by Lisa Plumley
The top half—formerly an apartment for the family’s driver—became his living space, stripped down to its basics and filled with a few pieces of furniture he’d salvaged from the main house. The bottom half—formerly parking for the family’s long-gone buggies and Buicks—became a garage, outfitted with as many tools and as much mechanical and diagnostic equipment as he’d been able to shoehorn in…and afford.
Some of the items were castoffs liberated from Donovan & Sons’ tax-deductible donations pile, like the drill press and the hydraulic motorcycle lift. Others were contributions from friends, like the gas welder. Some of the tools he’d owned for years; a few were straightforward junkyard refugees. Luke didn’t care. The important thing was that the whole setup belonged to him. It was the key to his future.
“Ha! Your dad would freak out if he could see you now.”
At the sound of that familiar voice, Luke glanced up. Just as he’d expected, his buddy TJ Hardison stood at the bottom of the carriage house stairs. His gelled-up hair looked as though it had seen the wrong side of a blender. His eyebrow ring glinted in the light shining through the open carriage house doors. His Spiderman logo T-shirt was about as mature as the wiseass grin on his face.
He shook his head. “How the mighty have fallen.”
“Bite me, Hardison,” Luke said cheerfully. “The only thing that’s ‘fallen’ around here is your IQ.”
“Ouch.” Chuckling, TJ meandered past a pair of half-rebuilt Indian Scouts and a prime ‘77 Harley-Davidson XLCR. He gave both motorcycles admiring looks. “You, my friend, are a grumpy asshole in the morning.”
“Beats being a dickhead all day.”
They both grinned. With their usual greeting out of the way, Luke squinted at the front shock he’d been disassembling. It belonged to a BMW cycle TJ had delivered last night. He’d towed it here from L.A. on the brand-new trailer hitched to the back of his brand-new pickup. Luke should have been expecting him, but he’d been otherwise occupied.
That was probably obvious, given the way he’d bolted out of the main house to meet TJ last night. He hadn’t wanted his handyman cover blown. But aside from a curious glance at the lights on in the mansion, TJ hadn’t asked for details, and Luke hadn’t volunteered any.
That was what women didn’t understand, Luke thought as he jimmied the bottom of the shock casing and removed it. Well, that and the crucial importance of NBA playoffs. Not everything needed to be talked to death. Take TJ. He stood munching a corn dog he must have found upstairs, occasionally dipping it in the gallon jar of mustard he’d football-carried in with him. But did Luke ask him why? Hell, no. He didn’t care.
Blinking against the tang of mustard filling his nostrils, Luke examined the shock. He nodded toward the tool bench. “Hand me that 9mm wrench. Whoever owns this bike beat it all to hell and back again.”
“I know,” TJ mumbled around a mouthful. “It belongs to one of those motorcycle club weenies in the corporate office. More money than smarts. He’s practically wrecked the thing—that’s why I brought it to you. I know you like a challenge.” Using the corn dog as a pointer, he indicated the BMW cycle. “If you can’t fix that bike, nobody can.”
“Enough with the pep talk, Lombardi. Hand over the—” Luke stopped, suddenly realizing what TJ had said. He gave him a sharp look. “You told him you were bringing it to me?”
“What do you think I am, stupid?”
“We’ve already covered that.”
TJ flipped him the finger.
“Fine.” Luke held out his oil-smeared palm. “Wrench?”
“Get it yourself.” TJ swabbed at a mustard drip on Spidey’s screen-printed leg. He gave up with a shrug. “I’m not your freaking assistant.”
“I know. You’re my dad’s freaking assistant.”
“Freaking spy,” TJ specified, his wiseass grin in place again. “I’m Daddy Donovan’s eyes and ears, reporting in on his former pride and joy. Remember?”
“I remember.” Luke frowned. He didn’t want to think about what TJ was supposed to be doing here in Donovan’s Corner—keeping tabs on Luke, then reporting everything he discovered back to Robert Donovan. “But I don’t think you do. The wrench is that long silver thing over there. See?”
Helpfully, he pointed.
“All right, you damned nag. Being around you is like having a wife or something.”
