by Tl Reeve
Hunter polished off his breakfast and tossed his wrapper in the can. A new song began to blare from the speakers in the garage, and I groaned. It was yet another banger filled with those heavy drums he loved. I wanted to smack my head against the wall to either make it stop or pass out. Whichever came first.
“Ugh…Hunter, can you do me a favor and lower that,” I pleaded, making sure to bat my eyelashes at my older brother. I wasn’t above using whatever was in my arsenal to make him turn the stereo down.
Hunter pulled the remote to the sound system from his pocket, dashing all my earlier hopes of taking over, and lowered the volume.
“Thank you,” I said, appreciating his gesture of decency.
Landon put a comforting arm around me. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay, sissy?”
Ugh…I had a love-hate relationship with the nickname all my brothers insisted on calling me when it was just us. Sure, it had been as cute as hell when I was younger. But I was no longer a teenager with acne, worried about when I was going to get my first kiss.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Land,” I answered, forcing a smile. “I’m sure any business we do with Mack Redman will be solely professional.” I shrugged, knowing full well Mack wouldn’t walk away so easily, and I’d been lying to myself. Mack wasn’t giving me up, and I didn’t want him to either, no matter how much it might scare me. “And I’m okay with that.”
“Why do you assume that?” Hunter tipped his bottle of water to his lips for a drink.
“Why?”
Hunter nodded before adding the empty bottle to the pile of trash in my can.
“He probably thinks I’m batshit crazy and either require medication or psychiatric help. I was a bitch to him the first day we meet, and then I overindulged in extremely good wine last night.”
Hunter gave my shoulder a playful push. “Yeah, well some guys happen to like batshit, crazy women. Just saying.”
Men were infuriating, particularly older overly protective brothers. I pointed at them, giving them my best glare. “It hasn’t gone unnoticed that neither of you even bothered to deny the crazy thing.”
Hunter, being older and somewhat wiser, had the good sense to not laugh at my statement, even though I could see the amusement twinkling in his gaze. Landon, on the other hand, had no self-preservation at all and guffawed. When he turned, I smacked him. The satisfying crack of my hand hitting the back of his head had me feeling better. Unfortunately, for both Hunter and me, Landon began bitching about the gigantic headache he now had. I rolled my eyes, proud of myself for not calling him a pussy. Huh, maybe age did make us wiser.
Then I laughed to myself, trying to ignore the increased throbbing behind my eyes. Nah, not even close. “Suck it up. I barely touched you.”
Landon stuck his tongue out. “Hunter isn’t wrong. Some guys like your type of crazy. Keeps us on our toes.”
“Pfft. Last time I looked, Landon, you have exactly zero experience having a girlfriend. ” I held my hand up, forming and zero with my fingers. “You’re a hit it and quit it type of guy.”
Landon grinned as if he were proud of being a manwhore. Smug bastard. I was done with them and this stupid conversation. “I’m out. Work isn’t going to get done by itself.”
Hunter twisted, taking a gander at the clock above the door that led from the bays into the offices. “You might want to wait another twenty minutes or so before you do that. We’re not even ‘officially’ open yet.”
“Ugh,” I groused while stomping away to my workstation to see what was scheduled for me.
Mack’s stupid Aston Martin was waiting. I sighed. Okay it wasn’t stupid. It was a beautifully crafted machine. But it felt like the classic beauty was mocking me, and although I was itching to get to her, now wasn’t the best time. I’d have to take her for a test drive, and I wasn’t functioning on all cylinders yet. I reluctantly pushed aside the diagnostic Landon had run the other day for me and got busy on some of my other pending jobs of ordering parts for other vehicles we needed to fix and calling customers who might not want to hear from us when they found out how much it would cost to fix their baby. In between, I kept chugging coffee, hoping to flush my body and get this killer headache under control.
Regrettably, it wasn’t until after I ate a small lunch and drank what felt like another gallon of water along with two more pain pills that I felt like a human being. By the time one o’clock came around, the steady throbbing in my head eased then finally disappeared.
