by Penny Reid
There it was.
That was that.
No biggie, I shrugged, plenty of fish in the sea.
. . . Right.
I drove into work Monday morning, arriving before the sun was up and debating my next steps. The strange truth was, despite her oddness—and moodiness, and rudeness, and unpredictability—I liked the woman.
I liked how clever she was, how she approached fixing cars, how she manufactured her own parts like it wasn’t a big deal. I admired that about her. I also liked that she was contemplative before she spoke, and never talked just to hear herself speak. There was nothing flighty or trivial about her, and she reminded me of Duane that way.
I wanted to know her better.
Duane was leaving, and if I didn’t want every day at work for the rest of my life to suck, then Shelly and I were going to have to find common ground. Sadly, it couldn’t be sexy common ground either.
Coworkers didn’t argue, didn’t have sex, didn’t have wet dreams and fantasies about each other.
I loitered at the front of the garage for two hours, wanting to catch her when she came in. I worked through every oil change scheduled for the day. Then I moved on to replacing a muffler. I was just finishing up when I heard tires on gravel.
It was 7:27 AM. Shelly stepped out of her parked car and my heart jumped like a traitor. Crossing my arms and setting my feet apart, I waited for her to traverse the thirty feet to the shop, taking an eyeful of her as I did so.
She was already wearing her coveralls and boots. Her usual long braid seemed to be missing. As she drew closer I noticed she’d affixed the braid to the top of her head like a big cinnamon bun. I liked it. She looked cute.
Cute?
Yeah. Cute. Deal with it.
I knew the precise moment she spotted me. Her steps slowed and she leaned to her right, like the sight of me carried weight.
Impatient, I dropped the dirty rag I’d been gripping and moved to intercept her, all the while ignoring jittery nerves in my stomach.
“Hi.” I gave her a small smile as I approached and did my best to not think of her naked, or wonder if she was wearing lacy underthings.
She stopped, tensed like she was bracing for something, an argument maybe.
“You’re here early.”
“Yeah.” I scratched my neck, my smile stretching. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Shelly inspected me, aloof as usual. “Talk.”
“Do you want some coffee?” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder. “I just made some.”
“I do not drink it.”
“Coffee?”
“No.” I thought that was all she would volunteer, but then she shifted her weight to one foot and stuffed her hands in her pockets, saying, “It makes me more anxious.”
“Huh.” I cocked my head to the side, studying her. “Decaf?”
“No. Tea. Herbal.”
“Oh. How do you take your tea?”
“Plain.”
“No sugar? No milk?”
She stared at me, like she was searching my words for a hidden meaning, then repeated, “Plain.”
“I’ll make sure we have some on hand here, if you’re ever thirsty.”
“I drink water.”
“Nice to have something other than water, every once in a while.”
Shelly pressed her lips together while her jaw worked. Abruptly, she walked past me.
“What do you want, Beau?”
I followed.
“I’d like to discuss Saturday, what happened at Genie’s.” No use beating around the bush.
She stopped just inside the garage, setting her bag under a table and reorganizing the tools I’d been using earlier for the oil changes. “What about it?”
“I guess you’re dealing with some stuff?”
She didn’t answer, but the muscle at her jaw ticked, her attention still on the tools.
“I don’t want to pry—”
“Then don’t pry.”
“—but you’re all alone here, as far as I can tell. There’s no reason not to be friendly.”
She huffed a short laugh but didn’t smile. “Friendly.”
“Yes. Friendly.” I studied her profile; a wisp of hair had broken free from the bun and braid, and it curled lazily down her back. I wanted to tug on it, wrap it around my finger, and bite and lick the skin where her shoulder met her neck.
Instead, I folded my arms over my chest. “The thing is, Cletus—my brother—he has great respect for you.”
Shelly lifted her eyes to mine and stared at me from behind her sheet of ice, giving me nothing.
So I continued. “It’s true, I’m technically your boss. Even so, I would very much like to get to know you better.”
She shifted on her feet again, her eyebrows pulling together as though my words confused her. Shelly opened her mouth to speak.
“But Cletus is my brother.” I cut her off, needing to finish saying my piece.
“What does Cletus or his respect for me have to do with anything?”
Now here’s the part of my plan that was a little blurry. I’d hoped that Shelly would pick up on the subtlety of my words thus far. That was a silly hope. Clearly, Shelly Sullivan didn’t operate in subtleties.
I had to make a decision. Would it be wrong of me to share Cletus’s intentions?
Maybe.
Probably.
Yet, in that moment, I didn’t care. I was much more interested in her reaction to his intentions than making life easy for Cletus.
It’s not like I’m going to besmirch his character, I reasoned. I’m just going to spill his beans.
And so I said, “It means, he’s fond of you. A lot. And he intends to . . . court you.”
I watched her for a reaction, like a hawk.
She lifted her chin, her eyes clouding with understanding as she absorbed my words, but all she said was, “Oh.”
My mouth tugged downward and I searched her eyes, looking for something, anything that would give me a clue as to what she was thinking. Was this good news? Or bad? Was she adverse to the idea? Or what?
