Am I cursed?
I push out from under the car with a sigh. I’m not one to hide, even if the urge is strong. I grab a clean shop rag out of the box to my right, hoping to at least get most of the oil off, then I get up. I’m still wiping up the mess that is me when I look at him. I don’t think he recognizes me, at least not right away. Then again, I look completely different from the way I did this past weekend. There is nothing sexy about shop clothes, oil, and gas, or the skull cap I keep on my hair while at work. It’s hot at times and some may think it’s weird, but then I figure those people have never had to wash oil and gunk out of thick, curly hair, so it’s just simpler.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask him, my voice sounding as miserable and uncomfortable as I’m feeling right now.
“I’m not sure. I was just driving down the road and it quit. It won’t even crank. It’s not the battery though, because the radio and lights come on.”
Yep. He doesn’t recognize me. I don’t know whether to be relieved or upset. He’s sexy as hell though, even if the mint green oxford is uncomfortably preppy and a far cry from the jeans and black t-shirt he wore over the weekend.
“I’ll have a look. Where’s it at?” I tell him, walking towards the door.
“No offense, but I’m in a hurry. Is the owner around? Maybe he could—”
“I am the owner,” I tell him with a sigh, starting to regret my weekend with him even more.
“You’re Claude?” he asks, and I ignore it. “It’s just down the road there,” he tells me, pointing up the street. I go to the tow truck, Gray following along behind me. “You’re taking your truck? It’s just right there,” he says again.
I sigh. “If it won’t start, I can’t very well push it here, now can I?” I ask him with exaggerated impatience.
“Oh. Right.” He climbs up into the passenger side of the tow truck just as I close the door. He looks around the old truck and I can literally see his nose curl in disgust. The old jewel ain’t much, but it’s not that bad. The seats are ripped and the black dash is now faded and cracked. The doors are squeaky and, okay, there’s dust and dirt everywhere, but it runs like a top. I take off towards the bronze-colored Tahoe and stop when I can park in front of it. I jump down and go to the Tahoe. I open the front door to his car as I hear Gray screech. “What are you doing??”
“Popping the hood,” I answer, staring at him like he’s crazy. I think he might be. Did he think I could tell what was wrong just from looking at it?
“But you’re filthy!”
Oh, good Lord in Heaven, is this really the same guy who went down on me for a freaking hour? I reach in and pull the lever for the hood, slam the door shut a little stronger than necessary, then look at him, daring him to say anything. His mouth tightens up like he’s dying to, but he restrains himself.
“Really,” he goes on. “I think I can just call triple A, and…”
I ignore him. That seems to be the best option at this point and, since I chose it to begin with, I’m staying the course. His battery terminals are caked and I can tell from just looking at one that it’s loose. I’m surprised he’s been driving at all, though maybe he hit a bump or something and jarred it. I go back to the truck and grab a screwdriver, a wire brush, and a rag.
“What are you doing now?” he asks, sounding put-out.
“Cleaning your terminals. For someone who was worried I might get grease on his sweet leather interior, your battery posts are horrible. You got to clean under the hood sometimes too, Ace,” I tell him. Once I have one of the posts clean, I tighten the connector to it and do the same to the other. The battery could be bad, but somehow I doubt it.
“It’s not the battery. I told you the lights are on. Hell, even the radio still plays.”
I ignore him. Yet again.
“Get inside and see if it will start,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes at me and I briefly imagine stabbing him between those eyes with my screwdriver. The engine turns and tries to hit, but it doesn’t have enough juice. I go back to the truck and get out the cables, pop my hood, and get ready to jump the engine. Just as I’m about to attach the ends to his battery, he grabs them out of my hand.
“Whoa, now. I don’t think you should be doing that.”
“Seriously?”