I was never drinking like that again.
“Better?” Landon popped his head into the office as I stood from my desk.
“Much, thanks,” I replied.
“Good. Be careful next time, okay?” The concern in his voice had me pausing. “You’re—” He shook his head. “You’re our sister.”
I nodded. I understood what he was trying to say. After Mom and Dad died, they worried about me more, since I was the only girl in the family. Although, if I thought back, I believe it was harder taking care of Jackson. He was still in high school, still in his awkward stage, and so fucking quiet. The last few years were more about learning how to be a new type of family than anything. Having my brothers with me, even if they were pains in my ass, made everything easier in the long run. “I love you too, Land.”
“Better, or else,” he joked. “Anyway, ready to get to work?”
“You bet your ass I am.”
When Jackson arrived, happy as a clam because he’d gotten himself a job at Flame on the weekends, it took everything in me not to ask him about Mack. Doing so would give Manny, Moe, and Jack, aka my brothers, more ammo to use against me. I wasn’t about to help them at all.
I was proud of Jackson. We all told him as much before we went back to work. Since Jackson had spent a few hours learning the ropes at Flame, Hunter sent Jackson out doing runs for parts, leaving only the three of us in the garage. Hunter also, at some point, raised the volume on the music. The heavy beat of his favorite band pounded through the bays. I’d never admit to it, but the Foo Fighters were the shit when I wasn’t suffering from headache, especially their lead singer Dave Grohl.
It was a little after three when I looked up to find Jackson leaning against my workbench. He must’ve finished his runs for the day. I blew the annoying strand of hair that escaped my high ponytail out of my face before giving Jackson my attention. “What’s up?”
He gave a head nod to the Aston, still waiting for me on the lift. Yup, I had effectively ignored the damn thing almost all day. The irrational part of my brain reminded me the quicker I started tearing into the vehicle, the sooner Mack would be able to pick it up and deliver the car to the new owner. Rationally, I knew what Mack and I had going on wouldn’t be over, but I still caught myself worrying. Twice already I’d experienced a sinking sensation. I didn’t like it, and there wasn’t any reason for it either.
You’re being pessimistic because of how shit ended with Edgar. I knew not all guys were like Edgar, but sometimes, like today, I couldn’t help but put myself back in the angst-ridden situation. I’d try to talk myself out of being happy and being more cautious about Mack. What did it say about me if I didn’t want to worry?
“When you planning on starting that?” Jackson asked, startling me out of my circling thoughts.
I glanced at the classic car and shrugged. “When my other work gets done.”
Jackson pushed off from the desk, holding out a clipboard while giving me a knowing look. “Tell ya what. How ‘bout you inspect while I’ll take the notes? If there isn’t anything major, we can get her on the road for a test drive.”
I narrowed my eyes, watching him. He cocked a brow at me expectantly. He just called my bluff, forcing me to deal with something I’d been putting off all day. Manipulative little bastard.
“Fine.” The snap of my voice brought a smile to his face. Yanking the latex gloves off my hands and throwing them in the trash, I went for my mechanics gloves, the ones I used for special oc
casions. This, to me, was a very special occasion. I made my way over to the Aston.
The sound of Jackson clicking his pen made me want to rip it out of his hands and break it in half. I didn’t though—no point in giving my brothers any more info to use against me later. He was too excited for this. His body vibrated with unspent energy, but I had a feeling it had more to do with what happened at Flame than the car sitting before us. When I asked for the recipe for the risotto, I hadn’t expected Mack to give Jackson a job. Seeing how happy my brother was though, I couldn’t be mad at Mack for the offer. I rolled my eyes at Jackson and got to work, pushing everything else aside.
Really what I needed to do was remove Mack from the equation for now. The vehicle in front of me presented a rare opportunity to touch, let alone work on, something very few people got to see. I couldn’t waste what any other gearhead would consider the experience of a lifetime.
