Rob cranks the key in the ignition, and there’s a hard click from the engine compartment.
“Shit. Now the starter has gone out,” I growl, dropping the wrench from my hand.
I have the insane urge to kick the old-school Impala, but I’m sure the customer wouldn’t like a foot-sized dent in their car. Every single time we fix one thing, something else goes wrong. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack, and I’m getting real sick of it.
“Do we have one lying around for this model?” I ask, scraping my hair back away from my face.
“Nope,” Rob answers, sliding from the driver’s seat and closing the door. “But I can order it in. Should be here by the end of the day if we’re lucky. If not, then tomorrow morning.”
“Figures.” I sigh. I’d hoped to get the car out of my shop today but no dice.
I glance at the clock and realize it’s already three in the afternoon. Normally, I would have taken a break around two to go pick up Attie from school. He likes to hang out at the shop sometimes and do his homework. But his best friend had recently gotten his license, so he’s been catching a ride with him. They were going to the movies after school. I wonder if he finally asked the girl he likes to go with him.
With nothing better to do, and the shop closing in a few hours, I wipe my hands clean and toss my tools back in the tool box.
“You can go home if you want, Rob. I’ll clean up.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, eying the tools scattered around the floor. We usually have one other employee, a younger kid who knows his way around an engine, but he’d called in sick today. He’s a good kid, but sometimes he really puts us in a bind. Luckily, we hadn’t been that busy today.
“I’m fine. I’m just gonna work on Bertha until closing and then head home.”
“I can help with that.”
I wave him away.
“Go home to that sweet little grandchild of yours. Give Timmy a kiss for me.”
Rob’s son had recently moved back in with him, bringing along his one-year-old son. The mom had skipped out on them, and Rob had offered for them to come live at his house until his son could get his feet back under him. I’ve known his son, Rob Jr., for as long as I’ve known Rob. He’s a good man and it shows every time I watch him with his baby. Little Timmy is adorable, and I always look forward to baby cuddles when we all eat dinner together.
Rob is so excited to have his son and grandson home with him. He adores the baby, and that child will never want for anything. Hell, even I’m known to show up with a toy or two when the funds allow. He is just too cute not to spoil.
“If you’re sure,” Rob says, trailing off. He’s already wiping his hands clean and heading for the door. I smile at the sight, perfectly happy to give him some time off. Now, if I can just convince him to go on vacation. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me,” he calls over his shoulder.
“We’re still open. I can’t lock it until five.” But he doesn’t hear me. He’s already out the door.
I listen for the sound of his truck starting, the husky rumble penetrating the metal walls and forcing my eyes closed to absorb it. I love the sound of deep, loud pipes. There’s something about the purr that always makes me feel better.
I turn towards Bertha, my 1940 WW2 Harley I’d slowly been restoring to its former glory. I’d bought the bike from an old man who’d had it rusting away in his backyard. It came with tons of history, including the story of being ridden by the man’s father during the war. I have plans to get the man’s name and rank painted on the gas tank once I get to that point. It has been hell getting the parts for it though. It’s gonna be worth it, but I still bitch about it on the regular. The gas tank for it had cost me a whopping twelve hundred dollars. The parts are collectibles now. It slowly coming along because of that fact, but I can’t wait for the first chance to start her up.
Cranking up the radio, letting the sounds of classic rock flow through me, I start to bob my head as I take a seat at the workbench. Bertha’s engine is in pieces, spread out, so I can see each one. I’d had to improvise some of the parts, the mechanics no longer safe and available, so the engine will be a little more updated than the motorcycle. I wish I could keep the whole thing stock, but that just isn’t the case. It’s a shame, really.
I’m so deep in my work, slowly putting pieces together, that when a thump sounds to my right, rattling the work bench, I jump. When I search for the source of the disturbance, I scowl and immediately turn down the radio.
“What the hell are you doing in my shop, Jerry?” I ask, already feeling a headache coming on.
