Mustang Summer

by Marie Johnston

“There you are.”

  Oh, yeah. That was why.

  Her dad came into the garage from the house and she wanted to sigh. All those nice shirts she bought him and he wore the wife beaters. You know I don’t do that nice stuff, he’d groused. Because the pack of three tees for twenty bucks was too much of a splurge.

  “Hey, Bill. I came to do the financials.” The legal ones. His one streak of chivalry was refusing to let her touch those books.

  Paunchy cheeks puffed out. He didn’t like her hair, either, but she was his one soft spot. She used to be such a daddy’s girl. Until he cut her off from mechanic duties. Then he became Bill.

  Which also worked against her because his protective streak was racetrack wide. Exhibit one: Gage.

  Bill sifted his thinning blond hair to the side. Shave it all, she’d urged, but he refused to. Said her mother had liked it long.

  Little did he know, she’d talked her mom, bless her soul, into putting the clippers down when he’d been snoring in his recliner one afternoon.

  “I gathered all of June’s financials into a folder for you.”

  “Josie,” Gage piped up, “I’m grabbing lunch. What do you want?”

  “Nothing.” Not from you.

  “Baby doll, don’t be rude.” And it was Bill to Gage’s rescue. “That’s not how you treat a man who offers to buy you a meal.”

  Gage smirked. “Turkey sandwich, on rye?”

  “Sourdough,” she called over her shoulder as she headed to the office. “With a ton of mayo, and not the light stuff.”

  “Mayo’s not good for your heart, Jo. Right, Bill? She’s gotta watch her ticker.”

  Josie fisted her hands. If Gage wanted to win her back, he was heading in the opposite direction. But in her opinion, all roads were closed as far as she and Gage were concerned.

  She popped her head out of the office to glare at Gage. “My heart is none of your business.”

  Gage folded his arms and shrugged. “No, but it’s your dad’s.”

  Bill shot her that look, the one she hated, the one that said he was trying to do his best by her.

  “Fine,” she huffed. I’ll choke on my dry sandwich.

  Why did Bill worry about her health when he’d let her mom cook herself to death by frying everything in lard?

  Locating the folder, she thumbed through the documents. Her day grew dimmer with each one. Her dad’s business was struggling. She blew out a breath of frustration. Job hunting was in her future.

  Rather, more job hunting. Either no one wanted to hire an accountant whose only client was her dad and his failing business, or Bill found out and intervened with a “good” word.

  Josie’s mouth flattened. And here she’d thought her mom had gladly been a stay-at-home mom to her and her older brother. The stories Josie heard growing up about what food her mom would serve if she ran a restaurant weren’t tall tales. Bill probably wanted her at home “for her own good.”

  The floor creaked outside of the office. Josie looked up and didn’t bother hiding her disdain.

  A lock of black hair fell over Gage’s forehead. She suspected he did it on purpose, to give himself the smoldering bad boy appeal. It wasn’t the hair that worked, but the actions that made him a bad boy—not in a good way.

  He set a bag down from the corner deli.

  “Did you at least grab a bag of chips for me?” She knew the answer was the same as that to another question: Did the fender resting inside the doorway belong to a car with an owner who knew where it was?

  No.

  “You don’t need chips.” Gage hooked a chair with his shoe and sat down. His coveralls were hanging at the waist. His Alvarez Automotive gray T-shirt had seen better days, but the way it molded over his torso was the reason he’d never get rid of it.

  How had she not seen how vain he was?

  “It’s not your call,” she informed him.

  “It is when I’m buying.”

  “Please. I’m going through the receipts. You never buy your own lunch.” Just like her father never listened to her and packed a lunch.

  Oh, Bill would let her prepare food for him and the guys, then come and do the books, only to go home to make more food.

  A woman’s place and all that bullshit.

  “Bill insists.” Gage’s glittering brown eyes studied her hair.

  She resisted fidgeting with her pen and stared at him. Funny how being pinned under Brock hadn’t been as uncomfortable as five minutes with Gage. And she hadn’t been filled with insecurities about her looks around the farm boy.