My fingertips ran along the cool sliver aluminum skin stretched out over a steel skeleton. Any bubbles found on the paint could mean the two metals had reacted to one another. It would also mean an extensive and expensive repair. I checked every inch of her skin and was pleased to tell Jackson I hadn’t found a single bubble. I did have him note, though, the earlier wear and tear we saw on the paint the day it came in.
I checked the sills, a common place for rot. I only found a little on the passenger side door window, which was pretty good for a fifty-five year old car. I also checked the bulkhead, the jacking points, the trailing arm mounts, bumper supports, and the floor of the boot—trunk for us Americans. After a look at the engine, I noticed it was missing an oil cooler and one of the VIN plates was absent. Nothing major of course. The car was old. So, I had Jackson add a place for fabricating parts on the list. The oil cooler would be the first part we’d need made in a very long time. The Aston also required a new timing chain installed. The one on it had a lot of wear and tear. If it broke, the engine would be ruined.
“Going in,” I stated while Jackson was busy writing down everything I’d called off to him. The driver’s door creaked as I opened it. We could oil the hinge, but to be honest, the sound would return. In my mind, it was part of the charm of owning a classic car.
The interior was perfection and not what one would expect to find from an antique car. The bucket seats had at one point been reupholstered to a bright red. Since they weren’t the original design of the car, I told Jackson to make a note of the interior and recommend to Mack to have the seats and dash restored to their original state.
Situating myself behind the large, wood-rimmed steering wheel, I looked at Jackson over the hood, which seemed to stretch on for miles. The dainty wooden shift knob would have to be replaced. The gear pattern on this model was a five speed, and the etched markings on the shifter were almost worn off. Not that it mattered to anyone who drove a manual vehicle. We could change gears with our eyes closed.
I glanced down at the speedometer and odometer to check that both didn’t have any damage then read off the mileage to Jackson for him to write down as well. When I was satisfied I’d covered everything, right down to the mini cigarette ashtrays in the center console, I spied a look at the keys patiently waiting in the ignition. My fingers itched to depart. It had been Landon who’d driven the car into the bay once it had been removed from the rollback.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jackson said, his tone heavy with frustration before getting in on the passenger side.
The knowing glint in his green eyes had me quickly depressing the clutch so I could start the car. Since it was already in reverse, I put it back into first. The heaviness of the tight clutch didn’t bother me, but the tautness in the shifter moving did. I had Jackson make a small note to check the synchro in the gear shift as well. I couldn’t stop the sigh of pure pleasure as the engine turned over immediately. She purred like a wet dream. The intensity of the sound just couldn’t be matched with today’s automobiles. Nothing beat old school engineering.
“Fuck yeah,” Jackson whispered, his tone filled with the absolute awe I was also feeling. “Sounds better than the ‘Cuda.”
It so did.
“Let’s take her for a ride.” I eased off the clutch gently, waiting for a jump or a rumble from under the hood. Instead, we rolled right out of the bay, the engine doing all the work. Depressing the gas, we zipped toward the exit, snatching second gear as we went. Though still a bit stiff, she shifted like a dream, and the power of the motor could be felt from the tips of my fingers to the bottoms of my toes.
When the coast was clear, we took off like a slingshot, maneuvering onto the open road. Jackson roared with pure glee, and I was right there with him, experiencing exactly what he was. I couldn’t wipe the smile of pure pleasure off my face even if I tried.
“Open her up,” he urged, and I did, pushing the four-point zero-liter, six-cylinder engine. She purred, and like always, I fell in love with this handcrafted work of art. “Heard top speed is 142 miles per hour.” Jackson gave me a knowing look.
“Not happening. We don’t own it. I’m not risking crashing it because we can’t afford to pay restitution to a prominent businessman who would sink both our business and each one of us into the ground,” I gently reminded him.
Jackson was still young. He had a ton to learn about owning a business and what it entailed.
