“Twenty-six.”
She shook her head. “And you have your own business?”
“My dad was a mechanic at a gas station, and my ma was a waitress, so I spent most of my childhood in that gas station shop helping Dad. We didn’t have much, so if I wanted anything, I had to work for it. Trouble is, even in the boonies of Kentucky, most folks won’t hire a nine-year-old. So I started figuring out ways to earn money on my own.”
“Like?”
I laughed, self-conscious. “Well…when I was nine, I found a five dollar bill on the ground. Being nine, I wanted the one thing a nine-year-old boy would think to buy: candy. The most candy I could get for five bucks from the dollar store was an old bag of assorted Halloween candy. I put the candy in my backpack and sold it for fifty cents apiece. It was a fifty-piece bag, so I made twenty-five bucks. I went out and bought two more bags, sold the candy for seventy-five cents apiece, and made almost seventy-five bucks. Bought three bags, and sold the candy for a buck a piece.” I chuckled. “I was a ruthless little shit, now that I think about it.”
“So you found a five-dollar bill and turned it into more than a hundred dollars by reselling candy?” She sounded impressed. Which I admit did feel pretty good.
“Yeah…until I got shut down by the principal. She said if she caught me selling anything else on school property, I’d get suspended.”
Torie laughed. “Let me guess…you found a loophole?”
I shrugged. “Sort of. By that point, my client base was sort of tapped out. I mean, little kids can only scrounge up so much loose change, and I’d gotten greedy, charging a dollar apiece. I spent some time collecting bottles and cans around town, and even tried setting up a system where I would pay neighborhood kids to collect for me, but that was too much to keep track of: who I owed, how much, and how much to pay them and still make a profit.”
She snorted. “You’re a real natural-born entrepreneur, huh?”
“I mean, we were dirt poor. I was stuck wearing my dad’s old six-sizes-too-big boots and my sister’s old jeans cut off into shorts. So yeah, if I wanted to buy lunch at school, I had to find money, because god knew my parents could barely afford rent with them both working two jobs. They often had to decide between keeping the lights on and buying food every month.” Out of habit, or instinct, I’d wandered over to the Nova and started tinkering with it; Torie followed, leaning against the side of the hood and watching.
She was watching me mess with the radiator, and circled around to the toolbox, rummaged through the sockets with what seemed like a knowledgeable eye, and handed me the correct size socket.
I eyed her. “You’ve worked on cars.”
She shrugged. “Sort of. My dad liked to tinker in the garage on the weekends. He had an old…oh what the hell was it? Two letter name. English, I think.”
“MG?” I suggested.
“Yeah, that’s it. It was little two-door convertible he bought for cheap from a neighbor. I’m not sure what he was doing on it, honestly. He’d go out there early Saturday morning after breakfast and I’d go with him, and he drink coffee and putz with the car, and I’d hand him wrenches and sockets, and sometimes if there was a spot too small for his big old sausage fingers to get to, he’d have me try. I got to know which size bolt was which, and I made it my job to keep his tools organized, because on his own he would just lose everything.” She laughed at what was clearly a fond memory. “That was my special time with Dad, those Saturdays and Sundays in the garage.”
“Did he ever finish it?”
She grinned. “I don’t think he was really doing anything important to it. Replacing hoses or something. Just…tinkering. It ran, and it always did run. We’d spend a few hours tinkering, and then we’d go for a drive. ‘To test it out,’ he would always say. Maybe he was just making sure what he’d done worked, or something.”
“Sounds like a lot of fun, honestly.”
She nodded. “It was. Probably among my favorite memories.” There was a wistfulness to her voice.
“I, uh. Don’t want to bring up anything bad since you’ve already had a bad day, but…it sounds like you’re talking in past tense, here.”
She smiled at me. “Yeah, he died a few years ago.”
I winced. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. It was sudden. Pretty rough on all of us, but Mom most of all.”
“I bet. You guys were all close, I take it?”
