by Elle Casey
My hair goes up into a ponytail in an effort to hide its oily condition, and I choose the cleanest clothes I can find in my suitcases. I sigh in disgust as I realize that it’s possible by the time I get this shower in shape, I’ll have to use that engine degreaser on my head and my clothes too.
Pulling into the parking lot of Rebel Wheels, I do deep breathing exercises to prepare myself for kicking ass and taking names. I feel like I have to prove my worth every single day for at least a month or I risk losing my cushy position as a … what the hell… I don’t even know what my job is here. Secretary? Assistant? Administrator? Janitor? Paperwork Assassin? Queen Of All She Can File?
Maybe I can just call myself whatever I want. Secretary sucks, I’m not going to use that one. I’m kinda liking the royalty angle. Maybe he’ll let me be the queen bee. I’m smiling when I open the front door, thinking of all my worker bees buzzing around me.
“Where’s the Jack invoice?” asks Rebel, not even bothering to turn around and look at me. He’s got the filing cabinet open and his fingers are poised over the folders. His greasy, dirty, mechanic fingers.
I walk over swiftly and slap his hand away. “Off! Don’t touch with those grody hands of yours. I’ll get it for you.”
“Grody?” He looks at his fingers and then me, either confused or offended. I really don’t care which he is, so long as he doesn’t mess up all that hard work I did for him.
I ignore what’s turning into an annoyed look on his part as I slide my hands across the tops of the folders. “Anatole, Anderson, Beardall, Bird, Bannister, Beatty …” I pause and look at him. “Is that Warren Beatty?”
“Jack,” he says, his eyes flashing. “I’m looking for Jack.”
I go back to my alphabetical search. “Jack. Here it is!” I pull it out and he reaches for it, but I jerk it back. “What do you want out of the file?”
“Just give it to me.”
“No. These are my files now. What do you want out of it?”
He grinds his teeth together, but says only, “Latest invoice,” before walking to the door leading into the warehouse.
“What do you want me to do with it?” I yell out behind him.
“Call him. Tell him his car is ready and to bring a check for the balance.”
I smile. “Will do!” I’m so excited. This will be my first time speaking to an actual customer. I take the file over to the desk and sit down, my hand poised over the telephone. Opening the folder, I search for the invoice and customer information.
I find the paper that Rebel wanted, but not the guy’s phone number. Shuffling through all the other stuff, I realize there’s nothing in this damn thing but the customer’s last name and some prices and receipts. Even the area that’s supposed to describe the work done is mostly blank. I think I can read something that looks like HEADGAS but that’s it.
“How in the hell am I supposed to call the guy if you don’t put his phone number in here?” No one’s there to answer my question, but I have a feeling if I’m going to stay sane in this place I’m going to have to learn to enjoy having conversations with myself.
Walking out to the warehouse with the invoice in hand, I wave at Mick and make a beeline for Rebel. “I’d love to call this guy, but I kind of need to know his phone number.”
“That’s why I asked you to give me the paper,” Rebel says, his face buried inside the open hood of a car.
I draw up even with him and realize he’s taken the top half of his jumpsuit off again. He stands, and I get an eyeful of chest muscles and tattoos. Good lord in heaven, have mercy on my libido.
“Do you ever wear a shirt?” I ask before I can stop myself. I blow my bangs out of my face in an effort to cool off. Seeing him half naked makes me seriously sweaty. He can probably see my pulse banging away in my throat. God, I hate when my body betrays me like this.
“His number’s in my phone.” He jerks his head towards the table behind him before going back to the engine.
I guess I’m not going to get an answer to my shirt question. I’m glad; that conversation could have been seriously awko taco.
I walk over and start searching for Rebel’s cell, but I can’t find it. There are about a thousand tools and dirty car parts spread out everywhere, but the phone isn’t among them. “It’s like playing Where’s Waldo, for chrissake,” I mumble.
And then I can sense him behind me. I hold my breath for some reason, which is totally stupid, but it’s automatic. I am not in charge of my body today.
He reaches around me and points to the small shelf above the table without saying a word. His breath blows over my neck giving me goosebumps. It easily makes my agitation even worse. I seriously consider panting to get my breath back.
“Oh. Ha, ha,” I say nervously, my hands fluttering the paper around. “There it is. Right in front of my face. How not observant of me.” I really wish he’d go back to his car and not be so close. I can feel the heat of his body coming through my shirt, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself when I step to the side and turn around.
But he’s nowhere near me anymore. His back is to me again and he’s involved in the car repairs once more. I cannot understand for the life of me why I’m suddenly disappointed. I obviously need some therapy or some good drugs. Maybe a lobotomy wouldn’t be a bad idea.
“What’s his number under?” I ask, looking down at the phone.
“Jack.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice?” I ask as I scroll through the names. “Because you know, people do have first names sometimes.” And then I get to the name. “Oh. Jack O’Leary. That is his first name.“ I sigh in frustration at myself. “I’m going to go practice my filing now. Maybe eat some chalk too while I’m at it.” I take his phone with me to the office and sit down at the desk, resting my face in my hands.
