He sighed dreamily. “Ah, I miss that old Cutlass.”
I chuckled and slapped his leg. “Well, I guess I’ll keep you around for a while. No man has made me cry in a long time.”
His expression changed then, his eyes displaying the wisdom behind them. “One of these days, one of them is going to turn you into a blubbering mess. I’m calling it right now.”
I shook my head, smiling. “I can’t wait.”
##
Oh, shit. How did I get here?
I was sitting in Frank’s Nova, in the parking lot of Mason’s shop, and it was dark. I was just going to drive by to prove to myself that there was no one there and that there was no reason for me to stop by at this time of night.
Then, I saw the lights on.
Then, I saw a shadow move behind one of the windows.
And then I saw Mason’s GTO parked off to the side.
I didn’t have a clue if he was working on Roxanne or not. I didn’t have any idea if he would appreciate me dropping by, especially if he was working. But I turned off the engine anyway and walked across the lot, my heart pounding with every step. I pulled open the side entrance door, despite the fact that I was scared out of my mind that showing up there would blow up in my face.
All the lights were blazing, but the shop was completely empty. I heard some Metallica blasting from a room in the back and I smiled, walking toward the sound. Carefully tiptoeing around the corner, I peeked my head into the room where the music was coming from. And what did I see?
Mason, standing at a toolbox with an airbrush gun in his hand, in paint-stained jeans…and no shirt on.
Oh my God.
I would have totally missed out if I’d kept driving.
Thank you, impulsive hormones.
He looked busy with whatever he was messing with in his hands, and I was too busy to care that I was shamelessly staring as I drank him in with my eyes. That’s when he looked up, saw me standing there, and pointed the gun at me as he jolted in shock, making me jump about three feet in the air. What he thought he was going to do with a paint gun if I had been an actual intruder, I had no idea.
“Jesus Christ! Sage?”
I put my hands up, walking farther into the room. “Sorry, it’s just me! I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
His breathing was labored as he continued to stare at me as if I were a mirage. “What are you doing here?”
I bit my lower lip, nervous that I had made a huge mistake. “I was just wondering if maybe I could geek out with you and Roxanne tonight? I’ve never painted a car before. But I’m really good at ordering pizza.”
His face remained frozen for only a second before his mouth morphed into one of the most devious smiles I’d ever seen. “I hope you brought protection.”
Chapter Seven
Sage
I blinked slowly, completely unaware of how I was supposed to respond to that. “What?”
A short laugh burst from him. “For your clothes. We don’t want to get paint on them.”
I scrunched my eyes closed, praying the floor would open up below me and make me disappear. “Oh, um. I can just watch then. I didn’t bring anything to change into.”
He laughed some more and took pity on me. “I’m just kidding. I have extra suits so you’re in luck. I just wanted to see what your reaction would be to that.” He wiggled his eyebrows, looking amused when I huffed indignantly. “Yes, Roxy and I would be honored if you would join us. And I hate black olives on my pizza.”
“Just for that comment, I’m going to order only black olives.”
He looked over at me in horror, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Please don’t. I’m actually allergic. I blow up like a balloon if there’s one within two centimeters of me.”
My cheeks heated up for the second time in thirty seconds, my humiliation knowing no bounds. “I’m so sorry. I promise I won’t order any.”
I braved looking up and was outraged to once again see a shit-eating grin on his face. “I’m sorry, it’s just too easy,” he said amidst his fit of laughter.
I snatched a dirty rag off of a nearby table and launched it as his face, though he caught it easily. “Do you always manipulate people’s emotions like this?”
“I try,” he replied, shrugging, “but I’m not usually this successful. You must be special.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “I’m flattered.”
He waved me over to him. “Well, come on inside so I can explain what I’m doing and get you suited up. If you’re really serious about helping me out, that is. You don’t actually have to if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’d like to be involved in the process. If that’s okay.”
He smiled, those teeth standing out against his olive skin. “Of course.” He pulled out a white suit from a cabinet, handing it to me. “Put this on and make sure your hair is out of your face.”
I worked on getting the material over my clothes and was horribly disappointed when I saw him doing the same thing. I wasn’t ready for him to cover up those tattoos or that hard body yet. Because the way his jeans pulled around his thick thigh muscles was a sight to be revered. Now, all I was going to be able to think about for the rest of the night was the fact that he didn’t have a shirt on underneath that suit.
When we were both suited up, we helped each other cover our heads with the hoods and we each put on latex gloves. “I feel like I’m getting ready to walk through Chernobyl,” I mused, looking down at myself.
“At least you look cute.”
I giggled—actually giggled—feeling butterflies start fluttering around in my belly. “You can’t even see my face.”
His eyes landed on me, both brows raised pointedly. “No, but I know how cute that face gets when I talk about using protection.”
Damn him. At least this time he couldn’t see the blush that took over my face. He changed the subject before I could offer a pitiful response in my defense. “Okay, I’ve got the spray gun already loaded, so come on over here and I’ll show you what we’re doing.”