  Gage’s voice dropped low. “Quit this foolishness and come back to me.”

  Same plea, different day.

  “Banging Camilla was just foolishness?” Her voice was flat, but the pain in her heart wasn’t. She’d been head over heels for Gage. Bill had approved and encouraged their relationship, and she’d given Gage all she had.

  Until Gage had acted just like her father.

  Gage’s expression turned hard. “Come on. We already discussed this, been over it a hundred times. How many times do I gotta apologize?”

  “I dunno. How many times did you fuck her?”

  He glowered at her. “Language, Jo.”

  “Swear words are the like the elusive female orgasm. Satisfying once I finally get to use one.”

  Red tinged his cheeks. Hit a nerve had she? Which proved she had better aim than he did because her private bundle of nerves had always won the hide and seek game with him.

  Had Camilla gotten off?

  Since Josie’s luck sucked lately, Camilla probably had. The blond and blue-eyed beauty was the opposite of Josie in every way. And had been after Gage for years.

  Camilla can have him.

  Gage leaned forward and knocked on the desktop. “You’ll come back. Just wait. We were good together.”

  He ambled out and a pang of longing went through her. Not for Gage, specifically, but for what she’d thought they had.

  Three delusional years he’d strung her along. He’d snagged her right out of college after she’d been hearing her dad gush about his new hire. She’d come home and shot straight into Gage’s waiting arms.

  Josie tried to go back to crunching numbers, but her vision was blurring. A year ago her mother had died from a heart attack and grief had bogged her ever since.

  Had Gage supported her when she’d needed him the most?

  No, but from the rumors, he’d supported the hell out of Camilla.

  The floor outside the door groaned again. Josie blinked back her tears.

  Bill lumbered in and parked in the chair Gage had vacated. “When are you getting back with that boy?”

  “Why do you want me to settle for a cheater?”

  Bill’s face rippled with displeasure. “Boys will be boys. He says he won’t do it again.”

  Why’d she expect her dad to think affairs were deal breakers? How often had she walked in on her mom crying?

  “It’s my personal life.” If she said it enough, would he believe her?

  “You’re twenty-six, Josie. I can’t have you running around town single. You need a guy in your life to take care of you.”

  A guy in her life taking care of her didn’t sound like a bad thing. But from what Josie had witnessed, Bill and Gage expected her to meet all of their needs and do everything they said. Gage was a future she could still get away from. She couldn’t bring herself to leave her father. She loved him, despite all his many, many flaws. What would he do without her?

  “We need to talk about your books, Dad.”

  He shrugged. “There’s ups and downs. We’ll go back up soon.”

  Had there ever been an up? Bill was relying more and more on his shady hobby to float his legit business.

  Still, she pressed. “We still haven’t sat down to discuss a budget for Alvarez Automotive. All I need to know is what you want to buy to restore and how much you think you could get for it once it’s done. I can figure out the details. Once we have…
”

  He was staring out the window. Ignoring her again.

  She tightened her hand around the pen. “You gave me this job and I can help you, but you have to let me.”

  His brows drew down. “You’re my daughter. I help you, you don’t help me.” He stood and adjusted his waistband. “What’s this about Jesse’s court date and you planning to be there?”

  Her stomach sank. Jesse must’ve talked to him. She hadn’t planned on mentioning anything until the morning she was leaving.

  “It’s on the fifteenth and yes, I’d like to be there.” Her brother was the one guy in her life she felt like Josie Alvarez around, yet he had epically fucked up and she was on her own.

  Bill growled. “I always knew that boy would be trouble. Told your mother she coddled him too much.”

  Josie agreed. Bill had raised Jesse like his own—while constantly pointing out that Jesse didn’t share his gene pool. While Bill was a chauvinist and had atrocious business ethics, he wasn’t the most horrible father, so it could’ve been worse.

  But she’d heard her mother mutter often enough that Jesse’s real dad, bless his soul, would’ve been better.