Shelly revealed nothing, staring at me from behind her glacial fortress. My stomach pitched, then dropped, and I rubbed a hand over my face.
Forcing a determined smile, I plowed ahead. “So how about you and I start over?”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“We’ll be working together, for who knows how long, so we might as well make an effort to be civil.”
“Civil?”
“Yeah.”
“Be more specific.”
“Fine. Friends.”
She flinched and her gaze sharpened. “Is that what you want?”
No. Not really. “Yes. Of course.”
A tempest gathered in her eyes and her expression turned severe. “I don’t want to be your friend.”
“Excuse me?”
“You aren’t excused.”
“No,” I shook my head. “I mean, what? Why wouldn’t you want to be friends?”
“It’s not what I want.” Her voice rose to a near shout. Shelly was full-on glaring at me now, and I got the sense my suggestion of being friends troubled her on a fundamental level.
“Then what do you want?” I asked gently, which only seemed to infuriate her further.
For the record, that was not my intention. I was trying to make peace, and in doing so, give myself some peace of mind. Somehow, Miss Shelly Sullivan and her black lace underwear, and her tank top with no bra, and her eyes that looked into my soul, had invaded my thoughts, filled my mind and hijacked my dreams with impossible possibilities.
It needed to stop, and not just because of my brother’s intentions. She was all alone here. She was in therapy for heaven’s sake. All signs pointed to off limits.
So when she yelled, “I want—” she lifted her hands like she was going to grab my arms, and I braced myself for her touch.
Instead, she balled them into fists and spat, “I want you to lea
ve me alone.”
I rocked back on my heels, not masking my surprise at the venom in her tone. She was angry, that much was obvious. As to why, I had no clue.
“Okay, fine.” I nodded once, grinding my teeth.
“I want you to reset the auto lift when you’re finished using it. I am tired of cleaning up your messes.”
Well. Okay then.
“Fine.” I took a step back.
“And, how you sing along with music while you have headphones on? Stop doing that.”
“Anything else?” I taunted. “Any more demands, your Regal Majesticness?” This woman brought out the worst in me.
Her glare grew furious and she shoved her face in mine. “You often speak in even-numbered word sentences.” The statement flew out of her mouth, and she made it sound like the vilest insult imaginable.
However, that made absolutely zero sense.
I stared at her, lifting an eyebrow as I waited for her to explain.
When she didn’t, I asked, “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” she swallowed and then shook her head rapidly, “I’m very frustrated.”
“Yeah?” I scoffed. “Well, join the club.”
“I do not like you right now.”
“I don’t like you either. But what does that have to do with how many words are in my sentences?”
“Nothing.” She turned from me, grabbed her bag from where she’d placed it, and walked farther into the garage.
I started to follow. “Shelly—”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Leave me alone.”
Biting back a curse, I let her go, thankful I’d completed so much work before she’d arrived. If our interaction just now was any indication, the rest of the day was going to suck.
* * *
Everything did suck.
Shelly wouldn’t speak to me, she wouldn’t look at me. You’d think I’d murdered her abominable parrot instead of suggesting being nice. It wasn’t until Thursday that she addressed me at all, and then it was the strangest conversation I’d ever had.
I was working on the under carriage of Jacob Templeton’s Buick. He’d driven over some rocks, like a fool. When I rolled out from under the car, I found Shelly hovering, waiting for me.
I blinked up at her. “Can I help you?”
“Do you . . . like to eat?”
“To eat?”
“Food.”
“Food?”
Dammit.
Here I was, sounding like her parrot again.
“Yes. Food.” She crossed her arms, glaring down at me.
This felt like a trick question, especially after several days of her cold-shoulder treatment. As such, I took my time thinking over potential hidden meanings and worst-case scenarios.
Once, when I was a kid, my daddy knocked my lights out after I’d complained about being hungry.
You’re hungry? Well, here’s a knuckle sandwich.
Drawing my legs up, I placed my elbows on my knees and peered up at her. She had strong hands, a strong body. She lifted tires and all manner of machinery without complaint, never once asked for help. Her left hook would probably make a considerable impact.
Shelly shifted her weight from foot to foot, which was the closest to fidgeting I’d ever seen her do. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was nervous.
Seeing no reason to delay further, I responded—but just in case, I readied myself to take a punch. “Yes. I’ve been known to eat food.”
“Good.” She nodded, inhaled, bit her bottom lip, and kept on nodding.
I waited for a few seconds.
When she didn’t speak, I stood, dusting my hands off on my coveralls. “Are you referring to any particular kind of food?”
“I like bread.” Shelly backed up as I straightened, her attention on the car behind me. She shoved her hands in her pockets, looking like she wanted to say more. Her cheeks were red, but I chalked that up to it being hot in the garage.
Another long pause. I huffed my impatience.
We were backed up. There’d been a Parkway accident on Monday and another on Wednesday. We had a ton of body work to do, a new transmission to install, an unusual number of drop-ins, and a post-summer surge of AC maintenance issues. No one had taken a lunch break, we were too busy, and here she was bringing up food.