Before then, I hadn’t noticed the car sitting in the booth, let alone that it was Roxanne. Probably because Mason’s half naked body had distracted me from paying attention to anything else in the room. Her headlights and taillights had been removed, along with her tires, and all of the windows had been taped over. Not to mention the fact that she was a completely different color than when I’d brought her in.
“So, I’ve already cleaned her, sanded her down, and used wax and grease remover on the body, which prevents bubbling and allows for better paint adhesion,” Mason explained. “All that’s really left now is to apply the paint, which will take several coats, and then we’ll leave it to bake after we’re done.”
“Are we standing inside a giant oven?”
He chuckled. “It’s just what we call it. I’ll turn up the heat in here and let the paint sit for a bit after all the coats have been applied. Come stand over here.”
I walked over and stopped in front of him at which point he handed me the spray gun but kept his hand over mine. It felt like the temperature had already been turned up in the room with the intense body heat he was giving off, scorching my back with it. The butterfly fluttering suddenly kicked into overdrive, and breathing became difficult when a little man inside my chest started pounding on my heart like a giant drum.
“It’s best to use a big sweeping motion like this,” Mason said as he guided my arm slowly back and forth, demonstrating the technique but without the actual paint as I didn’t have my finger on the trigger yet. “We want even application, so try not to overlap too much. Think you’ve got it?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Do you have another gun for you?”
He stepped off to the side a little and gave me a wider berth. “Yeah, but I’d rather watch you since it’s your first time. We’ll trade off and take turns. You ready?”
“You’re not going to let me ruin her, are you?” I asked, suddenly nervous that I migh
t screw up my own car.
“Never. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. If I let you drive out of here with a shitty paint job, I’d lose a lot of business.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Glad to know that’s what you’re most concerned about.”
“Hey, I couldn’t let anything happen to Roxy,” he said with his hands out, palms up. “We have a connection now.”
Mason let me know the paint was ready for me, and when I finally put my finger on the trigger and the first bit of purple paint landed on the metal of the car, a thrill snaked through me. The color was beautiful, perfect for what I imagined, and I couldn’t wait to see what the whole thing would look like after we were finished. I carefully swept the gun from side to side like Mason showed me, mesmerized by how easy the task was. I won’t lie, it was fun. Like a giant coloring book. But you know, real and with paint instead of crayons.
“So, you mentioned you had brothers,” I said when the silence of the room became too much. “Do they live around here?”
“My older one, Dawson, does,” he replied from the stool he sat on about a foot to my left. “Those were his kids you met the other day. He’s a detective for the Baltimore PD.”
He was watching every move I made like a hawk, and it occurred to me that I was probably making him nervous. I’d never done this before and I’m sure he didn’t want me to make a mistake. At least it was my car that I was working on so if I did screw up somehow, I could only be mad at myself.
“I bet that comes in handy. Having a cop for a brother.”
He snorted. “Or a huge annoyance. He wouldn’t even get me out of a speeding ticket I got last year. Said idiot drivers like me needed to learn their lesson.”
“Well, were you speeding?”
“I had just put that 442 in the GTO,” he justified haughtily. “How else was I supposed to break it in?”
I laughed, silently agreeing with him. I would have done the exact same thing. “And what about your other brother?”
“The younger one, Parker, is the third baseman for the Boston Red Sox. He lives there when he’s not on the road with the team.”
Mason shot forward to catch the gun when I almost dropped it, looking over at him in astonishment. “Your brother is Parker Cruz? No shit?”
He groaned, steadying the gun in my hands before he sat back on the stool. “Don’t tell me you have a big crush on him or something. He has a girlfriend, so don’t be asking me to give you his number or anything.”
I smirked, focusing back on the car. “Something tells me he wouldn’t be my type.” Mostly because you are. “I guess I never put the last names together. And when I think about it, you guys do look alike. That’s pretty awesome. Did you go to the World Series last year?”
“Yep, we were there.” I couldn’t see his mouth but something told me he was smiling when he said it. “It was crazy. Dawson and I go to as many of his games as we can. We always go when they’re in town to play the Orioles, but going up to Boston is harder to manage.”
“I can understand that. Well, anytime you need an Orioles fan to sit next to at a Red Sox game, be sure to call me up.”
He laughed and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “I might be disowned by my family, but I’ll keep that in mind. What about your brother? You mentioned him before.”
“He’s a tattoo artist here in Baltimore. We see each other all the time. It’s nice to have him close.”
Mason stood up and took the gun from me. “Here, I’ll take over. Sit and have a break.” I took his place on the stool and was content with just sitting there, watching him work. “So, can I assume that he did all of your tats?”
I glanced down at my arms even though they were covered. “Yeah. He designed almost all of them himself.”
“He does really good work. What about your parents? Do they live here too?”
My muscles tensed, like they did anytime I thought about my ‘parents.’ Whether referring to my dead real mother, the sick bastard who was supposed to be a father figure when I was a child, or the couple who I now considered to be my only family, it was a complicated topic to delve into.
