights flashes over the front door, and the parking lot is full of cars of all sorts and more than a few bikes. I wished he’d pick me up on his bike, then didn’t and now I do again.
Muffled music and the scent of roasting meat accompany us as we walk to the door. When we reach it, he guides me to walk in before him by placing his large, strong hand on the small of my back. I missed this. For all my conviction that I’m just fine on my own, I missed a man in my life. And not just any man. A man who saw me for who I am, exactly as I am. Who cherished me without trying to change me or mold me to be his perfect accessory. If I’m being honest, I missed him. Because he was all those things and more. But I won’t let that thought linger, I can’t. We had no real future then and we don’t now. In a little over a week, I have to be back in San Francisco to give my opening statement on what is the most important case of my career so far.
And he? He’s already given his life to that outlaw biker club he joined at twenty-one years old.
Maybe in another twenty years I’ll look him up again and we can spend our retirement together. I’m sure the spark will still be glowing as strong as ever then.
&nbs
p; But that’s no reason not to enjoy myself now.
A perky young waitress in a very short skirt and very tight shirt leads us to our table, her softly curled, blonde hair bouncing. To Axle’s credit, he doesn’t even seem to notice her swaying ass.
“Here’s your menus,” the waitress says. “And what can I get you to drink?”
He gets a beer and so do I, without even thinking about it. Normally, I’d get a cocktail or a glass of wine, but with Axle, I never had to pretend I’m not exactly who I am. And I don’t plan on starting now.
“So, I figured your feelings towards meat hadn’t changed, but they make a mean set of ribs here and they’re home fries are excellent,” he says.
“Aww, you remembered,” I say, actually more than a little impressed. He shrugs, but looks more than a little pleased with himself. The last guy I was with, for almost three years no less, couldn’t remember that I detest soft-boiled eggs, let alone much of anything else about me. And this man, who I broke up with almost twenty years ago, still remembers that while meat is not my favorite, I do love ribs.
“Yes, ribs and fries it’ll be,” I say and close my menu. “I’m actually starving. Me and my mom spent the whole day packing up her salon and neither of us felt much like eating.”
He nods and closes his own menu. “Yeah, what’s the story with that. I ran into her a couple of months ago and she said they were tearing down the old mall and she might be relocating.”
“She said that to you?” I ask, genuinely surprised. “She’s told me from the start that she’s not starting over anywhere else, no way, no how.”
“So what’s the whole story?” he asks.
And I proceed to tell him everything without even stopping to consider whether I should. All about how a year ago, the strip mall was purchased by a hotshot developer who was hellbent on tearing the whole place down and replacing it with a fancy condominium, or some such. The problem was, most of the businesses in the mall owned their storefronts outright, my mom included. She’d purchased it years ago, long before the rents and prices around here skyrocketed. Despite this, the guy was offering a pittance to buy her out, well below the market value and well below a sum that would allow my mom to relocate comfortably. It’s much too little to purchase a new space in town, and only enough for about a year, two at most, of renting a place.