TJ stuck his corn dog in the mustard like a candle on a birthday cake, then slouched to the tool bench. He wiped his hands on his baggy jeans—every inch the trained mechanic who’d learned not to sully the tools. He retrieved the wrench.
“Thanks.”
TJ plucked out his corn dog, saluted with it, then went on munching.
Luke raised his eyebrows.
“I know. I should’ve brought you one,” TJ said, waggling the dog. “But I didn’t think you’d eat it.”
Luke waited, knowing there was more to come. He hadn’t spent the past five or six years around TJ without figuring out a few things about him.
He didn’t disappoint.
“Dude, you’re slipping.” TJ shook his head sorrowfully. “I saw a box of Wheaties in your kitchen. Wheaties!”
“Hey. It’s the breakfast of champions.”
“It’s the breakfast of kids. Or old geezers with their pants pulled up to their armpits. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft out here in the country.”
“I’m about as soft as this casing.” Luke thumped on the solid metal shock, preparing to pry off the top piece so he could test the hydraulic unit. “Besides, what are you, the bachelor police?”
“If I was, you’d be so busted.”
“Like hell, I would. I’ve got a sink full of dirty dishes and my socks don’t match. I think.” He frowned, considering it. “Who knows? Anyway, I’ve got a gallon of ketchup to go with that mustard. So you can just back off.”
TJ nodded. “Excellent.”
They were back on even footing. All bachelors understood Luke’s theory of grocery shopping. If a little was good, a lot was better. Buying massive quantities of everything ensured you only had to schlep a shopping cart once every few months. Hence, two gallons of condiments and a fridge full of economy size corn dogs. He’d grabbed both on a search-and-destroy mission through the warehouse zone of the local Shop ‘N Save.
“You’ve got to watch yourself, though.” TJ peered at the half-built carburetor on the nearby worktable, then at the rejiggered set of Earles forks by the window. “You get to liking it out here, you’ll never come back to L.A.”
Luke shook his head. “This is strictly temporary. Once I’ve sold Blue Moon and converted this place into cash, all this stuff is moving into a real shop.” He scanned the carriage house, seeing past its hundred-year-old makeshift space to the modern mechanic’s shop he planned to buy when he left Donovan’s Corner. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Yeah? You’re that close?” Looking interested, TJ chomped the last bite of his corn dog. He started in on the spare he’d tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, first dipping it in the tub o’ mustard. “Is that why you were working inside the house last night? Getting it ready to show to buyers?”
The last thing Luke wanted to do was discuss what he’d been doing last night. He grimaced, twisting the shock cover. “This is stuck. I’m going to need the blowtorch to heat it up.”
“Come on,” TJ prompted, not buying it for an instant. “You looked like something was going on.”
With a sigh, Luke glanced up. He’d dodged this conversation last night, thanks to a few beers and the Suns game he and TJ had watched on TV after unloading the bike. He wouldn’t be so lucky twice.
“You reporting this to my father?”
“Hell, no. He’s still chewing on that piece of info I gave him last time.” TJ grinned.
“What, that I’m spending all my time building a tree house out of empty Budweiser bottles?”
TJ chuckled, obviously pleased. “Yeah. That was a good one. I made you a drunk and
a loony, both at the same time.”
“Right. Really good.” Luke rolled his eyes, then got to his feet. Giving up on the BMW’s shock for now, he grabbed a rag to wipe his hands with. “You’re very efficient.”
Given the outlandish stories TJ had been reporting, Luke almost felt sorry for his dad. Thanks to TJ’s flair for the dramatic, he’d been suckered into buying into some pretty bizarre things. But Robert Donovan had always been prepared to believe the worst about Luke. A long line of former headmasters, college deans, and European friends of the family had proven that.
He remembered why his father thought it was necessary to send TJ to spy on him in the first place, and all warmhearted feelings evaporated.
“Hell, yeah, I’m efficient,” TJ agreed, not noticing Luke’s frown. “Efficient enough to snag myself a new truck and a new trailer to go with it. I’ve gotta say, the bribes are a nice perk of the corporate family spy business. Who knew?”
