by Elle Casey
“Let’s go get a Philly sleezesteak,” Quin says, steering me towards the neon lights of a deli still open down the street.
“Are you sure you want to spend your birthday money on that garbage?” I ask. “You could go into the club and let me go home alone.”
“Don’t even. I wouldn’t go in that club if you paid me in rubies.”
“What about diamonds?”
“Don’t push it. You know how I feel about diamonds.”
We link arms and giggle as we walk down the street. “You are such a ho,” I say.
“I know,” she says. “But at least I admit it. Diamonds will get you anywhere with me. Fact.”
The brief glimmer of happiness disappears at the idea of having diamonds. “My life sucks, Quin. What am I going to do?”
“Your life doesn’t suck. You’re healthy, almost college-degreed, and you’re sexy. The world is your oyster.”
“Oysters are gelatinous, salty muck that people only eat because they think it’s cool.”
“Right. The world is not your oyster. The world is your bitch.”
“I think that’s worse.”
“Okay, fine,” she sighs out as she stops and faces me. She takes me by the shoulders and shakes me a couple times. “The world is yours, Tea-Tea. You can make it whatever you want. Get whatever you want. You just have to try harder to make it happen.” She drags me across the sidewalk and pulls open the door to the deli, glaring at me.
“So I’ll just walk into some business tomorrow and tell them they have to give me a job because I own the world and that’s that?”
She nods once. “Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about. Take the world by the balls and make it beg for mercy.”
“You really scare me sometimes, Quin.”
“I scare myself sometimes too. Come on. Let’s go eat some meat smothered in squeeze cheese.”
For once in my life, that doesn’t sound entirely disgusting. I really am losing my grip on reality.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I TRY AND TALK MYSELF out of what I’m doing all the way there. I have one eye on the road and one eye on my side mirror, praying a cop doesn’t pull me over and ask me for my license and for the location of my rearview mirror.
Ass monkey, fucknutter, dickwanker. Who knows what Rebel’s done with my ID, but I’m sure as crap not just going to walk away from his stupid ass and let him get away with stealing it. A replacement license costs twenty-six bucks I don’t have, and the gas to get here? About a buck.
Pulling into the parking lot of the warehouse, I wonder if the place is closed down for a holiday I don’t remember being on the calendar. My car is the only one here. I sit inside after turning off the engine, staring at the door that leads to the inner sanctum of awful. I wish I’d remembered to bring a can of spray paint so I could totally graffiti his whole stupid building.
“Oh, well. No better time than the present for total mortification.” I haven’t allowed myself to think through what might happen in here. Maybe Quin’s non-stop pep talk while I was ingesting pressed loaf of meat byproducts smothered in squeeze cheese somehow brainwashed me into thinking I do actually own the world. That seems to be the only explanation for why I’d come over to this place to suffer more abuse.
But whatever. I need my license or I won’t be able to apply for jobs, so this is what’s going to happen: I’m going to go inside Rebel Wheels, confront this muscle-bound ape Rebel person, and insist he give me back my license. I’m going to beg and cry if necessary. I’m going to give him the most intimate details of my sorry life if I have to, so that he’ll realize how awful having my ID taken away really is. I’ve brought my transcripts so he can see I am who my license says I am. My hope is that tears, a sob story, and my name on that paper are going to be enough to crack his hard, brittle, mean-ass shell. I just pray that the Barbie doll who was at the club’s entrance isn’t in here with him to reduce me down to the cat-pee couch again.
The front door creaks as I open it and step inside. I don’t know whether I’m happy or panicked that it’s not a holiday today. No one is in the office, but I can hear a lot of noise out in the warehouse area. Someone sounds cranky, like maybe he’s tossing things around or possibly a bunch of cardboard boxes are being thrown against the wall.
