by Warren, Rie
It wasn’t long before the hiss of air compressors, the fresh smell of solvents, and the sight of the parking lot filling up filtered in to tease my senses.
“This is gonna be your first week off since I started.” Ray took over my station at the counter, bringing up the day’s work tally on the computer.
“Yup.” I narrowed my eyes around the reception, straightened a few chairs, and strode to the door. “We ready?”
His bushy eyebrows jerked in my direction. “You betcha.”
I flipped the lock, turned the Open for Business sign over, and stood back as people tramped inside. My chest puffed up with pride as the room filled, Ray handling the workload he’d grunt off to the mechanics, flat tires already rolling out the back of the bays.
Patting Ray on the shoulder, I headed for the office. I peered into the garage for a minute more, the floor humming with activity and energy, telling myself the guys would do okay in my absence.
The navy blue carpet in my office matched the navy blue of my coveralls. Both were oil-stained, an occupational hazard I loved. I’d already scrubbed my fucking nails raw and my fingers red trying to get rid of the ingrained grit and grease, but I sure as shit hadn’t shaved one single pube, Nicky be damned.
I eyed the clean clothes piled on my desk. Pulling the zipper down, I shucked my coveralls, the ones I often wore draped down to my waist when the summer heat got too heavy. Under the badge that had belonged to my dad, beneath the dark blue uniform and the white tank I dragged off, I looked at my tat. The red heart almost pulsed on my chest, running from my left shoulder and over the hard slope of my pec. Wrapped in chrome pipes, the heart bore the words Joshua James December 13, 2009, symbolizing my three-year-old kid and cars, the two loves of my life.
Right down to the tattoo on my chest, which I’d gotten one week after JJ’s birth, I was a man’s man. Just not that kind of man’s man. Except for the purposes of helping Nicky out this week. I pulled on a new red T-shirt, a pair of old jeans, and brushed my short hair back. After pocketing my phone and wallet, attaching the chain to a belt loop, I anxiously waited for nine o’clock to arrive and willed the days to leapfrog forward at the same time.
In about fifteen minutes I’d be on a road trip with Nicky. One unlike we’d ever taken before. Not camping, fishing, horsing around. Nothing like that.
The only campy thing about it would be us.
Nicky Love was my best friend, and he had been since high school when we’d joined up over pranks that usually caused fire alarms, full-scale school-wide evacuations, and a lot of detentions. It was probably a miracle either one of us graduated.
I didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times Nicky had saved my cojones. For starters, there was my marriage bust-up. Thirty-one motherfucking months in and Claire just up and left, no note, not even a postcard ever to let me know she was okay. Nothing of JJ’s taken with her—not a single memento of our life—to say she’d be thinking about our son but just couldn’t stick it out. I’d been seven years into the job by then, up to my eyeballs in money and management crises, not to mention diapers and nightmares and Nickelodeon when Claire disappeared.
Nicky—unmarried, unattached, guy’s guy Nicky—pretty much moved in the first six months. My manny. Best man and best break-up buddy ever. Hell, he even did short-time at the garage like he used to fourteen years ago, when we’d wise off at Wando High School during the day and come work for my dad as soon as last bell rang.
I owed the man, big time. He never told me who or how, but his Yankee legal eagles located Claire, served the papers, notarized her signatures, requested a hearing, and Charleston County cut me loose faster than it took to tie the knot. So if he needed me, no matter what, I was there. I just hoped I didn’t crash and burn and bring him down with me. I was determined to be successful . . . as a gay dude.
Stepping out of the office, a blush burned my face. The guys all knew where I was going and they’d spent the past week taking cracks at me. Add in my clean gear—as if I’d never done neat and tidy before—and they were yapping up a shit storm, me at its center.
“¡Ea diablo! Knock me on my ass den fuck it hard.” Javier’s gaze passed over me then he got on the intercom. “Mira, come get a load of Stone!”
I was gonna give the squirt a load. I put my hand on my crotch and pumped it as the boys crowded into the small space behind the counter.