“Could’ve been fun.” He sighed, disappointed with my decision. “Is the clutch slipping?”
I shook my head. Though, I had been testing the pedal when I shifted to check the pressure and synchro. “No. It’s tight, I believe. I’m wondering if whoever had it replaced the part but never adjusted the clutch properly. We can dig deeper when we get her back on the lift.”
I swung into a convenience store to turn around, finished with my assessment. “Want to drive it back?”
Excitement flared in his eyes. As much as Jackson loved cooking, he was like the rest of the Banks family and had oil pulsing through his veins. “Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?” He quirked a brow.
“Ahh…maybe?”
“The answer is yes, Ireland. Of course, I’d love to drive her sweet little ass back to the garage,” he said, exasperated with me.
“Ugh. Gross. Why do men insist on referencing a car like it’s a woman?” I’d never divulge I’d called the Aston her, or any of the others I’d coveted over the years, including my Custom.
Jackson snorted and got out of the car. I met him in front of the idling engine, which gave me a moment to listen to her. Dad taught us how to pay attention to a vehicle with all of our senses. Out of the four of us, I had the best ear. I could hear the tiniest tick and miss. I had a love-hate relationship with my ear, because a car, even in its prime, could never lope cleanly enough to be as smooth as silk for me.
“I’d answer that question if I knew you wouldn’t try to beat my ass after.” He grinned, tapping the roof of the car.
I bit back my chuckle and shook my head before getting in. There wasn’t a miss or a tick in her engine, which meant, again, someone had taken care of their vehicle. I suspected all she’d need was a tune up. Jackson sat behind the wheel, his hands gripping the steering as if he imagined himself driving the car.
“Keep it under fifty,” I warned. All three of my brothers were my heavy-footed drivers. They didn’t know the meaning of slow. “If we get pulled over, I’m gonna have to kick your ass.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “Yes, Mom.”
I snickered “I swear, we didn’t beat you up enough when you were younger.”
“Too late now, short-stuff,” he teased. “You couldn’t take me, even if you tried.”
“Is that a dare?”
Jackson swore under his breath, aware of how I handled dares. I went balls to the wall to prove I could hand each one of the boys their asses, several times over.
“No, it’s not. It’s a comment.”
“Good boy.” I grinned.
As Jackson drove back to the garage, I made sure to listen to
the car and the engine as Jackson put her through the paces.
“Pull the car back into my bay,” I remarked when he pulled into the parking lot.
After he’d turned off the car and opened the door, I rolled my neck and shoulders while catching my younger brother’s gaze. “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “No biggie. I was glad to help. You going to look at the diagnostics report Landon ran?”
“How do you know I haven’t already?”
“Because you don’t. You do all this shit first.” Jackson swept his hand in front of him. “Then you check the report to see if you’re were right.” He got out, then poked his head back into the interior. “Where is it? It wasn’t on the clipboard.”
I gestured to my table. “Over there.”
He’d locate it easily. It was in my bin attached to the work order. My brothers knew I didn’t deal with mess at work. The same couldn’t be said for my shit at home or my personal life.
When I got out of the car, Sia’s powerful, shaky vibrato echoed through the garage. Hunter must’ve left early, and Landon now had control of the music. His taste was as eclectic as mine.
Jackson, as if reading my mind, muttered, “Hunter has a hot date tonight.”
I cocked a brow. “Someone we know?”
It was a joke, since none of us really knew anyone in the town unless they were our customers.
“Nope,” he said popping his p. “Some chick he ran into at the deli department at the grocery store the other day.”
“How cliché.” Although, I guess not any less commonplace than meeting a customer for dinner at his restaurant.
Jackson chuckled. “Right? Said the same thing when Land told me.” He pulled the heavy stock blue folder/envelope from my desk.
Hunter had made sure to have their work orders printed on them. It allowed them to place all the correspondence in a secure place during and after the work was done. The customer was also required to sign off on it after reading and understanding any warranty they may or may not provide.