  Bill interrupted her reverie. “Can you afford to go down there? I gotta stay at the garage. We’re almost done with the Charger and a buyer’s coming to look at it next week.”

  The business couldn’t afford to send her, as if there was a valid write-off for “travel to brother’s court date for moral support.” She’d pay for it like she did her last trip—by doing graphic design through small-time internet jobs. Her brother was responsible for her interest. He used to doodle, then progressed into drawing mock-ups of people’s tattoos. Eventually, it was about the software, and being the little sister, she’d always wanted to know what he was doing. She didn’t mind the work, it was something she could do at home under Bill’s radar. When combined with the money her neighbor Penny gave her to watch her two older kids when she took the youngest to the doctor, she scraped enough together for her Moore trips.

  “It’ll work out,” was all she said.

  “Good.” He rubbed his chin. “Good. Listen, while you’re down there, I need you to make a stop and buy a car for me.”

  With what funds? Until the Charger sold, the only liquid asset around this place was the oil waste canister.

  “What is it?” Pointing out a lack of money only meant more bits and pieces entered the house for painting.

  “Swing around to Detroit Lakes, before or after you’re in Moore, I don’t care, and talk to this guy who has a ’68 Shelby GT500 for sale. Guess he’s picky about who he’s going to sell it to, but it’s going for thirty-five grand.”

  How much? “Is it worth it? Sounds like he won’t part with it for much less than we could sell it for.”

  Bill’s expression was serious. “Didn’t you hear the year, Jo? It’s a ’68. I could make a hundred grand minimum on the flip.”

  Josie made a choking sound, glad she didn’t have a mouthful of dry sandwich.

  “I have an interested buyer already, but we need that car. Go ahead and take your normal ride, I’m all done with it.”

  He’d let her go wheel and deal for a car and not complain about her wasting more time and money on another trip to Moore? Plus, she’d get to drive a real car—her real car?

  She glanced out the window to see a perky little brunette strutting down the street, a big smile on her face. Gage was marching out to meet her, his body language tight and he was gesturing to the house. Hmm, not Camilla. Another of Gage’s rumored conquests? The one who was seeing him through his loneliness after Josie had left him?

  She turned back to her dad. “How ’bout I go talk to the guy a couple days before Jesse’s court date?”

  ***

  It was another blistering day and Brock was navigating backroads to reach the address of the Shelby GT500. Mr. Blackwood lived well outside of Detroit Lakes city limits. Brock had already missed a turn and had to find an approach to turn around in.

  He checked his GPS again. Dammit, it said the turn was here.

  He looked around. Fences and wheat fields and trees dotted the countryside enough that he couldn’t see a thing.

  He punched in the address and waited for it to register. Same directions. Turn where there’s no fucking turn.

  Puffing out a breath, he took the first right he came across. There was a copse of trees that the road disappeared into. It came out the other side and swung another right. Suddenly, his GPS was back on track.

  He fumed and followed the directions to the house arriving exactly ten minutes late.

  An older man with a stooped back was pulling some weeds from a flower bed. The car wasn’t in sight, likely stored in the old garage across the yard from the house.

  Brock parked and got out.

  The man straightened and eyed Brock with disapproval. “Brock Walker?”

  “Yes, sir.” Brock scanned the expansive yard with a square farmhouse that had at least fifty years on his own place.

  Make eye contact when greeting someone.

  He pulled his gaze back to Mr. Blackwood.

  The man shuffled to him and stuck out his hand. Brock shook it dutifully.

  Apologize when you’re late, Brockie. It’s expected.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Hmph.” Mr. Blackwood shuffled to the house’s wrap around porch. “I been waitin’ on ya for twenty minutes.”

  Brock followed. “I’m ten minutes late.”

  “Ever heard the expression ‘If you’re on time, you’re late’?” Mr Blackwood shook his head and muttered, “Kids these days.”

  “I’ve heard the expression, but I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-five.”