She shrugged again. “I mean, early on, yeah, I’d say so. By the time I got to high school, things were a little…strained, I guess. He wasn’t healthy, and it was a sore spot for Mom. Then he died, and she ended up moving to Alaska to start over and it seems like all my sisters are gradually ending up there. And now I have to go up there for this wedding, and I’m scared I’m gonna get stuck up there too.”
“You don’t want to?”
She shook her head. “No. What the hell is there for me in fucking Alaska? My friends are here. My job, such as it is, is here.”
“Why do you say ‘such as it is’?” I asked.
I was struggling to get a bolt started in a small space; she moved in beside me, and slid her small hand in the engine bay, threaded the bolt, fitted a ratcheting wrench to the bolt, and tightened it. She smelled like wet hair, wet clothes, and something else indefinable but feminine and intoxicating.
Another shrug, laconic. “Waiting tables is not the best job. I barely make ends meet, and it’s a dead end. But th-that’s a different conversation.” She shivered, teeth chattering.
I huffed. “Shit, I’m an asshole, keeping you out here talking while you’re dripping wet. God, I’m sorry. Let’s go upstairs. You can take a shower and borrow some sweats from me while your stuff dries out.”
A look of longing crossed her face when I mentioned a shower. “God, a hot shower would be amazing.”
I led her to the stairs in the back that led up to a small loft apartment occupying a few hundred square feet over the back end of the warehouse; it had originally been an office, but some enterprising soul in years past had added a small shower, a sliver of a closet, and a separate entrance and exit at the side, as well as a kitchenette. It was all open, even the bathroom was not completely closed off. It was a space clearly meant for one person only, which worked for me.
I’d left a hunk of meat roasting in a Crock-Pot this morning, and so the whole loft smelled wonderfully of a hot dinner.
“Holy shit,” Torie moaned, “that smells amazing.”
“We pretty much lived on Crock-Pot roasts. She got a Crock-Pot at a thrift store for, like, ten bucks, buy an about-to-expire shoulder roast from the grocery story, she’d put it in there in the morning before she left for work and by the time Dad was done working and I was home from school, it’d be done. I can’t cook for shit, but I know how to crockpot the hell out of a roast.”
She inhaled deeply, eyes closed. “My mom used to do roasts every Sunday, but she did them in the oven in some sort of special pan. I always looked forward to Sunday roasts.”
“Well, there’s six pounds of roast beef shoulder in there, so I hope you’re hungry.” I brought her to the bathroom, which, as I’ve said, was only nominally partitioned off from the rest of the loft—the toilet was in its own little closet, but the shower was glassed in, and the sink, mirror, and cabinets were all open to the loft. “I’ll, um…I’ll grab you some of my clothes and then head downstairs so you can shower. As you can see, there ain’t a lot of privacy.”
She just nodded, setting her bag down on the bathroom floor. I grabbed a pair of sweatpants I’d had since high school which were the smallest I owned, and a T-shirt I’d had since middle school, which I kept for sentimental reasons since it didn’t fit me.
“These ought to do the job,” I said, setting the clothes on the closed toilet lid. “The hot water tank is industrial size from downstairs, so you can stay in there as long as you want, you won’t run out of hot water. But watch out, that shit gets scalding hot in a hurry. I only
have guy shit in there, three-in-one body wash and shampoo and all that.”
“No girlfriend keeping her shampoo here?”
Fishing, I see. “Nah, no girlfriend or nothin’.”
She shrugged, smiled. “Well, clean is clean, and beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Right.” I shuffled away, trying like hell to not wish I could see what she looked like out of those baggy wet clothes. “Well, I, um…I can hear the water from downstairs, so I’ll wait till I hear it shut off, give you a few more minutes, and then come up. And I’ll knock before walking in. So you’re comfortable.”
Her smile of appreciation and gratitude was a sight to behold—it took her from drowned rat but sexy to just plain stunning. “You’re awful polite, Rhys. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Well. You’re in the home of a dude you just met. Don’t want you to think I’m…creepy or nothin’.”
“I won’t be too long,” she said. “I’m a short shower kinda girl.”