“Fuck you all very much.”
“That’s what we hear you’re supposed to be doing to Nicky.” Gerald winked.
Right on cue, Nicky arrived, not in the nick of time, because—holy fucking shit—he cruised into the lot in a g-damn shiny white Volvo station wagon rental that screamed queer-mobile, and all the guys guffawed again.
“Dude, I’m tweeting this,” Mick remarked.
Nicky, Nick, Nicholas . . . I loved the guy. And gave him as much shit as he shoveled out. But right now? I hated him so goddamn hard. In fact, I hated them all. I glared from one of the idjits to the next as I slid my duffle over my shoulder and a garment bag over my arm. Stepping out beneath the bright red awning, I faced the garage, giving it one last once-over. Nicky climbed out of the car with a wave and popped the back of the Volvo.
Catcalls and earsplitting whistles resounded out the bay doors when I strutted across the lot in the simmering May heat.
Ray shouted, “Shake that ass, Stone!”
I flipped a stiff middle finger over my shoulder, growling, “This place better be standin’ when I get back, dickheads.”
“Oh, yes sir!”
Nicky chuckled when I reached him. “You know they could probably sue you for harassment the way you talk to them.”
“Yeah, they probably could. But they get too much tits and ass from my business to give it a legit shot.”
“You practically run an escort service from Stone’s, at your service.” His hazy purplish eyes twinkled.
“It’s not my fault half the women who come in here are horny.” I wasn’t above partaking myself.
“Well, if you need a sideline . . .” He waggled his hips around, causing another round of whistles from the garage.
“GET BACK TO WORK!” I yelled. Then I muttered to Nicky, “They’re gonna destroy the place.”
“Nah, man. They love it as much as you do. You got a tight crew here.” If anyone knew how much I busted my ass for this place, or how the guys met me with just as much blood, sweat, and tears, it was Nicky.
“Yeah.” I smiled, slinging my gear and a case of brews into the back of the car.
Nicky rolled his eyes and started to the driver’s side as I slammed the hatch. I could feel his huff coming from a mile away. I slipped in beside him, sniffing the ooh new car smell of the clean upholstery, completely unlike the red-blistered-to-pink Jeep Cherokee he drove all over the lowcountry, Viper the bitch-hound his sidekick.
“We’re so queer.”
“About that.” His lips compressed into a thin line. “Beer?”
“Yeah.”
“Beer does not say queer.”
“Now that’s just plain discriminatory.”
“I’m not trying to be a jackass but look at you, Josh. We’re gonna have to work extra hard to tone down your—”
“Manly studliness?”
His eyebrows rose in response. “More like obvious heterosexuality, especially when there are women around.”
“I think this car and your duds shout we’re bro-mos loud enough.” I checked out his pink oxford—the exact same shirt I’d sworn I wouldn’t be caught dead in—tight jeans, and the long medallion hanging from around his neck. “Well, aren’t you all dolled up, darlin’?”
His eyebrows remained hairline high.
“I am not cashin’ in my beer, man. Besides, it’s Heiney, that should work, right?” Met by more silence, I slouched further in my seat. “Fine. I’ll hide it.”
I got a fist bump in agreement. That was good enough for me.
“Let’s get this ass and
pony show on the road!” I rolled down the window and rapped on the roof, sending a wave to my grease monkeys who were still goddamn gawking at us.
Nicky hit the horn several times as he cut into the morning traffic, pointing us westward.
* * *
We were on hour three, had just stopped for a refill at Wendy’s, and I’d taken over the driving. I eased back onto the highway, glancing at Nicky. “So lemme get this straight.”
“Har har.” He rested a foot on the dashboard.
“No pun intended.” I winked. “You’ve got this awesome job guaranteed to snag you some pussy. You’re basically surrounded by hot, smart, and horny honeys all the time, but instead of diving head first into the buffet of broads at these writing conferences, you told them you’re homosexual.”
Pulling the leather band off his low ponytail, he dragged both hands through his hair. “It’s not all glamour.”
