by Moss, Brooke
By the time I hobbled into the first garage I’d come across in this sketchy neighborhood—because when do cars ever break down in nice, gated communities with manicured lawns and luxury cars parked in the driveway?—I resembled a limp piece of lettuce. My hair was flat, my clothes were wrinkled and soaked, and I was pretty sure I’d sweated most all of my makeup down into a bronze ring at the base of my neck.
Limping past the door of the corrugated metal shop with a red roof, I headed straight for the open double garage doors. There was no time to chitchat with some sort of dimwitted receptionist, and there had to be some grease monkey underneath one of these pieces of crap. I’d just spent forty-five minutes across a table from my mother, and if that wasn’t enough to put someone on edge, I didn’t know what would. My stomach dropped as I passed the mirrored glass door. I never went in public looking like this. Ever.
“What can I do for ya?”
Jumping, I tripped over a crack in the cement, and stumbled into the garage. Standing before me was a kid, likely in his early twenties, with a prominent nose and dark, shaggy hair. His coveralls were oil stained and greasy, and he was peering up at me from underneath the hood of a beat up truck that looked like it should’ve been laid to rest a decade ago. It was clear he was going to be gorgeous one day, once he’d gotten the chance to grow into his Mediterranean features, but for now he was sporting the awkwardly cute appearance of someone who knew not the full extent of his capability. I remembered those days.
“Yeah. I need help.” I said, tugging off my other shoe and tossing both of them into a nearby trashcan with a thunk. The back of my blouse was completely plastered to my skin.
His eyes widened. “Hey-yo. I can help you. What seems to be the problem, pretty lady?” Standing upright, his head whacked into the truck hood. He blushed and rubbed his tousled head sheepishly. “Ow. Sorry.”
I would’ve laughed, had I not been on the verge of heat exhaustion. When his eyes roamed from the top of my head, down to my toes, and back up again, I added, “Is it take your son to work day today?”
Years and years ago, I’d left the seventh grade in May with the body of a pubescent boy, then returned in September with the body of a Playboy model. I’d inherited my mother’s fondness for surgically enhanced boobs, and my father’s Cuban good looks, and whether I liked it or not, men took notice. My mom eventually took me shopping, introducing me to the fun of lingerie shopping and four inch heels, and by the time I was sixteen, I’d grown fond of the leering stares and the way I could control men with the flip of the hair or the jut of a hip. Now that I was in my thirties, I used my inherited looks to my advantage for everything from lowered insurance premiums to free mochas. Hey, you work with what you got, right?
The kid in the coveralls smirked. “Yeah, right. My dad doesn’t work here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re what? Sixteen? Seventeen, kid?”
“Nineteen,” he replied with a grin.
“Tempting, big guy.” I lifted my dampened hair off of my neck, and his eyebrows rose higher on his forehead. “But really, the sign says family owned and operated. Who runs this place?”
He straightened his shoulders. “Who says I don’t? Want a tour?”
This kid was persistent, I had to give him that. But I didn’t do the cougar thing. Not with boys that young, anyway. The youngest I dated was twenty-two, a full decade younger than me. I’d only done that because Candace had declared it inappropriate and morally wrong, and, well, I couldn’t let her win that argument, could I? We’d only gone out a few times, before I realized I was in competition with the guy’s Xbox, and that wasn’t gonna fly. I stuck to my own age bracket, or older, now.
“I’ll pass on that tour.” I pulled my wallet out of my handbag, then slid my platinum card out of his worn slot. “But seriously, my car’s broken down on Manito Boulevard, and I need a tow.”
He laughed. “That sucks.”
“Sure does.” This kid was getting on my nerves. Pressing my lips together, I glanced at his embroidered nametag. “So… Trey, do you think you could find someone to run out there and get it?”
Trey put his hand on the edge of the truck and leaned back casually. It slipped, making him stumble, then right himself with a grin. “I might be talked into it.”
I tilted my head to the side. “Are you joking?”