Jerry owns the mechanic shop down the block and is my closest competition. Dressed in a grungy work shirt and dirty jeans, his beer belly hangs over and gives him an imposing appearance. His receding hairline gives him the creep vibe. But his personality does that all on it’s own.
Jerry likes to think his shop is superior to mine, but that’s honestly just because he’s a man. Sexist pig isn’t a big enough word to describe the man standing beside me. Truth is, I run an honest mechanic shop, while Jerry likes to rob his customers blind. I’ve had to repair some of his “repairs” when customers have come to me after the disaster of his shop. One woman had come in after dropping three grand at Jerry’s shop because they’d told her she needed all new pistons, only to bring it to me. She’d only needed a tune up. I didn’t charge her; I never did if they were Jerry’s “repairs”. I always feel so bad that they’ve had to go through that; Jerry is such a snake.
I drop the ratchet I’d been using on the table top and close my fingers around the two-inch wrench beside me. I’ve never used the massive wrench on cars. No, this baby is for protection, large as a small baseball bat.
“I saw Rob leave. Figured I’d come check on you to make sure you’re okay over here all alone.” A grotesque leer pulls his lips, and I have to fight the urge to grimace in disgust. Jerry is known to harass women. The fact that I’m in the same career field as him and successful doesn’t sit right. To him, a woman belongs in the kitchen and in bed. Nothing more. Fucking bastard. If there’s anyone I hate in the world, it’s this man.
“Unless you’re here to pay me back some of the money you owe me for fixing your screw ups, you can see yourself to the door.”
I have a file in my office full of the receipts for work I’ve done to fix his problems, just so I can throw that out there. I figure if I say it enough, he might pay me just to get me to shut up.
I stand from my stool and meet Jerry’s eyes head on. I’m taller than him by about three inches, another fact he doesn’t like. But he also assumes that because I’m a woman, I must be weaker. He should know better. My biceps alert everyone to the fact that I lift heavy shit. That’ll be his downfall, though.
Jerry takes a step towards me. “I don’t owe you nothing, bitch.”
“Then get the fuck out of my shop before you leave here on your knees.” I don’t even snarl at him. My threat is calm and calculated, but it’s exactly the type of thing you don’t say to a sexist pig if you want them to leave. To be honest, I might be subconsciously goading him. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He immediately fluffs up like a rooster, his masculinity so fragile that he can’t stand my words.
“Listen here, you—”
“Is there a problem here?”
We both turn towards the new voice coming from the doorway, Jerry because he’s been caught threatening a woman and doesn’t want a witness, and me because it could be a new customer. When my eyes land on the man standing by the door, framed by harsh sunlight, my eyebrows go straight up to my hairline.
The new man is wearing rabbit ears on his head for some odd reason, but that doesn’t detract from his attractiveness. He’s clean cut, wearing an old style waistcoat and a fancy watch on his wrist. The bunny ears throw me off, but it’s not that crazy, I suppose. People wear all kinds of stuff when the comic-con comes to town. I still blink just in case I’m imagining him.
“Who the hell are you?” Jerry asks.
The newcomer glances around the shop, seemingly looking for something. When he sees the Impala that has been causing us trouble sitting in the bay, he points to it.
“I came to check on my car. Unfortunately, I came inside just as you were threatening the lady.”
This man is definitely not here for that car. The owner of the impala is a sweet little old lady who wears a scarf around her head with cats on it. She has no children—she’d told me her life story when she first came in—so this couldn’t even be her son or a family member. He’s using the car as an excuse, but really, I don’t need his help.
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Jerry sneers, before reaching out his grubby, grease-coated fingers for my arm. When those digits wrap around my forearm, the newcomer lunges forward as if to help, but it’s unnecessary.