“Take your time. Warm up.” I turned away, and then a thought occurred to me and I turned back to Torie—and froze, mouth dropping open and then clacking shut as I saw her, whatever it was I’d been about to say utterly forgotten.
Torie had stripped her sweatshirt off, and was holding it out—it was dripping a steady stream of water. Damn, damn, and double damn—her T-shirt underneath was a plain heather gray V-neck, and it was soaked through. Absolutely sheer. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Call me an asshole, but I took a long, blatant look. I mean, it was impossible not to. Her nipples were peaked and hard, poking the fabric, and her breasts were outlined by see-through wet gray cotton. While technically not very large, her breasts were plump, sloping downward with pert nipples pointed upward; they were just begging to be cupped and lifted into my mouth…
Her eyes met mine, and I flinched. “I…um.”
Her arms went across her chest. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d be so, uh…”
“No, I’m sorry. I was just going to tell you something and then I forgot was it was. I’m—I’ll go.”
I turned on a dime and ran down the stairs to the garage to my Ford project. I slumped onto the floor, lay back on the creeper, and rolled under the truck, grabbing the nearby wrench and viciously attacking the bolts holding the exhaust pipe to the underbody.
“The fuck is wrong with me?” I snarled to myself, under my breath. “Picking up random chicks off the side of the road? I must be sick in the damn head.”
I lost track of everything as I worked to rip the old exhaust system out. Didn’t hear the water, or the lack thereof, I was too busy skinning my knuckles and swearing as I fought with the last stubborn piece of shit bolt, which was rusted on and refused to budge, even with a long-handled socket. I didn’t want to have to grind the bastard off, as the plan was to restore the truck to as close to bone-stock factory original as possible.
“Rhys?” a soft, quiet voice.
I tend to get lost and forget everything when my I’ve got my head and hands in a truck, and this was no different. I’d forgotten all about Torie, and so when I heard her voice, I flinched hard enough to crack my head on the underbody, drawing blood for sure and eliciting a long series of snarled curses from me as I slid the creeper out from under the truck.
I sat up on the creeper and touched my forehead where I’d whanged it—no blood, but a decent lump.
Torie was holding back a grin. “That was like out of a movie.” She crouched and peered at my head. “Just a little boo-boo. I’m sorry for startling you.”
I shook my head. “Nah, I get distracted when I’m under a truck. Tend to block out the world.”
“I’ll say.” She poked at my forehead gently, squatting on her heels. “I’ve been out of the shower for an hour.”
I glanced over at the schoolhouse-type analog clock on the wall above the door. “No shit.”
How the hell did she manage to smell feminine and sexy when she’d used my shampoo? Freshly showered woman is probably the most arousing scent on the planet, if you ask me.
Then I got a look at her—the sweatpants hung loose on her hips, highlighting the sharp V where her hips and belly angled in toward her sex, the waistband slung low enough to make me wonder if I’d get a glimpse of something more if she moved the wrong way. Despite having a tight, slender waist, her hips and ass filled out the old, stretchy cotton until the sweatpants fit her like a second skin, to the knees at least; she had the cinched cuffs tugged up to her knee, leaving her shins and feet bare. The shirt…shit, I shouldn’t have given her that damn shirt to wear. My poor dick couldn’t handle it. It was, stupidly on my part, a white shirt. A very old white shirt. Threadbare. It had holes in it, near the underarms and over the belly and chest. It sported the name and logo of my middle school in peeling letters.
If her tits had been on full display in her wet gray shirt, they were only slightly more concealed in that one, and the holes gave me tantalizing hints of skin and, on occasion, on the right side of her chest, I think there were even glimpses of the darker brown of her areola.
Shit, shit. She was just too damned perfect. She made my head feel tight and woozy, my chest thump, and my cock go ramrod stiff behind my coveralls. Thankfully, I had the upper part of the coveralls tied around my waist so the sleeves hung over my groin, hiding the evidence of my monster hard-on.
From one look at this girl, fully clothed, I had an erection so painful I had to hold back a wince.