I tiptoe in. A hint of a smile breaks over my face as I see the inner office is still mostly clean. Someone’s gone through some of the boxes I collected files in, and a few papers are scattered around, but for the most part, my work remains awesome. Rebel was really stupid not to hire me. That makes me kind of bitter-happy, and I’ll take that over sad any day.
I stop in the other doorway, looking out at the cars under the big fluorescent lights. A bunch of booming sounds in the far corner of the room bring me out farther so I can see better what’s going on.
Rebel is the only one in the room that I can tell, and he’s shirtless, doing a serious amount of damage to a punching bag that hangs from a metal frame above it.
My heart stops beating for a few seconds as I think about what that amount of muscle and energy could do to a human face. Maybe I shouldn’t have come without backup.
I turn to bolt out of there, but my foot catches on the threshold. I go down in a heap, and it isn’t pretty. In my effort to stop my fall or slow my descent to the earth, I take the blinds hanging in the door’s window with me, making a huge clattering sound.
Trying to get up, I realize I’m tangled in the metal slats and the string that holds them together. I’ve somehow managed to work them up my arm so that I look like I’m trying the whole mess on as a backpack.
Rebel steps around the corner just as I’m getting to my feet. He’s heaving breaths out of his lungs, and sweat is rolling down every inch of his exposed body parts.
My mouth opens at the glorious sight before me, but no words come out. Only sounds. “Uhhhh … ahhhh … Iiiiii …. Maaaaa …” The window blinds slide down my arm and land at my feet with a clatter.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, wiping his mouth off with a dark terrycloth hand towel. He doesn’t even glance at the remains of his window covering.
I kick the blinds to the side so I won’t trip on them and take a few steps back into the office. Ten more lunging strides and I could make it out into the parking lot. Maybe there someone could hear me scream.
“Stay back,” I say, trying to sound threatening and confident, which I’m totally not right now.
He frowns. “What?”
“I said, stay back! Don’t come near me.” Two steps in reverse and I’m almost in the middle of the office.
“You’re the one who came in here. What do you want?” He remains in the doorway, leaning one hand on the frame.
I take a calming breath. Maybe he’s not going to beat me to a juicy pulp.
His abs flex as he shifts his weight to his other foot.
Oh lordy, lordy, lordy, get in my shorties.
I stand as straight as I can, gathering my thoughts and my attitude. “I would think that’s obvious. I came for my ID.” Struggling with my small backpack purse, I pull out the paper folded inside. My hands tremble a little as I unfold it. He’s so fucking intimidating standing there all sweaty and big. I hate that I can’t keep steady with him around. “See?” I hold it up so he can look at it. “My transcript with my name on it.” It flutters with every one of my heartbeats, so I wave it around to hide my fear.
“So?” He wipes his face again. His cheeks have bright pink splotches on them that would be cute if he wasn’t such an assmunch.
I slap the paper to my side. “So? So, that’s proof it’s my fucking ID, so hand it over, Bud.”
He lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.
It’s more than frustrating; it’s infuriating. I lose my cool pretty quickly, downshifting into threatening him with juvenile delinquency. “I’m not kidding, Rebel. Give me my fucking ID or I’m going to waste this place.”
“Waste it?” He has the nerve to almost smil
e at me.
“Yeah. I’m going to waste it. I’m going to put it back exactly like it was before, and you can go back to living in a shit-hole.”
His almost smile is gone. “Good. Maybe then I’d be able to find stuff.”
I cannot believe his attitude. He has some nerve. “Do you not have a single manner in your entire body? I worked my ass off yesterday for you. Organized every single thing in this office. For free. And what do I get in return? Shitass attitude. Thievery. Total bullshit, that’s what.”
“Thievery?”
“Yes!” I screech. “You stole my ID!”
“You said you organized stuff.”
I’m not expecting this particular reaction, so I just stand there breathing heavily. I’m ready to walk over and slap his stupid rock steady jaw. He has no expression, save one: cold.
I have this irrational need to see an expression on his face, any expression other than the one I’ve seen so far. Maybe if I set his pants on fire that’ll do the trick. I dig around in my tiny backpack for a lighter.