I slide the wrench free from the bench and swing it towards Jerry’s gut. It makes contact, and he doubles over. His fingers stay wrapped around my forearm, so I don’t give him time to gather his wits. I bring my knee up and aim for his balls so hard, that he drops to the floor, his fingers finally sliding off my skin. I have the sudden urge to scrub that part of my arm until it’s raw.
The newcomer comes to a stop in front of me, and looks down at the pig rolling around on the floor. His breathing is harsh, and it sounds kind of like he’s trying to call me a bitch, but he just doesn’t have the air.
The newcomer smiles and meets my eyes.
“Your eyes are very unusual,” I say, tilting my head, a frown on my face.
They’re like molten silver and almost glow even in the harsh lighting of the shop.
“I’ve been told that. Want me to take out the trash?” he asks, gesturing to Jerry still on the ground.
I shrug. “If you don’t mind, sure.”
The newcomer reaches down and grips a fistful of Jerry’s shirt before dragging him towards the door. He doesn’t even grunt with the weight, even though Jerry has a full-sized beer gut and has to weigh close to three hundred pounds. He literally kicks Jerry out of the door. I hear a satisfying groan of pain from him before Silver Eyes turns back to me.
I get the chance to study him a little closer as he walks back towards me. His waistcoat is definitely not a modern cut. It reminds me of the Victorian era a bit, and it’s emerald green. But instead of proper slacks, the waistcoat is paired with dark-brown leather pants and combat boots. A goth, maybe? I don’t think hipsters wear this kind of stuff.
“I have to ask,” I point to his head, “what’s with the rabbit ears?”
He grins at my question, but he doesn’t answer it, changing the subject, instead. Well, okay, then.
“I have a friend I think you should meet,” he says.
I frown, and set the wrench back on the workbench.
“Is this like trying to set me up for a date?” There’s something off about the way he asked it, as if he’s not quite expecting a date, but also wants it to be. I can’t pick up on his tone, though.
“Call it introducing two people who would get along well.” I swear I hear him mumble “or not” under his breath, but I don’t comment on it.
“Look, I appreciate you taking Jerry out of my shop, but I’m not looking for a man, now or in the near future. I don’t have time for one.”
He glances at the intricate watch on his wrist, and I peer at it curiously before he can hide it away behind his back.
“I know all about not having time, unfortunately. I’m afraid I have to go.” He glances at my Harley, spread out in pieces. “If I bring in a motorcycle tomorrow, could you work on it for me?”
I perk up, automatically switching into professional mode.
“Absolutely. Besides the Impala, I’m wide open. What do you need worked on?”
He grins again, chuckling at some imaginary joke. “It doesn’t quite purr like it used to.”
“It might need a tune up then. That’s no trouble at all. Just bring it by tomorrow, and we’ll get you all straightened up.”
He nods and turns to leave without another word.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I tell his back, and he turns to look over his shoulder at me.
“You can call me White. See you around, Calypso.”
It takes me a full minute after he’s gone before I realize he knew my full name, even though my shirt only says “Cal.”
Chapter 5
I pull a TV dinner from the freezer and toss it in the microwave, watching as it slowly spins in circles. Attie had called to let me know he’s staying at his friends. Not unusual. The friends’ mom, Becky, had already called to let me know they’d arrived. She’s a sweet woman and never minds when Attie stays over.
The community had kind of all banded together when I first got guardianship of Attie. I’d been hopeless at first, burning everything I tried cooking besides macaroni and cheese. I’d never had to actually cook meals before. Mom would always cook when she came home, and while out and about, I’d survived on takeout and Ramen noodles. But Becky had stepped in to help and immediately taught me how to cook some of my favorite meals. Now I can make everything from meatloaf to enchiladas, all things I’d never needed to make before. Cooking for yourself isn’t something I do, because there is always something left over. For a while, I had to cook for three, and now I cook for two. But tonight, I’m back to cooking for one, so a TV dinner, it is.
