“I still can’t believe you like it out here.” I won’t try to take him inside. Last time he clawed my arms until they were bloody. Whatever terrible thing happened to him ruined him for others. I can relate.
“I’ve got to go to work. I’ll see you tonight.”
Leaving Dog to his breakfast, I round the corner of the building to face the garage front by the bay doors. Through the window, I see Guy sitting at his desk with a grim look on his face. Not unusual for him.
I throw open the door, hearing the bell jingle above head and getting Guy’s attention.
“Mornin’, Ray.”
“Good morning, Guy. How was your night?”
“Shit! Got sucked into some stupid show about a bachelor and some bimbos who were all trying to get his rose. Those girls were pathetic. And drunk!”
I giggle at Guy’s retelling the episode of The Bachelor, one of the few shows I get on my tiny television.
“Watched that stupid show for an hour, and that sorry sack still couldn’t make up his mind.”
“That’s what happens when you give a guy a choice out of twenty-five beautiful women. Why choose one when he could have them all?” I shrug and grab the schedule for today from his desk.
“Them all? Hell, I couldn’t stand to listen to just one of them talk for more than five minutes. They’re irritatin’.”
I didn’t have the heart to remind him that he did, in fact, watch the entire hour-long show. How irritating could they have been?
He points to the schedule in my hand. “You got a couple oil changes waiting for you in the bay. You do what you can. I got Leo comin’ in to close.”
“No Mickey today?”
“Nah, he’s got some shit going on at home he needs to deal with.”
I throw my backpack into a locker.
“That’s too bad. I hope everything’s okay.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. Little shit always works through stuff. Even when we were kids, our mom always said Mickey could shine his way out of a shit storm. Anyway, better for you to work solo since you’ll be taking over the place someday.” He gives me a wink and goes back to the papers on his desk.
Butterflies dance in my stomach when I think about owning this garage. Guy has no children, and he’s the closest thing I have to a father. He and his brother Mickey took over Guy’s Garage from Guy senior when he got sick. Mickey’s kids have fancy city jobs and want nothing to do with this place, so they’ve asked me to take it when they retire.
“I’ll be in the bay if you need me,” I call over my shoulder while heading out.
I take a deep breath, allowing the smell of gasoline and oil to soothe me. The garage has always been my sanctuary. I plug in the boom box and hear Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” fill the silence.
Lost in my work, buried under the hood of a ’99 Ford Explorer, the rumble of a powerful engine draws my attention. A deep bass beat accompanies the engine’s growl as it pulls up to the bay. I attempt to figure out what kind of car it is just by listening, one of my favorite games. My guess is a large—no, a very large—pickup truck. American made.
I hear rather than see Guy head out to greet the truck’s driver. The engine and bass go quiet, and I faintly make out a deep voice. The low vibration sends a tingle down my body and goose bumps race across my skin. What in the heck was that?
I check my forehead. No fever. Hm.
“Ray! Ray, get out here!” Guy’s beckoning call yanks me from my thoughts.
I grab a towel to wipe my hands.
“Ray! Now!”
Jeesh, he’s impatient.
Walking through the bay doors into the Las Vegas sun, my eyes adjust to the bright light.
A monstrous, black, Ford FX4 pickup looms out front. Ah-ha! I was right. It’s a twin turbo, kitted out with thirty-five inch wheels, black rims, and a six-inch lift. The limo-tinted windows and black headlights make it look alive. Whoever drives this beast has a passion I can relate to. My gaze swings to the truck’s owner to commend his choice in automobile.
“Nice Ford—” I’m frozen, feet glued to the asphalt, voice stuck in my throat, and gawking at the Universal Fighting League’s local-celebrity-hot-guy, Jonah Slade. At my work!
He’s well over six feet tall, six-five if I had to guess. A jersey-like, sleeveless shirt hangs artfully from his broad shoulders. His well-muscled arms are covered with brilliantly colored tattoos that beckon to be touched. My fingers itch to trace each swirl, to touch him to see if he’s real.
He clears his throat, making me lift my gaze to his face while continuing my appraisal. He’s wearing a black baseball hat backwards with dark, almost black hair peeking out around his ears. His strong, square jaw frames the fullest, most sensual pair of lips I’ve ever seen on a man.
“Ray, this is Jonah Slade.”
Yeah, no kidding.
My head tilts to the side at Guy’s voice, but I’m physically incapable of taking my eyes off the man, no, the god, in front of me. I’ve seen him on posters and billboards all over town, but they don’t compare to the breath-robbing, live version.