“You okay?” asks Mick from the doorway.
I speak through my fingers. “I’ve been here for five minutes and I’ve already proven what a complete dipshit I am twice.”
Mick laughs. “Actually, I think it’s pretty entertaining.”
“Too bad Rebel doesn’t agree with you.” Dropping my hands to the desk, I sit up straighter, trying to collect my cool.
“You never know with him. He plays his cards pretty close to his chest.”
I want to groan. His chest. His muscley, tattooed, hard-as-a rock chest. Someone help me, I’m falling in lust with my boss who’s like a hundred years older than me. But I don’t groan over it. That would have been the smart thing to do. Instead, I ask a really stupid, really weird question.
“Does Rebel have a girlfriend?” My face turns beet red instantaneously. Before the word girlfriend even leaves my lips, I’m hot pink and on fire and wishing for an earthquake to take this place down to rubble and save me from my self-imposed shame.
“Why, you stepping up to the plate?” Mick asks, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Evasive maneuver, engage! Play it off! Be cool! “Ew, gross, no, shut up. He’s way too old for me. And he’s not my tyyyy … puhhh.” The air leaves my lungs as Rebel appears right behind Mick. He stares at me in silence for what feels like forever.
You know in movies how they freeze-frame a scene and then move the next part forward in slow motion? Yeah, well, that’s my life right now. Time is almost standing still but not quite. The shame is sinking in nice and deep as the nausea takes hold. I can tell by the look on Rebel’s face that he heard me. Today is the day for making impressions, apparently. Really shitty, embarrassing ones.
Mick looks over his shoulder, smiling like a devious little shit. “Who, Rebel? Nah, he’s not too old. He’s what? Twenty-seven? Thirty?”
“I’m twenty-six, and you’re supposed to be working. Quit flirting and get back on that carburetor. The ‘stang needs to be out of here tomorrow no later than five.”
Mick salutes. “Yes, sir, gunney, sir.” He walks around Rebel and punches him in the arm on the way by. Rebel doesn’t punch him bac
k, he just brushes Mick off like he’s a tiny fly buzzing around. It’s then that I notice the easy way they have with each other. I don’t know why I never saw it before.
“You’re brothers, aren’t you?” I ask.
Maybe his answer will not only satisfy my curiosity but also re-direct his attention away from the fact that I said ew and gross in relation to being with him. I really didn’t mean it, especially now that I know he isn’t that old. If I’m being honest, ew would be the last word I’d use to describe anything about him, but I would never ever in a million years consider doing that … being with him. Seeing him naked and all muscled and stuff would be … Gah! Stop thinking about it! He’s my boss, and besides … he’s obviously not interested, and I’m not a beggar who runs after uninterested guys. I’d rather stay single and grow up to be a deranged cat lady than act desperate for a man.
“Did you call Jack yet?”
“I was about to.” My face is red all over again. Total fail. I had one job to do today and I blew it already.
“Tell him I gave him a tune-up on the house.”
The words are out of my mouth before he has time to turn around. “Why? Why are you doing work for free?”
“Because.”
I can tell from his tone he doesn’t want to talk to me about it, but I push anyway. “Aren’t you worried about your profit margin?”
“No.”
“You should be.” I learned that in Accounting 101. What the hell is wrong with him that he doesn’t see that? How can he possibly have a functioning business without even knowing what little I know?
He stares at me for a while and then finally speaks. “Goodwill eventually brings bigger profits than charging for every single thing you do.”
I’m so surprised that he’s actually talking to me, and that what he said kind of makes sense in a confusing sort of way, that I don’t think of responding until he’s gone again.
“I’ll call him right now!” I yell, eager to please him and make him see how bad I want to work here. “Jack! And I’ll tell him! What you said!”
I breathe out a heavy sigh as the echo from my voice dies against the office walls. “Of course he doesn’t answer me,” I say out into the empty office. “He’s already used up all his words for the day.”
“And also tell him he can come anytime after ten,” says a deep voice from the doorway. “I just have to do a couple more things before he shows up.”
When I’m sure Rebel is finally, really gone, I lay my forehead on the desk and just breathe, trying to get my face back to its normal color. If I make it through a full week of work here, it’s going to be some kind of miracle.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I NEVER KNEW THAT FILING paper and making a few simple phone calls could be so exhausting. By five I’m dead on my feet and ready to sleep for a week.
“Time to party,” says Mick, coming into the office. “You up for some beers?”
“Hell to the no,” I say, putting my backpack strap over my shoulder. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Nope. I’m just getting started.”
I look out towards the car bay. “What about Rebel? Does he ever go home?”
“You kidding? This is his home.”
“Seriously? Like, he sleeps here?”
Mick points to the ceiling. “Above here he does.”
I look above my head. “In the attic?”
“Nah. There are two apartments up there. Small, but they have showers and stuff. He lives in one of them.”
“Who lives in the other one?”
Mick’s face goes dark. “My brother when he’s not in jail.”
My attention snaps back to Mick at the word jail. “Seriously?” This family is way more complicated than I gave them credit for.