“Oh, believe me, I know that.” I looked pointedly at the mess he’d just made of his hair.
He shut me up with a punch to my arm. “Anyway, you know I thought it’d be hard as hell to break into the romance writing biz as a man. Women wanna read what a woman wants, not what a guy thinks a woman wants.”
“Yeah, but you’re a best seller, man.”
He snorted through his nose. “I am now, six years later, because of the loyal readers and being able to get my stuff out there, bam-bam-bam. But being a guy who writes sex and romance—even you didn’t think that’d fly. You know that’s why I went with my pen name.” His mouth slid into a half smile. “’Course, what the fuck do I know, huh? My sales didn’t really take off until it came out that I am a guy who writes steamy romance, fangs and all.”
“Fans and all, you mean.” I waggled my eyebrows.
“Don’t remind me.” He groaned. “How many times did I get hit on by chicks asking me to act out sex scenes from my books with them?”
“Quit your bitchin’. You gotta admit the revolving bed of fangirls had some perks for a couple years.”
“Yeah, well that bed rotation got old fast. I’m not the fantasy they want, and they sure as hell weren’t mine. Remember the one who showed up on my doorstep in the dead of night? She swore she was Alaina deChristiane from my—”
“Vampires Do It in the Dark books?” I swiped a hand down my face. “How could I forget your very own bunny boiler? She promised to be your immortal mate. Oh! And she tried to kiss your face off while wearing fake vampire teeth, right?”
He shuddered. “Maybe Nicky Love wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
Nicky Love. The name sounded totally feminine, which didn’t match the man sitting beside me at all. Nicky could be a bruiser. Just over six-feet tall with a wiry, muscular build, he’d been my wingman in more than one bar fight during our early days after we’d gotten fake IDs. We certainly got a name on the bar circuit before my dad had found us out at the Kickin’ Horse Saloon and busted our chops. Then he put us both in front of Ma for her own brand of ass whuppin’.
The funny thing was, Nicky Love was almost his real name. He’d practically fallen into his calling, much like me. Nicholas Loveland. I’d called him Nicky from the get-go and when he started writing he took it up and shortened his last name. Presto-fucking-bingo, for all intents and purposes in the anonymous age of the Internet, he could be a woman writing chick-shit.
He’d carried on, flying under the radar and writing his love stories until he started going to these damn writers conferences. It wasn’t like the word got out after he came out as a guy to his fellow writers, but there was speculation among his growing readership. The mystery surrounding Nicky Love heated up his career.
“A couple years ago I started hating going to the conventions. Being one of the token males?” He shivered and it had nothing to do with the A/C blasting over us. “It gets a little uncomfortable. They don’t mean any harm. But who doesn’t like a little attention from the opposite sex, right?”
Who me? I mouthed, wide-eyed and innocent.
“I was gettin’ drunk-groped like I was one of the Coverdales—”
I spit a mouthful of Coke all over the steering wheel. “Cover what now?”
“Coverdales. That’s what we call the male cover models who usually make appearances, meet and greet, and get groped . . . the ladies love it.”
Groped, huh. Maybe this gig isn’t so bad after all.
Nicky must’ve recognized the predatory gleam in my eyes because he wagged a finger at me—obviously getting into role—and continued. “Aside from the off-their-meds stalker types, I was in too much danger from the women in my writing circle trying to set me up with their daughters, nieces, younger sisters . . .”
“Ah. The rarified breed, a male romance writer.”
“Fuck you, Stone.” He elbowed me in the ribs. “My crew is as awesome as yours at the garage, but they excel at henpecking. You’ll see.”
“Not sure I want to.” My hands started sweating on the steering wheel as I reconsidered the five-day LitLuv romance convention I’d signed up for.
“Being gay was a good solution. Bonus? Saying I was in a permanent relationship kept the hens off my back, until they kept hounding me about my partner.” He looked over, sizing me up. “Now you’re my bear.”
I gave him a jaunty nod. “Stone, at your service.”