Cheerfully unbothered that he was both pretending to be spying and lying about what he’d learned to the man who’d hired him to do so, TJ put down his mustard. He wiped his mouth with the hem of his Spidey shirt, then glanced outside.
“I dunno. I’d be tempted to keep this place,” he said. “It’s not bad. Sort of like the Playboy Mansion, only without the bunnies. You could fix it up and keep it for weekends.”
“I can’t. It’s either this or my mechanic’s shop.”
Luke wanted that mechanic’s shop. Aside from disappointing his family, fixing things was his major talent. At the age of four, he’d recalibrated his Big Wheel for more torque. At fourteen, he’d spent shop class building his first street racer. He loved taking apart an engine and rebuilding it again. When he was fixing something, he could forget everything else.
“Dude, the last time I checked, your family owned one of the biggest freight trucking empires in the country,” TJ pointed out. “Not to mention a whole bunch of other stuff. I hate to break it to you, but you’re practically a freaking tycoon. You’re rich. Wealthy. Loaded. Well-to-do. Rolling in dough.”
“Not anymore.”
TJ scoffed. “That’s only temporary. You go to your dad, you apologize, everything’s cool again.”
“No. Screw that.” Luke crossed his arms, glancing down at the tattoos that set him apart from his father’s upper-crust, cocktails-and-country-club life. He’d never been able to satisfy Robert Donovan. He was finished trying. This might be the latest in a long line of standoffs, but this one had an important difference. It was permanent.
“Whatever. It’s your stupid inheritance that’s on the line, not mine.” TJ sat on a ‘76 Yamaha TT500 flat tracker. He pretended to steer, making revving sounds like the oversize kid he was. “The longer you hold out in this feud, the longer my payola lasts.”
“Glad I can keep your cash cow mooing.”
“Hey. You’re just lucky I’m an honest spy.”
Luke had to admit TJ was right. He’d met TJ during one of his corporate stints at Donovan & Sons, and they’d hit it off right away. When TJ had first come to visit him after Luke’s exile to Blue Moon, Luke hadn’t suspected a thing…until TJ had explained that his father had asked him to check up on his wayward son and report back. Nothing like a little corporate espionage—with a family feud twist.
“You suck as a spy,” Luke had told TJ then, hardly able to believe the lengths his father would go to keep tabs on him. “You’re not supposed to tell me what you’re up to.”
But TJ had laughed off the idea. “Why not? It’s more fun this way. I’m a freakin’ double agent. Besides, it serves your dad right for checking up on you at all.”
Luke couldn’t help but agree. Especially with his father’s last words ringing in his ears.
If you want to live like a blue-collar grease monkey, you go right ahead. But don’t expect me to respect you for it.
It sounded harsh. It sure as hell had felt that way. But Luke should have expected it. After all, Robert Donovan wasn’t the kind of man who allowed his wishes to be ignored—and that was exactly what Luke had done.
He’d been stuck in the corporate offices of Donovan & Sons, fielding mounds of paperwork in an attempt to fulfill the optimistic “& Sons” portion of the company letterhead. He’d been trying to turn his attention from carburetors to spreadsheets, from disassembling big rigs to managing the men who drove them. But it was no use. Luke didn’t want to be upstairs having some candy-ass meeting with the rest of the company vice presidents. He wanted to be downstairs taking apart diesel engines with the company mechanics.
That afternoon, Robert Donovan had discovered his only son in the shop—suit jacket and tie thrown to the side, both hands full of engine parts, rolled-up shirtsleeves blackened with motor oil. He threatened to disinherit Luke on the spot if he didn’t quit tinkering with the freight company’s trucks and start managing the freight company’s paperwork.
Luke had refused.
Apparently, given Luke’s past, that had been the last straw. To everyone’s surprise but Luke’s, his father made good on his threat. Overnight, Luke found himself stripped of his trust fund, his various residences, his cars, and most of his resources. All he’d had left was Blue Moon—an estate his father couldn’t touch because Luke’s grandfather had bequeathed it to him directly.
Luke figured that part pissed off his father to no end. He didn’t know for sure. They hadn’t spoken since that day.
