Copyright 2019 by Mallory Lopez. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Wrong Place, Right Time
Mallory Lopez
Also by Mallory Lopez
Ten Times Fast
The Art of Moving On
Defeating Shadows
For Katie, nobody else loves these characters quite like you. And nobody loves you quite like me.
As always, to my parents, “Of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you.”
Contents
1. –– Todd ––
2. –– Amelia ––
3. –– Todd ––
4. –– Amelia ––
5. –– Todd ––
6. –– Amelia ––
7. –– Todd ––
8. –– Amelia ––
9. –– Todd ––
10. –– Amelia ––
11. –– Todd ––
12. –– Amelia ––
13. –– Todd ––
14. –– Amelia ––
15. –– Todd ––
16. –– Amelia ––
17. –– Todd ––
18. –– Amelia ––
19. –– Todd ––
20. –– Amelia ––
21. –– Amelia ––
22. –– Todd ––
23. –– Amelia ––
24. –– Amelia ––
25. –– Todd ––
26. –– Amelia ––
27. –– Todd ––
28. –– Amelia ––
29. –– Todd ––
30. –– Amelia ––
31. –– Todd ––
32. –– Amelia ––
33. –– Todd ––
34. –– Amelia ––
35. –– Todd ––
36. –– Amelia ––
37. –– Todd ––
38. –– Amelia ––
39. –– Todd ––
40. –– Amelia ––
41. –– Todd ––
42. –– Amelia ––
43. –– Todd ––
44. –– Todd ––
45. –– Amelia ––
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
–– Todd ––
I can hear the pitter-patter of rain hitting the asphalt outside of the open garage door. The shop normally plays the radio but I'm the only one here and I’m enjoying the sound of rain without the music. After this morning’s argument with Al, my good-for-nothing dad, (if you can even call him that, at this point) all I want is some peace. Between the cool air sweeping inside that brushes against my arms while I work under a generic Toyota sedan, and the sounds of the Oregon rain, I find the peace I've been seeking real quick.
Well, it would be better if I was working on a badass car, like my 1971 Boss 351 Mustang that's currently sitting in my Roger’s home garage. Roger, my boss and the shop owner, let me store it at his place because there wasn't space here at the shop and I didn't want Al trying to sell it when I'm not around. I don't trust that drunk with any of my stuff, which is why I don't have much of anything. And why I need to move out of my house as soon as possible. Al already charges me half the mortgage. He tried making me pay all of it but I won that fight. He's old now and can't dodge a punch when he's blackout drunk. It was hardly a fair fight. Yeah, my loving father tried to hit me. Real nice, huh? That was a while ago now though, and I’ve basically resolved to paying all the bills since he’s been out of work.
If I didn't spend all my money on chicks, cars and my bike, I probably would have already moved out. Well, that and I'm a twenty-something man that decided to forgo college and stick to trade school. Roger, the closest thing to a father figure I've ever had, pays me well for the work I do and he's taken me on as an apprentice. I don't know where I would be without him. His auto shop is the best shop within fifty miles, easily. The man is a genius at anything and everything car related.
This tiny town, Cayden Springs, is old but gaining in popularity. The hipster ex-Portlanders have been moving in now for a couple of years and now the businesses and local restaurants are becoming trendy and the clientele younger, hairier, and...riding a fine line between entitled and independent. Fucking Millennials. I shouldn’t complain too much since I am one, but I can barely stand my own generation. Maybe it's just because I've had it harder than most of them. Or maybe it's just Cayden Springs or Oregon in general. Another reason I shouldn’t complain is that it's brought in a decent amount of good-looking women, even the "granola" women that don't believe in shaving and shit are fun to fool around with every now and then. You know, when they actually give me the time of day. Of course, most of them don't. They're too smart. Anyway, these hipsters have all moved in and now all of a sudden everyone's obsessed with fucking brunch and avocado toast.
I hear the undeniable crunch of tires against the wet pavement and I know someone's pulling into the shop parking lot. I pull myself out from under the car, slightly annoyed that someone is ruining the few hours of peace I have today. I stand up and wipe my hands on my dirty jeans, and when that proves pointless I snag the faded red rag off one of the workshop's counters, and get as much grease off my fingers as possible. I step through the door into the customer area of the shop, and I swear to God it's like slow motion.
My eyes start at her five-inch shiny yellow stilettos and slowly graze up her mildly white calves and up her thin thighs until her tight mid-thigh dress carries me all the way up to her bangin' tits and by the time my eyes reach her face I'm already drooling. She has thin red lips that she's pouting (a habit that's probably become permanent), dark blue eyes, and big blonde hair. She is the definition of blond bombshell. She is the definition of my “type.” I make my way behind the counter and lean my arms over the counter so I'm basically eye-level with her amazing rack. I flash her a half grin and ask, "What can I do you for, miss?"