“Did you or didn’t you organize my papers?”
I control my sudden impulse to combust a somewhat innocent man and leave my backpack exploration to answer his question. “Yes. I said that. Are you a deaf thief now?”
“I’m looking for an invoice.”
“How is that my problem? I don’t work here.” I cross my arms, instantly loving the fact that he’s lost. I smile, I’m so happy about it. I grin so big it makes my face hurt.
Rebel is not sharing my glee. “It’s your problem because you made it your problem when you walked through my door, uninvited.”
His anger only makes me that much happier, and I totally don’t care that he’s calling me uninvited. Eff him. I shrug, completely powerless to remove the shit-eating grin from my face. “I guess we have more in common than I thought.”
He says nothing, but I don’t care if he wants to hear it or not. I’m going to give him a double-barrel of reality. This is my world, asshole. I own it, says Quin. “You’re my problem and I’m yours. What do you say we make a deal?”
“I don’t make deals.”
“Sure you do. You fix cars for money. Those are deals. How about you hand over my ID, and I’ll tell you where the invoice is.”
“You don’t know where it is.”
“Bullshit, I do too. I organized them by date and number.”
“Where are they?” He steps into the room, but I hold my ground.
“Where’s my ID?”
He stops a few paces away from me, and now I can finally get a really good look at his face. Holy mother of all mothers. Talk about chiseled good looks. This guy left gorgeous behind a long time ago and now lives in just plan beautiful. He must be from some exotic foreign country because he looks nothing like any man I’ve ever seen. “Where are you from?” I say without thinking.
He wrinkles up his eyebrows for a second. But he ignores me, because apparently his mind has one track, and right now that track is labeled invoice.
He reaches behind his back and I remain completely still. I want to race out of this place and never come back, but I’m caught in a weird magnetic force that’s drawing me in and keeping me there. No matter what, I want to see what he’s going to do next. I pray it’s not take out a knife and gut me like a fish.
From the back pocket of his jeans he pulls out my ID. Holding it in front of my face between two fingers, he says, “Where’s the invoice?”
I snatch my ID out of his hand and spin around, heading for the door at Mach 2. “It’s in your ass,” I say as I jump outside the door. I make it almost to my car before he catches up to me.
He doesn’t touch me, but I halt in place. I can practically feel his breath on the back of my neck. Turning around, I find him just a few inches away. He’s angry and maybe a little surprised. I like that I got one over on him, and I only feel a tiny bit guilty about leaving him high and dry.
“I need that invoice,” he says in a very calm, very low tone. It gives me a shiver.
I stick my chin out. “And I need a job.”
“I don’t do blackmail.”
“Neither do I. I do deals.”
He stares at me and I stare at him. Both of us are breathing heavily and I’m definitely sweating. Deodorant, don’t fail me now.
“Tell me where the invoice is and I’ll think about it.”
“No deal.”
“Tell me where the invoice is and I won’t have you arrested.”
I laugh. “For what? Cleaning your office? They’ll give me a medal of honor for that. Probably the key to the city, too. That place was a health hazard.”
His expression loses just a fraction of its hard edges. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Sure, if you consider outhouses not that bad, it wasn’t.”
A motorcycle pulls up next to my car and the engine shuts off. The driver pulls off his helmet and I see it’s the twig.
“Hey, what’s going on? Back for more?” His grin is infectious.
“Nope. Just came to get my ID.”
“She came to tell me where the Jack invoice is.”
I turn to face Rebel again, feeling very confident. I’m almost sure he’s ready to buckle. “I came for a job and I got fucked over. But I’m willing to forgive and forget if you’re willing to hire me.”
“I don’t need you here.”