Scrubbing both hands over his face, he mumbled, “What the fuck was I thinking? Macho mechanic who can’t keep his cock holstered, with sex on the brain and grease stains on his knuckles?”
“Hey, asshole, that hurt. I’m sitting right here, and I goddamn scrubbed my knuckles until they were chapped, I’ll have you fuckin’ know.”
He peeked out at me between his fingers. “Holy shit, Josh. That was really gay of you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
I jerked my chin down, weirdly pleased. “Right on. See? I can do this, lover.”
Nicky snorted until I burst into laughter too.
After another driver switch, I pulled one of his bags onto my lap, intent on doing a dive for the romance-y shit he always packed for these getaways. I already had all his books—signed, naturally. I’d even opened an account on Amazon to post reviews for him. He was a talented dude, even if I had to pretend it wasn’t him writing stuff that made me a little turned on because that would just make my nuts dry up. Nicky could joke about Stone’s Escort Service all he liked, but I was his biggest pimp, handing out his postcards and business cards at the garage. Because the ladies liked romance and red roses with their lube jobs.
I pulled out a wad of white cards. “What’s this? Notes for your next story?”
“Uh . . . actually, they’re note cards, for you.”
“Me?” Didn’t I feel overwhelmed by happy. I flicked through them. Then I didn’t feel happy-frigging-happy at all. “Notes about how I’m supposed to dress, act . . . who I’m supposed to be?”
The asshole kept mum.
“Art dealer? You’re shitting me, right?” I tore that card in two and stomped it beneath my feet. “I know jackshit about art. How’s that gonna fly if someone with a clue starts talkin’ to me? What’s wrong with a fella owning a garage?”
Nicky frowned so hard I thought all the words he kept inside his head were going to spew all over the dashboard. Then he grinned slowly. “Foreign car dealer.”
Smug motherfucker. I bumped his fist. “Yeah.” I settled back in my seat. “I still don’t understand why this is necessary. Can’t you just do the holy water, wear a cross, garlic thing to keep the crazies away?”
“Try being a single male surrounded by thousands of female romance writers and fans . . . in an enclosed space.”
Hell yeah, game on.
“Sounds like my kind of heaven. PS. you ain’t that hot.”
He cracked a smile and managed to deliver two birds my way while keeping his eyes on the road.
Talented mo-fo, like I said.
“I hate taking you away from home, man. Do you th
ink JJ will be okay?” he asked.
I rubbed a hand over my chest, the place that ached whenever anyone mentioned the kid and I wasn’t close enough to see him. “I haven’t been away from him for more than a night at a time since he was born.”
“I know.”
I sucked it up. “It’ll do him good to be away from his pops. Ma’s plans to spoil him will take months to undo.”
“She’s the best.”
My throat tightened when I thought about her, alone in that big house, without my dad. The way she welcomed everyone from her grandson to my best friend to my crew and all their hangers-on made it a home even with one vital part missing. The Stone family is everyone’s family. “Pretty much.”
“So’s JJ.”
“Yeah,” came my raspy reply.
“Let me talk to him when you check in later?”
“Okay, Uncle Wicky . . . just don’t rile him up before bedtime.”
“Rile him up? C’mon. When’ve I been known to do that?” He gunned through the midtown Atlanta traffic, as much as he could in a not-so speedster Volvo.
“Let’s see. Usually every Saturday night, eight o’clock, on the dot.” I dug through his bag again, determined to leave off the heavy. I had a few days off to hang with my best friend, see him in his element, and I was gonna make the best of it. “You brought new swag?”
“Yeah, check the main pocket.” Nicky leaned over to slap my thigh. “Like a kid in a candy shop.”
* * *
Ramada’s valet parking sucked balls and cost a mint. The hotel was lit up like a fairytale palace—or a whorehouse, depending on how you looked at it—with convention attendees coming and going. It was busier than Stone’s before a holiday weekend, when everyone in Charleston’s tri-county area seemed destined to get a flat tire. Bellhops wearing pained grins pushed overflowing wheeled-carts through the carousel doors.