“Yeah. He’s pure trouble. That’s why we’re behind with the work right now.”
“What’d he do?” I ask at a near whisper. If he says ‘murdered someone’ I’m so quitting this job.
“Got in a fight.”
“Oh. Well, that’s not so bad. Lots of guys fight.” Stupid roosters that they are.
“Yeah, but not all of them fight cops.”
“Oh. That is a problem, isn’t it.”
“Like I said, he’s trouble. When he gets back you should just stay away.”
“I’m not attracted to jail birds, so no problem there.”
Mick smiles. “That’s what they all say, until they meet him.”
I fold my arms. “So Rebel’s all workaholicky and your brother’s pure trouble … what does that make you?”
He grabs the door to leave. “Me?” The grin is totally contagious. “They call me Hellion.” And with that he steps outside and leaves me alone in the office with my greasy hair, dirty clothes, and exhausted brain.
“You leaving?” Rebel asks from the opposite doorway, distracting me from following Mick out and asking him just how he earned that nickname.
“Yes, it’s after five. Is that okay?” I’m nervous all of a sudden. I want to lick my lips but worry that I’ll look like a crazed druggie or like I’m making a sexy move on him. Sexy is the last thing I feel like I can be right now.
“Yeah.” He turns to walk away.
“Rebel?” I have no idea what I’m going to say. I just don’t want him to leave for some reason. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess.
“Mmm?” He doesn’t turn all the way around, but I get a profile shot that’s enough to make my heart skip a beat.
Dammit, his back is so frigging wide! And now that I’ve seen him walking around shirtless half the time, I know exactly what’s under that stupid mechanic suit of his. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Good thing he’s such a jerk most of the time. It’s helping to keep my sexy thoughts to a bare minimum. Unfortunately, I think that’s only going to work when I’m around him. As soon as he’s far away and I’ve forgotten the assholey parts of his personality, I know I’m going to start picturing his chest and face again.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling like a fool. “Thanks for giving me this job.”
He faces front and walks away. “Don’t screw it up,” is the last thing I hear before the sound of clanking tools takes over the silence again.
“Yeah, right,” I say, slamming the door behind me and walking out to my car. “Don’t screw it up. Don’t screw it up. How about you not screwing things up? How about you not being a jerk for once, how about that?” I’m fumbling with my keys when I realize I’m not alone out in the parking lot.
I sigh heavily and look up. “You heard me again, didn’t you? What are you, a vampire? How do you do that?”
“What time will you be in tomorrow?” Rebel asks from the doorway.
I’m completely lost, so I give up trying to get into my car. “I don’t get you.”
He says nothing, of course, so I continue.
“I mean, you say hardly anything at all to me all day, and when you do finally talk, it’s like you ration your words because you only have a certain amount of them you can speak in a day, and then you sneak up behind me to ask me stupid questions, like you actually want to talk to me and that’s all you can come up with to talk about. If you want to chat, just chat! Open your mouth and talk to me! I promise I won’t bite.”
I want to die when his expression doesn’t change. “I need to know if you’ll be in here before I’m in. I have a delivery to make. Here’s a key.” He walks forward with his hand outstretched.
My face is on fire again. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve opened my mouth and inserted my own foot. Of course he doesn’t want to chat with me. This man doesn’t chat. He fixes cars and walks around being sexy all day without even trying.
I take the key from him with a trembling hand. I don’t know if my nerves are a result of having accused him of wanting to talk to me or from having him so physically close. I step away quickly just to be sure.
“I don’t bite either,” he says.
“What?” I ask, brushing my hair out of my face.
I heard him, but I don’t know what to say to that, so I’m stalling for time. I’m so flustered, I feel like running out of the parking lot as far and as fast as my feet will take me. I guess I’ll have to get them out of my mouth first, though. God, why is it that I come up with witty things to say fifteen minutes after I’ve left the scene? Come on, Teagan, say something awesome!
“I said, I don’t bite either. See you tomorrow.” He turns to leave and makes it halfway to the door.
“Rebel!” I shout too loudly.
“Yeah?” He turns halfway so I can see the side of him.
“Do you have any degreaser I can use?”
He frowns as he turns the rest of the way towards me. “What do you need it for?”
“My shower.” And my hair, but we’ll keep that part a little secret.
“Your shower?”
“Yeah. It has black slimy stuff all over it.”
“Wait here.” He disappears into the office.
I bite on a hangnail while I wait for him, wondering if I should offer to pay for the stuff he’s going to bring me. I hope he doesn’t think this is my lame attempt at making a move on him. That would go down in the books as the worst pick-up line of all time. Do you have any degreaser I could use? It’s almost perverted. I’m picturing what kind of weirdos would do things with black grease when he comes back through the door carrying a spray bottle.
I look at it when he hands it over and am instantly frustrated. “This isn’t degreaser.”
“No, it’s not.” He leaves me standing there.
“But I need degreaser!” I yell at the closing door.
“No you don’t!” he yells back.
A spark.
A spark!