When the machine beeps, I pull the small tray out and plop it down on the table. Nothing like microwave, frost-bitten turkey, I think as I take a bite. I eat slowly, going through a mental checklist of things I need to do to prepare before mom comes home. She’s scheduled to come in a few days. The nursing home had already called with a list of supplies I’ll need to have available, and it includes everything from a first aid kit to an oxygen tank.
A nurse would stop by everyday while I’m at work and Attie is at school to take care of her. The service costs a pretty penny, but at least Mom will be home and happy. We’re even going to tell her that Attie and I are just more caregivers, ones who stay overnight with her. She seems to accept that more than us actually being her own grown children. As much as it will hurt to do it, at least Mom will be comfortable until the end.
“Dad,” I whisper, looking up towards the ceiling. “I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to make sure everything is okay. I hope I’m doing it right.”
I wish my dad was here to talk to. He’d always known the right things to say. He’d been killed by a drunk driver when I had been nineteen. Attie had only been five. It had been a shock to mom; they’d been the loves of each other’s lives, perfect for each other and yet complete opposites.
Mom used to be a dancer in her younger days, ballet. When she couldn’t dance anymore, she’d been the instructor. And dad, well, he was that mythology professor everyone thought was so cool and nerdy. They’d always been in love, always smiling. Losing dad had started her decline, spiraling from the little things into forgetting names and getting lost. It had all been manageable . . .
. . . until the gun incident.
“Who are you? Why are you in my house?
“Mom, it’s me. Atlas.”
“My Atlas is only a baby. Get out! Get out!” she’d screamed.
Then we’d heard the sound of the gun being cocked.
And so we’d lost our father and our mother, and it became just the two of us.
Chapter 6
“I seen Jerry limping into his shop today. Wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?” Rob asks when he walks into the shop the next morning.
I fight the grin that wants to spread across my face, and I’m confident I meet his eyes without humor.
“Nope.”
“Hmmm . . .,” he scrubs his chin. “’Cause I also heard him talking about how three guys jumped him yesterday.”
I can’t hold the snort that comes out, and Rob raises his brow at me.
“Alright, alrig
ht,” I say, grinning. “Not three men. Just little ole me and my wrench.”
“I knew it!” he growled. “What did that asshole do after I left?”
I shrug and walk over to the Impala. The starter came in this morning, so we’re set to replace it and hopefully, get this thing out of my shop.
“He got a bit handsy is all. I took care of it. And then a customer helped me take out the trash.”
Rob shakes his head and runs his hand through his receding hairline. If he keeps that up, he’ll be bald sooner rather than later.
“I’m glad you can take care of yourself, baby girl, but please be careful. Jerry isn’t the kind to let something like that go.”
“I know,” I nod. “I’ll be careful.”
“Next time, he could bring backup.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I have you, old man.” I clap Rob on the back, and he smiles down at me.
The rumble of a motorcycle grows in the distance, coming closer, and I tilt my head to listen as it gets loud enough to drown out the radio. It sounds good, and to any normal person, there wouldn’t be a problem at all, but every so often, there’s a skip in the rumble. It’s slight now, but could be a bigger problem later. Either the engine is missing, or it’s misfiring. Neither are good things.
The rumble stops outside the bay doors and shuts off, the sounds of classic rock suddenly filling the shop again. That motorcycle might be missing, but it sure is loud. I bet it’s a beauty.
We watch the door, waiting for whoever it is to step inside. When White steps through the opening, I smile.
“Who’s that?” Rob asks when he sees my smile.
“The customer who helped take out the trash yesterday. He’s bringing his motorcycle in for a tune up.”
Rob narrows his eyes on the man, and I wait for him to mention the rabbit ears White still wears on his head. They even quiver and twitch, like they’re robotic or something. I bet they cost a pretty penny. When Rob doesn’t even bring them up, I frown.
“What do you think of the ears?” I whisper to him. One of the ears twitches like White might have heard me, but there’s no way.
Feral as a Cat (Sons of Wonderland Book 3) Page 3