Now, normally I enjoyed being flirted with as much as any girl—maybe even more—but today I wasn’t interested. Not only was this boy out of my preferred age bracket, but I was also an hour late getting back to work the day before a three hundred guest wedding, and I still had to get someone to tow a car that I’d signed the lease on thirteen months ago.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Aggravation crept up the back of my sticky neck like a spider, so I put my hands on my hips and leaned closer to the kid. He gulped. “Listen up. I’ve got a dead car holding up traffic out there, and a business partner who will fillet me and serve me up with capers if I don’t get my ass back to work. Understand?” He nodded, so I went on. “So how’s about you call your tow truck guy and let me borrow a phone, m’kay?”
Trey furrowed his dark eyebrows at me. “You don’t have a phone?”
“I left it at a restaurant, okay?” I snapped, wiping my brow. “Seriously, would it kill you guys to air condition this place?”
“Too expensive,” growled a low voice from the back of the shop, making Trey stand up straight and tuck his hands into his pockets like a good boy. “There’s a recession going on. Or haven’t you heard?”
Snarling, I peered around the edge of the truck. “How long have you been over there?”
There was a scraping sound as a creeper rolled out from underneath a Honda Civic. “Judging by those fancy shoes you threw away, I don’t imagine someone like you understands the concept of a recession.”
“Excuse me?” I snapped.
“That’s my uncle.” Trey’s voice cracked, and he covered it up with a cough. “We’re business partners.”
There was a scoff from underneath the Honda. “Hey, Trey, why don’t you stop flirting with the woman and tell her whose name is on the lease?”
Whoever it was under that Civic, he needed a throat lozenge. This uncle’s voice sounded like he’d been gargling with broken glass for a decade or so. With a labored (or was that annoyed?) sigh, a man stood up and ambled towards me.
“Oh, my,” I said under my breath, dropping my hair and smoothing down the front of my skirt.
This guy was appealing. And by that, I meant straight shot of heat right to the center of my belly hot. He was tall, taller than me in a pair of four inch Jimmy Choo’s, which meant around six feet, and that was enough to make me want to turn a backbend right there on the cracked cement floor.
“You are, Uncle Demo.” Trey pronounced the name like Thee-mo, the traditional Greek dialect rolling off his tongue like butter.
Oh, they’re Greek? I thought to myself as this Demo character sauntered towards me with a scowl. His dark eyes were hooded with thick black eyebrows, and a trimmed five o’clock shadow decorated the bottom half of his face. His dark hair, peppered with silver strands above the ears, was dampened at the nape of his tanned neck, and stood in all directions. His coveralls were undone down to his waist, then tied in a knot at his hips, and all that he wore on the top half of his body was a white wife beater that practically sang next to his dark olive skin.
Demo, proprietor of Triple D’s Garage, was a bonafide Mediterranean stud. Not that I ever dated the work-by-the-sweat-of-his-brow type. My mother called dating men like that “slumming it,” but I wouldn’t go that far. I just didn’t find the rough hands, scarred skin, covered in sweat thing to be hot. No, I usually stuck with doctors, lawyers, and executive types. The kind that wore suits made out of Italian wool and drove cars as nice as min, or better. The kind who spent their days immersed in paperwork and strategy meetings, not axle grease and transmission fluid.
Hey, I’m no
t stupid. I knew it was shallow, but the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, I supposed. Squaring my shoulders, I turned my attention away from the horny kid and onto his buffed up relative. Maybe sticking with the guys in suits was overrated. My friend Candace always said her ophthalmologist husband, Brian, was at his hottest when he was mowing the lawn shirtless. Maybe she had a point. Slumming it couldn’t be that bad, when guys like this were up for grabs.
Apples & Oranges: Book 2 in the This & That Series
Coming soon from Brooke Moss
"I write because if I don't...my head will explode, and ruin the drapes."♥
Brooke writes complex, character-driven stories about kismet, reunited lovers, first love, and the kind of romance that we should all have the chance at finding. She prefers her stories laced with some humor just for fun, and enough drama to keep her readers flipping the pages, and begging for more. When Brooke isn't spinning tales, she spends her time drawing/cartooning, reading, watching movies then comparing them to books, wrangling five kids, mugging on one hubby she lovingly refers to as her "nerd", and attempting to conquer the Mount Everest of laundry that is the bane of her existence. Brooke is also an avid Autism Awareness advocate, and a passionate foster/adoptive mother, who loves to share her experiences with anyone who will listen. Find Brooke elsewhere on the web at www.brookemoss.com