  That earned him a scowl. Brock tensed. What had he said wrong? Mr. Blackwood reminded him a lot of his Grandpa Walker. Gramps had dealt less well with Brock than Brock’s father had. Brock and his dad managed a small bond over their cars, but Gramps had several other grandchildren that weren’t awkward and quiet. He’d gravitated toward them more than Brock.

  “Have a seat.”

  Brock planted himself in the plastic deck chair. Two glasses of lemonade sweated on a round, green plastic table. A small breeze made it tolerable to be outside of air conditioning, although he doubted the house had AC anyway.

  “Why do you want the car?” Mr. Blackwood’s keen gaze studied him from under his worn cowboy hat.

  “I want to fix it up.”

  “Son, I’ve about had it with you already. I’d think long and hard about your answer if you’re serious about the car. I bought that gem when it rolled off the line and drove my wife all over town. Showed ’em both off.” His voice hitched and he fell silent.

  Brock rattled off everything he knew about the make and model. “The ’68 Shelby GT500 has a seven liter V8 engine and cranks out well over three hundred horse-power. It’s a drag racer’s favorite.”

  A suspicious gleam entered Blackwood’s eyes. “Into racing?”

  “No.”

  The older man sipped his lemonade and reclined in his chair. “What do you think it’d go for nowadays?”

  “Fully refurbished, they’ve been known to sell for over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, some up to two hundred thousand.”

  Blackwood set his lemonade down and slapped his hands on his knees. “Well, I think we’re done now. You can go on home.”

  Brock blinked. “But I haven’t seen it.”

  “You don’t need to.” Knees cracked as Blackwood stood. “I’ve got someone else coming to interview.”

  Brock’s mouth set, but he remained where he was. “I’d like to buy the car.”

  It was the one he and his dad talked for years about working on together.

  “So would a lot of people, but what you don’t seem to understand is that it isn’t just a car.”

  No, he didn’t understand. And if he did, he wouldn’t be able to explain it anyway. What did Mr. Blackwood want other than to sell the car? Brock
answered every one of his questions honestly. What had he done wrong?

  He rose and stormed to his truck.

  Always say good-bye.

  “Bye,” he nearly shouted before he slammed his door.

  He left while replaying the conversation. Were there any parts where he forgot to heed his mom’s advice? Running through the whole visit, all three minutes of it, he couldn’t find the place where he upset Mr. Blackwood.

  He neared the turn to the bigger gravel road he’d been lost on and rolled to a complete stop.

  A red sports car raised a cloud of dust in the distance. It drew closer and Brock stayed parked.

  Candy apple red, the Mustang stood out against the brown dirt road and green countryside. Like the car Brock had hoped to purchase, it was a Shelby GT500, only fifty years newer.

  The car slowed and the outline of the female driver became visible. She had sassy, dark hair that was all too familiar.

  It turned in front of him, the driver wearing large sunglasses that covered half her face. Josie Alvarez.

  She stopped next to him and lowered her window. He did the same, with a stirring in his stomach that threatened to move south. Matching emotions with what his body was feeling was always a challenge, but this was more obvious. She was sexy, and her car was nice, too.

  “Why the long face, farm boy?”

  Farm boy? What was she doing out here? There was nothing behind him except the spread of an ornery car dealer. “Are you going to see Mr. Blackwood?”

  Her mouth curved in a sly smile. “It’s a nice car he’s got for sale.”

  “I wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t let me see it.”

  Surprise registered. “That picky is he?” She shrugged. “Eh, I can sweet talk him.”

  She’d definitely have an advantage and not just because she was striking with her wild hair and yellow tank top. From the height of his truck, he got a peek of her toned legs bared from her impossibly short shorts. She wouldn’t succeed because of her looks, she’d be able to actually talk with him.

  He swallowed hard with frustration and ran through his mental turmoil identification list to sort out what he was feeling beyond frustrated. He was irritated with Mr. Blackwood for brushing him off. And at himself because he wanted to hang out with Josie longer, ask about her car, peek under the hood. “Why do you want the car?”