To hear TJ tell it, Luke’s dad had gotten softhearted afterward. He’d felt sorry for the way he’d treated his only son, and had sent TJ to make sure Luke was “handling things okay.” Luke didn’t buy it for a second. As far as he could tell, the only thing Robert Donovan cared about—had ever cared about—was his freight trucking empire.
The only thing Luke cared about, he told himself now, was proving that he could succeed on his own terms—proving that success could be found outside a corporate executive office. So he’d been cut off from the family fortune. Big deal. Luke didn’t care about passing up bucketsful of cash and country club memberships. What he cared about was being publicly splintered from the family tree. That hurt.
And he had too much pride to let it continue.
If it was the last thing he did, Luke intended to make his mark…his way. Blue Moon would provide the seed money, and his mechanic’s shop would provide the means. He’d force his father to respect him—and, in the process, turn the famous Donovan determination in a whole new direction.
“What you need in this place,” TJ said thoughtfully, “is a girlie calendar. You know. One of those freebies from a hubcap company or something. You don’t have a single picture of a hot babe in a bikini lounging on the hood of a Mustang.”
“Does it have to be a Mustang?” Luke grinned. “Because I’m a motorcycle mechanic.”
“Seriously. You call yourself a professional, but—hang on. Who’s that?”
TJ pointed outside. His mouth hung open. A flush rose on his face, making his cheeks match Spidey’s superhero outfit.
Hell. Those signs could only mean one thing. TJ had just spotted Josie.
To make sure, Luke went to the window. Through its smeared glass, he saw his showgirl stowaway. She was decked out in some kind of miniskirt-plus-tank-top combo, crutches, and a determined expression that could not bode well for anyone in her path. Another minute and she’d make her way across the weeds to the carriage house.
“I take it back,” TJ said, sounding awed. “You don’t need a girlie calendar. You just need to look out your window once in a while. Damn. No wonder you didn’t tell me what you were doing last night. You were doing her.”
“Shut up, Hardison.” Luke shoved his hand through his hair, acutely aware, all of a sudden, that he hadn’t showered yet. He’d gotten up, brushed his teeth, and started disassembling the shock on the BMW bike. He’d planned to shower afterward. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hastily, Luke wiped his hands on the shop rag again. Then he pulle
d down his T-shirt and checked his reflection in the shiny chrome of a Kawasaki’s side mirror. He was in the midst of cupping his hand over his mouth to check his breath when TJ turned around.
And caught him.
TJ’s eyes widened. “You’re…what’s it called? Primping! Jesus, Donovan. What the hell’s the matter with—”
He broke off. Comprehension dawned.
Frowning, Luke jerked his hands down. It didn’t help. His breath was fine. But he felt a nearly overwhelming urge to go upstairs and shower. Maybe even to shave. All in the thirty seconds before Josie got there.
“What’s the matter?” TJ asked, grinning wider than ever before. “Trying to figure out whether or not your socks and shirt match?”
Luke glanced down. God help him.
“Holy shit.” TJ strode closer. He peered at Luke like a bratty kid gawking at the monkeys in the zoo. “I honestly don’t believe it. You’ve got it baaaad for this girl.”
“I do not.” Damn it. If TJ would move his big fat head, Luke would be able to see how far Josie had made it toward the carriage house. “What do you know?”
“I know plenty.” Looking irritatingly self-satisfied, TJ crossed his arms over his chest. Casually, he scraped his thumbnail over the dried mustard on his T-shirt. “I know you’re probably hoping there’s still time to slap on some Aqua Velva and really wow her.”
Luke crossed his arms, ignoring him.
“I know I’m dying to find out who this mystery woman is.”
Luke scoffed.
“I know,” TJ said, “that you’re probably praying I don’t go outside right now and introduce myself to her.”
Luke’s insides froze. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, yeah?” TJ glanced outside. “Watch me.”
Grinning, he bolted for the open carriage house doors.
Luke scrambled after him, one arm extended. He caught a whiff of mustard, a fleeting fistful of T-shirt, and then…nada. TJ twisted like a championship running back breaking a tackle, laughed like a hyena, and bounded into the Arizona sunshine.
Chapter Eight