She pushes a puff of her blonde hair back with her perfectly manicured nails that I would give anything to feel down my back. "I'm not quite sure. I was driving my car," she points back to a 2018 black chrome Range Rover, “and it started chugging and puttering and made some screeching sounds, so I was lucky enough to find you before things got worse." She takes a moment to eye fuck me. I smirk and stand tall to allow her to get the best view.
"You are lucky. This shop is the best in miles. I can take a look at your car but it's best if we take a spin around the block so I can get a feel of what you're describing."
I walk around the corner and lean in closer to her than I would any regular customer. She smells like expensive champagne and roses. I can't afford to keep her around for long but I sure as shit can show her a good time. "Keys, miss?" I ask, holding my hand out. She takes an extra long second to look at my grease stained hands but hands over the keys anyway.
I'm wearing my shop jeans that are loaded with grease and holes plus my white shirt covered in various stains with a few small rips. I couldn't tell you why, but most women dig this dirty, bad boy look and I am in no way embarrassed by what I do. I love working on cars and bikes, and if that means living life with perma-grease-stained hands, that's just fine by me.
I hold open the door for her, leading her out of the shop. I can't stare at her ass long enough before I have to hurry in front of her and open the passenger side door. "Oh," she says, surprised." A gentleman and good with his hands." I shine her a lopsided grin and give her another look up and
down.
"You have no idea, sweetheart." Before we can say anything else, I close her door and jog around to the driver side. "All right," I announce starting up the car and it already makes an awful noise. "That's not a nice noise." I continue to pull the car out onto the street and immediately feel the chugging and all the other noises she described back at the shop.
Once we pull back into the shop I pull the car straight into the garage. "Princess, what have you done to run this baby right into the ground? She needs a mess of work."
I hold her soft hand and guide her back into the customer area of the shop. "Oh, I think I'm just a terrible driver, honestly. I might let my brothers drive it every now and then, but I admit I probably do the most damage."
She dresses like she's going clubbing, but it's the middle of the day. I doubt she’s from here. She's driving a fairly new Range Rover that is already run into the ground––probably from her driving like a maniac––and has not been taken care of at all. I start grabbing all the paperwork. Roger's been on my case at how terrible I am with the paperwork so I'm trying to be better about it.
"What's your name, princess?" I flash her my full smile, knowing full well what my dimples seem to do to women. She blushes and offers her hand.
"Rebecca, but everyone calls me Becky." She smiles through her red lips as I gently take her hand and kiss it.
"It's nice to meet you, Becky." She giggles and I know I've already won her over. "I just need you to fill out the paperwork saying that you'll allow us to further check out the car to see all the damage and what work needs to be done." I hand her the clipboard and dirty pen. She pauses again only this time I see her slightly recoil. I do my best not chuckle. A girl like her does not belong in an auto shop or with a grease monkey like me. But for tonight? Tonight she most definitely belongs with me. And she knows it.
"Becky, you look ready for a good time. How about I show you one?" I give her a grin. She quickly eyes me, giggles, and nods. This deal is in the bag.
The next morning, I groan when my phone alarm goes off and I turn over only to find my face buried in a nest of hair. Blonde hair. Reeks of hair spray. I groan again when the smell of Becky's hair mixes with her perfume. It smells like cheap perfume, but this woman is anything but cheap. Luckily, I have to work this morning or else I’d be stuck ordering brunch room service in Cayden Springs’ fanciest hotel, The Oregonian. It may have a dumb name but the hotel is a historic landmark and five stars. I vaguely remember Becky telling me she was driving up north from somewhere down south or some shit when her Range Rover nearly broke down here. I'm doubly lucky because I don't have to buy brunch, I don't have to see her more than a few times––not enough for her to get clingy––I got laid (more than once) and I got to stay in a nice hotel. Okay, so that makes me more than doubly lucky. Whatever, it's early.
"Mmm, no, don't go." Becky moans and wraps her cold arm around my torso, and I have to restrain myself from recoiling. "Call off work and we can order in brunch."
Jesus, that sounds like a nightmare. Little does she know that I would never blow off work for a woman. Bikes and cars are my entire life. Unless my older sister, Kristin, has some emergency or needs me, there is no way I'll miss doing what I love just to for some chick I barely know.
"I can't. Sorry. I'm managing the shop today. Gotta be there," I lie. I gently remove her ice-cold arm and start to locate my clothes. "Besides, I have to work on your car today so you can make it up to Spokane on time."
"You mean Seattle."
Oops.
"Yeah, Seattle. Sorry, it's early." She rolls over and the blankets slip off, uncovering her. She's a perfect ten, no doubt. Maybe I could make the most of this situation after all. "Not sure how long your Rover will take but I'll find out today."
"Mmm, okay. Maybe we can do something tonight?"
"Sure. I'll call you later." I pick up my jacket and throw it on. I move for the door, but she stops me.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
I walk back and lean over her naked body, give her a chaste kiss and it literally takes everything in me not to suggest a quickie. Something tells me Miss Five Star Hotel wouldn't be so keen on that. I look at the time on my phone and rush out.
2
–– Amelia ––
"Men are so fucking disgusting," Chelsea Handler says over the television while I shove cereal in my mouth.