“No actually,” I replied evenly. “I was a foster child from the age of seven.”
Mason’s arm froze, his finger pulling off the trigger, cutting off the paint supply. When he cautiously looked down at me, I could tell that he hadn’t expected me to say that. “I never knew my father and my mother was killed in a car accident. I lived in three foster homes by the time I was eighteen. I met my brother Pierce in the last one, which became my home and still is. Pierce and the Mitchells aren’t my blood, but they’re as close to me as any family could be.”
He hadn’t moved, aside from his broad chest rising and falling with his deep breaths. The silence in the room became unnerving as I waited for his response. He probably didn’t know what to say, likely having grown up in a stable, loving household himself.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he finally said in a raspy voice. He sounded almost pained. Like he was sincerely hurting for me and my past. “I hate that you were alone like that. I can’t imagine how tough that must have been.”
You have no idea.
I shrugged. “I survived. I didn’t always have the easiest time of it, but it made me a stronger person. That’s not always true for some kids who come out of foster care.”
“Is that why you decided to become a social worker?” he asked. He still hadn’t started the gun back up. “Because you were once in their situation?”
I nodded, looking down at my feet instead of at his piercing eyes. “I’ve seen some of the injustices that kids in the system can be subjected to. It helps a lot of them just to know that there’s an adult who actually cares about them. I want them to know that there’s always hope, no matter what. That’s my ultimate goal, I suppose.”
He went quiet again and I could practically hear the gears turning in his head. I wanted to ask what was on his mind but at the same time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “My father was a drunk.”
My head snapped up, wondering if I’d heard him right. He laughed softly, though the sound was without humor, and started to paint the car once again. “I figured if I was making you share the heavy stuff, it was only fair that I do the same.” He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “My father was a drunken bastard my whole life. My mother was okay when we younger, but she eventually became so unhappy and fed up with all the bullshit that she took to pills and was never the same person again. Needless to say, the three of us aren’t on good terms with them. We’ve pretty much been on our own for a long time.”
My heart ached for him and his brothers. His situation sounded so much like the cases I heard on a daily basis. I hoped he had someone in his life—a loving parental figure—who had been there for him. At least he hadn’t been completely alone and seemed to have turned out okay.
Once we were done with the first coat, I think we were both ready to leave the confines of that room. Probably to take a break from the soul-baring session we’d found ourselves in.
“We’ll leave it for about fifteen to twenty minutes before we put on the second coat,” Mason said.
Luckily, I had called in our pizza order before we finished painting, so it arrived just as we ventured out into the shop. “I can drive to the store down the street and grab some beer for us if you want,” I offered.
He was in the process of putting slices onto paper plates for us but paused at my words. “I’m actually good, but thanks.” He met my eyes, those pools of green searing me with intensity. “Five years sober.” A small smile played on his lips. “I’ve got Coke in the fridge, though.”
My respect for the man grew. I understood how strong temptation could be. “Coke sounds great.”
We inhaled the pie—pepperoni with green peppers—a testament to how hungry we both were. “Since tonight seems to be the ‘getting to know each other’ phase of our relationship,” Mason stated, my heart leaping at t
he word relationship, “I think we should get all the major stuff out of the way.”
My eyebrow went up. “Relationship? Major? I don’t know if I like where this is going.”
He wiped his fingers off on a napkin, grinning at me. “I prefer to lay all my shit out there from the beginning so you know what you’re getting. I don’t play games and I don’t think it’s fair to hide anything.”
But some things should probably stay hidden. Forever.
“Who says I want to ‘get’ anything?” I challenged.
He tilted his head at me, his eyes full of doubt. “Your eyes. Since the day you met me, your eyes have said a lot more than your words have.”
My pulse spiked at his abrasiveness, my nerves beginning to fray. “And what are my eyes saying right now?”
Those green irises suddenly took on a darker color, his voice lowering. “I’ll keep it PG for now, but they’re basically saying that you like learning these things about me. That you want to hear more.”
Shit. Was the guy a mind reader? How did he do that? Was I that transparent? “Is that so?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes remaining locked with mine. “At least we’re on the same page. I’ll even make it easy on you and go first, if you want.”
Uncertainty gripped me, making me question whether or not I should just walk out the door and never look back. “And what if I don’t want to?” I questioned, though my voice lacked conviction. “You’re making a lot of presumptions here. What if I’d rather keep my major shit to myself?”
His eyes narrowed as he studied my expression. “Then you’ll keep it to yourself,” he said simply. “I won’t ask again, and we’ll talk about the weather and baseball and Metallica for the rest of the night.” I didn’t respond immediately and he added, “We don’t have to get personal, Sage. But something tells me you want to.”
I wouldn’t let him see my discomfort by avoiding eye contact. Instead, I stared him down, trying to figure out how much I really did want to know about Mason Cruz.
The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2) Page 8