Shit. This had been a mistake for sure. I was behind schedule on the Nova—I’d promised the owner I’d be done today, and I still had several hours of work left. I had salvage work to do, plus several hours of finishing work at the build site for Jeremy. Not to mention the online realtor class I was taking. Point being, I did not have time to waste on a random girl needing to get to Alaska.
Random hot girl. With amazing tits, sexy hips, and a bangin’ ass.
Not to mention the vivid, light brown, almost khaki-colored eyes that drew me in like flies to honey.
Thick black hair, straight and glossy as a raven’s wing, hanging well past mid-back, nearly to her butt. Loose, brushed, a wild jet fall of glory I wanted to sink my fingers into.
I reminded myself I didn’t even know her last name and she was a damsel in distress. Not a hookup from the local bar.
She looked young—younger than me. Over eighteen, I fucking hoped. But probably not old enough to even go to a bar.
God, I’m an idiot.
“You just gonna stare at me, or do you have something to say?” she asked, her voice wry and amused.
I blinked, shook my head, turned away, tossing the wrench onto a nearby tool chest. “Sorry.” I wanted to provide some kind of explanation for my asinine behavior, but I had none.
She was leaning against the bare steel column holding up the loft area. “Just wondering, if you have a lift, why you’re not using it.” She pointed at the hydraulic lift, capable of lifting several tons well overhead.
I kicked the whitewall tire of the truck. “This is a personal project, so I don’t wanna tie up the lift in case I need it for a client.”
“Oh. Makes sense.” She walked around the truck, glanced into the open engine bay, into the cab. “What’s your plan with this?”
“A full restoration, eventually. It’s got a nice straight body, no rot, and just a little corrosion here and there, a few edges and corners to fix up. The engine is seized and the tranny is fucked, though, so I’m replacing both.”
“What are you putting into it?”
I gestured at a motor sitting in a wooden crate. “A three-fifty-one V-8 from a seventy-seven Bronco I salvaged, with a rebuilt three-on-the-tree from another old Ford.”
“You do a lot of salvaging?”
I swept a hand at the parts I had piled all over the garage. “It’s the other half of my business, and salvaging is actually where I really started in the automotive business. Soon as I could drive, I bought a beat-to-shit old wrecker, got it running,
and started salvaging. I’d drive hours to get old wrecks off of lawns, out of backyards, from impound lots, wherever I could find ’em. Dad got his boss to let me use their shop after-hours, so I could strip the wrecks of usable parts, which I’d sell piecemeal to local garages, auto body shops, and dudes looking for parts for their pet projects.” I tapped the motor on the truck in front of me. “I think I learned more about engines from taking them apart as I did from helping Dad fix them.” I pointed at the back wall of the shop. “Out back is my salvage yard—I’ve got about fifty different vehicles out there that I need to strip, and I’m actually still running that old wrecker I got in high school. It’s more replaced parts than original at this point, but she still runs.”
She inhaled deeply. “The smell of this place brings back a lot of memories.”
I grinned. “Best smell on earth, you ask me.” I thought about the scent of freshly showered woman, which was higher on the totem pole than even an auto garage, but I wasn’t about to say that to this chick. “Grease and metal and oil and…I don’t even know what else, but it’s the smell of home, to me.”
At that moment, I heard the unmistakable sound of a stomach growling—Torie’s.
I scoffed in annoyance at myself. “God, here I go again, running my idiot mouth while you’re probably about to pass out from hunger.”
“I am pretty hungry,” she admitted. “But I…I don’t want to—”
“Where I grew up,” I cut in, “hospitality was a way of life. We didn’t have much, but if we ever had a guest, we treated them like royalty with all we had. So you ain’t imposing or asking or being needy—I’m insisting.” I moved for the stairs. “Now come on and eat, before you faint.”
I made sure to precede her up the stairs, or I’d spend the whole walk up staring at her ass, and she didn’t need me ogling her backside, too. Again.
I pulled the roast out of the Crock-Pot, set it on a platter, and set about slicing it the way I’d watched Dad do countless times. I plated up two heaping portions, and set the plates on my little round table, which was about halfway between the kitchenette and the living room area.
A Real Goode Time Page 3