I glanced at my watch. “You do?”
“Yes. How about you?” she asked, and then grit her teeth, scowling.
“I like bread just fine.”
“Good.” Shelly rubbed her forehead, now looking completely frustrated.
I had no idea what was going on in her head, and no time to finesse an answer out of her, so I asked plainly, “Shelly, why are you asking me about food?”
“Because it’s important to eat. I wanted to make sure that you’re eating.”
“You want to make sure I’m eating?”
“That is correct.” She’d gone from frustrated to discernibly downtrodden.
I searched my mind, and then I searched her face, her eyes, her body language, looking for some sign as to what the heck this was about.
On a hunch, I was about to ask her if she wanted to go grab something to eat after work when she turned and walked away, mumbling, “Never mind, forget I said anything,” or something like that.
After that things got worse. She started speaking to me again, but only to criticize and complain.
“You’re going to clean that up.”
“When are you going to be finished?”
“You’re not finished?”
“Do you need me to do it?”
The woman was seriously trying my patience. But the only thing that irritated her more than my presence was when I was unfailingly polite, so I made sure to be just that.
“Yes, I’ll clean that up. So sorry to have bothered you.”
“I’ll be finished soon, Shelly. But if you’re in a hurry, please take it.”
“Almost finished, but I’m happy to wait if you need to go first.”
“I don’t require your assistance, but I’m always interested in my friends’ expert opinions.”
Man, oh man, that last one really pissed her off. I thought she was going to lose her temper. She didn’t. Instead, she stomped out of the garage and disappeared around the corner.
She’d also spent the week wowing us with her mechanical prowess, engineering and casting a new part for Judge Payton’s 1923 Piedmont Touring that basically saved the engine, and worked overtime to save our asses. Between the four of us, we managed to catch up by late Friday.
Of note, those dirty dreams hadn’t stopped either.
Every day she impressed me, ignored me, or snapped at me. Every night I collapsed, exhausted, and we made use of each other’s bodies in my dreams. And every morning I woke up frustrated.
Adding fuel to the frustration tire-fire, Drill stopped by on Wednesday. He repeated more frantically that Christine wanted a meeting. I reminded him he’d given me a month and the month wasn’t over yet. He in turn reminded me I only had one week left.
I was more than ready to be done with work by the time Friday night rolled around. Duane and Jess had invited me to go with them to the jam session. I thought about it. A night of listening to music and eating coleslaw and fried chicken sounded like a good remedy for a shitty week. But the idea of being Beau Winston—joking, smiling all night after forcing politeness and disinterest in Shelly Sullivan all week—was unbearable.
Hank had asked me to fill in for his bartender at the Pink Pony, but I begged off. I wouldn’t be good company for anybody, especially not the horndogs at the strip club. My bad mood would be bad for his business.
For the first time in a long time, I was alone at the big house, reading in Momma’s library and drinking Scotch. I’d picked a book at random and settled in one of the four big chairs clustered in the center of the room. It turned out to be a book on art history, a subject I’d never given much thought to. The contents managed to
hold my attention surprisingly well.
“You found yourself a picture book?”
I glanced up from the page I was reading to see Billy standing in the doorway. He was still dressed in his work clothes, though his tie and jacket were gone.
“Yep. And it has naked ladies, too.”
Billy smirked, then laughed belatedly, shaking his head at me. His attention snagged on the glass in my hand.
“What’re you drinking?”
“Aberfeldy.” I lifted my chin to the sidebar.
“Don’t mind if I do.” My older brother strolled into the room.
The bar used to be empty. Momma didn’t allow liquor in the house. But since she’d died, we’d slowly started filling it with the essentials for gatherings: a decent vodka, a better tequila, a subpar rum. I’d added the Scotch earlier in the evening, having made a special trip into Knoxville to pick it up.
After pouring two fingers, Billy claimed the chair diagonal from mine. He studied me over the rim of his glass, like he was waiting for me to speak.
When I didn’t, he asked, “What’s troubling you, Beau?”
“Nothing.”
“Something.”
“What makes you say so?”
“You’re here. At home. On a Friday night.”
“So?”
“Usually you’re out on a Friday night, entertaining your flock of admirers.”
I considered my brother, watched him as he swirled his drink.
Now, I liked Billy a lot, and I respected him more than I liked him. He stepped in, took care of Momma, took care of us when Jethro—who was the oldest and should have been drawing our daddy’s fire—was being an ass.
Yet he and I had never been particularly close, especially after his junior year of high school, when he’d lost all chance of a football scholarship. My father and his motorcycle club brothers had beaten the tar out of Billy. Broke his leg. My brother returned from the hospital sullen and withdrawn, and had been in a perpetually brusque mood since.
Until recently, Billy had hated Jethro.
Cletus and Billy had always been close.
Ashley had been living her life in Chicago until last spring. But since moving back home, I knew Ash and Billy had lunch once a week at his office.