"Amelia, what are you watching?" My mother snaps at me causing me to spit out some of my milk. I manage to swallow quickly before responding.
"Mom, what are you doing here? I thought you left for work already." I turn Netflix off and scrunch my shoulders guiltily.
"I had to come back and grab my phone. You know I don't like you watching that kind of R-rated stuff in this house." She starts sifting through piles of junk mail on the counter by the TV trying to find her phone.
I open my mouth to argue that I've been well over eighteen for a couple years now but I know it's pointless. She'll just make me feel guilty for living rent-free at home.
"While you live in this house for free you'll follow our rules. Besides, what if Josh saw something like that?" I knew she'd bring up Josh in this one-sided argument. My little brother, Josh, is the beloved youngest child and only son. He's also fourteen and has definitely heard the word "fuck" before.
My mom and dad are super Catholic. They were raised Catholic and they raised my brother and me Catholic. Josh and I have been going to Catholic school our entire lives. Even now I go to University of Portland, yet another Catholic school. It's summer and my parents expected me to stay up there and get a job, but alas my plans fell through so I'm back here living with them and working at my old high school summer job at Jimmy Frank's Framing and Photography Studio.
"He's still at Blake’s house," I remind her. Jordan is Josh's best friend. I don't know what she thinks two fourteen year olds do at sleepovers. And by "sleepover" I mean there was a party last night and he probably got drunk and passed out at Jordan's because his parents aren't crazy strict like ours. He's probably not even at Jordan's. God only knows where he is. If Mom found out half of things Josh has done in his short fourteen years she would die instantly. I, on the other hand, have always been a rule-follower and well behaved. Even now at twenty years old I've barely had a drink of alcohol, I've never smoked, and definitely have never had sex. I'm pretty sure Josh has done all of those things. Does all of those things. "You know he won't be home until after eleven," I point out. It's only 8:30 on a Friday morning.
"Okay, Amelia," she says finally finding her phone. "I'll see you tonight when you get home." She rushes out of the door before I can even respond. I swallow my last mouthful of Cheerios and reach over the table to grab her car keys she walked out without. She stumbles back in, accompanied by a rush of chilly air that sends a shiver across my shoulders. I meet her halfway. "Ah, thank you, dear. Have a good day at work."
"Bye, love you," I call after her. Sighing, I turn back toward my dirty cereal bowl. I pick it up and look into the murky sludge. I'm not, and never was one of those people to drink the milk out the bowl. For some reason, the tainted milk makes me sad. Like it's used, and probably tastes more like wet cardboard now than actual milk, but...I feel bad for not wanting it––for wasting it.
"Get it together, Amelia," I tell myself out loud. "You can't go around feeling sorry for bowls of milk." I shake my head.
Thankful for a quiet house, I move upstairs to get dressed for work.
I stomp in one final puddle before reaching the door to the studio. It’s on the main drag through the town center, so a lot of times I have to park down the street. I don't complain too much when this happens because Cayden Springs is beautiful, but at this point in early summer the rain is still unrelenting. Today, I used the walk to do some puddle jumping.
I shake off, collapse my clear umbrella quickly, and use the keys to unlock the top and bottom locks to the double glass doors. I hurry inside and without leaving the doormat, I fl
ip the “OPEN” sign. I wipe my yellow galoshes ferociously on the mat and shimmy out of my matching yellow raincoat. I hang the jacket and umbrella on the old wooden coat hanger just to the left of the door.
I flip on the main light, which glows low, and then the wall sconces that light the photos lining the vintage wood paneled walls. Mr. Frank hasn't updated anything since he moved into the building back in 1975. The wood paneling doesn't do much to showcase the photography on the walls. Granted, much of the photography is just family photos circa twenty plus years ago. There's not a ton of original artwork––just the family photos in the various small front display cases, the larger portraits are on the left wall. Further into the shop are copious wooden frames, of all shapes and sizes, that take up the entire back wall and the side wall by the checkout desk. The overall vibe of the studio is dark, subdued, and definitely retro to put it nicely. Even the carpet is an olive green shag. It doesn't exactly smell like old people but it does smell like my grandparents house back in Boston.
I make my way to the back tiny stock room of the studio to turn on the stereo that plays throughout the store. It's old but I've rigged it so that I can play Pandora through it on my iPod. I turn on The Lumineers station. It's the perfect music for a rainy day. I take a glance back at the door on the other side of the closet that leads to the dark room. Now that everything is digital, we don't use the dark room too often––not even Mr. Frank. To his credit, he’s come a long way in embracing the new wave of film-less photography. He’s still learning all the new digital software, but at least some of the equipment isn’t as stuck in the 70s as the rest of the shop. Every now and then one of the new hipsters in town will come in and ask if we can develop film even though it's no longer one of the services we offer to the public. Mr. Frank has told me that I am free to use the dark room and any supplies I want, and I fully plan to take him up on the offer at least once this summer.
Wrong Place, Right Time Page 1