“Sure you do. You need that Jack invoice and I’m the only one who knows where it and all the others are. And by the way, your books are a total mess. You’re missing out on tons of deductions.” I had no idea that my accounting class would come in handy, and I’m not absolutely sure I’m right about what I just said, but whatever. All I need is a chance to prove myself and everything else will fall in line. I know I can be a valuable employee no matter where I work.
His nostrils flare as he stares at me.
I fire back in response to his silent threat. “Maybe this works on other people, but it doesn’t work on me.” I lift my chin a notch higher to bring confidence that I’m not feeling to my words, praying I can pull this off. I can practically taste that paycheck already.
“Maybe what works?” he finally asks.
“I don’t know … that whole Russian mafioso tough-guy silence-of-the-lambs thing you have going on.”
Twig walks over and claps Rebel on the back. “She’s got your number, Reb. Listen, I’m going to get started on the Camaro unless you want me on something else.”
“Fix her mirror,” Rebel says, not taking his eyes off me.
“No. I can fix it myself,” I say, not mentioning that there will be copious amounts of duct tape involved. “Go ahead with the Camaro. The parts came in Monday for it.”
Both the twig and Rebel stare at me. Then the twig smiles. “How’d you know that?”
“I know all, I see all.” Because I handled pretty much every piece of paper that made its way into their office over the last two years, which included inventory packing lists. Hah! Eat that, Dolph!
It’s in this moment that I realize why I find this jerk Rebel so attractive. He looks way too much like my eighties movie-star crush Dolph Lundgren to deny. Dammit. A real, flesh and blood Rocky contender. Be still my heart. The Siberian Express’s twin lives here in LA and owns a car repair shop. I’m in so much trouble.
“Dude, you should hire her,” says the Twig. “You could sic her on Olga.”
Something that might pass as a smile flickers on Rebel’s face for a brief moment. “Fine. You start today. Find me that invoice.”
“Whooop!” I do a quick fist pump before high-fiving the twig. “What’d you say your name was again?” I ask, as Rebel walks away.
“Mick. And you’re Teagan, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool name.”
“Thanks.”
“Can you really fix your mirror or do you want me to do it?” Mick asks.
I wait until Rebel is back in the building, using a low tone that won’t carry
to his ears. “If you could fix it for me, it’d save me a lot of money in duct tape.”
He laughs. “You got it. Good luck by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re gonna need it,” he says, as I walk back to the office.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MICK SOMEHOW MANAGES TO WRANGLE fifty bucks out of Rebel’s pocket so that I can buy some office supplies. Six hours after I’ve returned from the store, I finally have every single piece of paper that used to be floating around the room that I now consider my domain filed, labeled, and put in a cabinet that used to hold greasy auto parts.
The organization has a secondary benefit beyond just making the place look better; I now know quite a bit about Rebel Wheels itself. They do custom muscle cars for the most part, and an occasional motorcycle. They seem to prefer the Camaro, Mustang, Buick GSX - whatever the heck that is - Charger, Firebird, Pontiac GTO, and the Chevelle. I haven’t seen most of these in the warehouse area, but I’m sure I will. Last year alone, they restored about seventy cars, and as far as I can tell, it’s just Rebel and Mick here. Maybe that’s why they’re looking for a new mechanic.
“Doesn’t look that different,” says Mick from the doorway.
I snort. “That’s because you’re blind.” Pulling open the cabinet drawer, I step to the side so he can admire the glory. I wait for his applause.
“What’s that?” he asks, walking over.
“That is the paper trail of what you’ve been doing for the past year or so.” I continue to wait for the applause.
He pushes his lips together and nods. “Pretty decent. Better find a way to make Rebel think that’s worth paying you for.”
My heart plummets and my organizational high disappears like a puff of smoke. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a total drag?”
He grins. “Actually, no. Never.”
“Somehow I find that hard to believe.” I slam the drawer shut. “Stay away from these files. You want something? Ask for it. You have paper you don’t want to touch anymore?” I point to the wire bin on top of the cabinet. “You put it in that basket and I’ll file it.”