Motorhead

by Kate Gilead

  “Hah! I haven’t said a word about clients. You’re smiling and blushing while I’ve been talking nonsense to see if you were listening. I hope you plan to focus better when you’re practicing later.”

  “Practicing later…? I was there last night, Tommy. I’m not going back tonight. I have plans.”

  “Oh? You got a hot date or something?” He gives me that smirk that he does when he thinks he’s got me on something.

  I shrug and then smile. No point denying it.

  “Well, Dad’s waiting for us at the Speedway,” he says. “He thinks you’re coming to practice again.”

  “Well, I never said I was doing laps again tonight. I practiced last night.”

  “Not laps. Safety practice. But, if you wanna win, you gotta do practice laps too. Dad’s counting on you to be the face of Sinclair’s for the future. Remember?” He takes a stance and does a spot-on impression of our father’s didactic tone: “In the twenty-first century, the automobile industry is diverse and inclusive. Women are involved in increasing numbers. Marie’s participation will bring a lot of positive attention and publicity for Sinclair’s.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know, Tommy. I know. My life is all decided already.”

  That feeling of being smothered rises in my chest again, making me feel panicky, yet numb and heart-sick at the same time.

  Tommy’s watching me curiously. “Like I’ve said many times, no one knows how you feel better than I do!” And I know he does. His life at Sinclair’s is fully planned as well. “But…you love to drive, Marie. I know you’re nervous about this race, but no one cares if you win or not. You just have to show up and look pretty.”

  “Ow!” I clap my hand over my heart. “Gee, thanks. Nice to know the bar’s been set so low for me.”

  My brother groans and shakes his head. “That’s not what I…”

  “I know, I know. Never mind. It’s…honestly? I am scared, but not just to race. It’s what everyone will expect of me afterwards.”

  He stands up and pats me on the shoulder. “Yeah. I hear ya. But we both know what ingrates we both are for that kind of talk.” His voice is ironic but kind. “And…it’s true that we’ll never have to worry having a job.”

  “Yeah but it’d be nice to have the option to work somewhere else without being viewed as a traitor to the family or something.”

  “Tell me about it,” Tommy starts. “Yesterday, Dad said…”

  The door between the service and office area opens, followed by the sound of my brother Gavin’s voice. “Hey! Marie!”

  “Yes?” I say, poking my head out from behind the cubicle partition.

  “There’s someone here to see you. Says you’re expecting him.” Gavin’s wearing a puzzled frown.

  My nerves blaze, making my face burn and my heart pound.

  Okay. Deep breath.

  “Be right out. Thank-you,” I say.

  He stares at me, then takes a couple steps inside the office and in a stage-whisper voice, says, “You mind telling me what this is about? What’s a client coming to see you for?”

  “He’s not a client. I…”

  “Huh? He is so a client. Thomas, why is Mark Mollenkamp coming here to head office? And why is he asking for Marie instead of you?”

  “Mark’s here to see me right now. He…he’s not here not as a client.”

  A big grin spreads across Tommy’s face, then he turns and gives me a wide-eyed caught ya! look.

  I narrow my eyes, letting him know I don’t want to hear any nonsense.

  Gavin watches this exchange. Rolling his eyes, he says, “Don’t you think he’s a little old for you, Marie?”

  “No I do not, Gavin.”

  Gavin shakes his head. “Interesting. Well, it’s closing time and I don’t wanna wait around to lock up.” Turning to leave, he mutters, “Good luck, I guess,” as he pulls the door closed behind him.

  Tommy’s still grinning at me.

  “Holy shit! Fraternizing with the customers, huh? Wait ’til Dad hears about this!”

  Chapter Six

  Marie

  “So?”

  He gives me a smirk. “So you know Dad won’t approve of that.”

  I know he’s just playing but my nerves are making me shrill. “Thomas! Don’t try and mess with me right now, okay?”

  Lifting his hands, he laughs. “Okay, okay! Maybe Dad won’t even care.”

  “Either way, I’d like to leave here in a good mood.” I gather my bag and rise from my desk. “Good-bye, have a nice night.”

  He shifts his weight, peering at me closely. “You really like this guy, huh?”

  I nod.

  “Alright. Look…how about if I tell Dad not to expect you tonight? I’ll make an excuse, buy you some time. That way you won’t have to deal with him yourself. K? Peace?”

  Tommy can be a pain but, when the chips are down, he’s got my back.

  “Yeah, okay.” I give him a half-smile. “Thanks.”

  “Alright. Well, get out there and meet Prince Charming, then. I’ll finish up here. Have a nice night.”

  Before going to the front to meet Mark, I make a quick detour to the women’s restroom to check my look and try to calm my pounding heart.

  Taking a travel toothbrush out of my bag, I quickly brush my teeth and fix up the feather-stroke of mascara and lip color I’m wearing.

  I push my fingers through my spiky hair and then, I force myself to stand still. Taking a deep breath, I plant my feet and let my shoulders droop, then I roll my shoulders and tilt my head gently to the left, and then to the right. I do this a few times until I feel the muscle tension loosen.

  That’s a bit better, but I’m still kind of nervous and on edge.

  Sighing, I take one last look in the mirror and then go to meet my date.

  He’s standing at a display rack, holding a package of high-end windshield wipers. He looks utterly tasty, wearing blue jeans and a tight black t-shirt that clings to his chiseled form and shows off his yummy arms.

  And of course…he’s standing there talking with both Gavin and Hamish.

  They all turn to watch me approach.

  Mark’s face lights up while my brothers, for their part, look business-like.

  “Ah, here’s Wee Marie,” says Hamish. “You two will want to get going, probably.”

  “Yes, but I’ll buy these wipers first,” Mark replies, the corners of his lips quirking at the mention of my nickname.

  “Take it on the house,” Gavin says, waving away Mark’s protestations. “Consider it a bribe to be good to my sister,” he adds, his tight smile not reaching his eyes.

  I catch a frown flit across Mark’s expression before a bland smile replaces it. “Oh, I don’t need to be bribed for that.”

  Great. Just, great.

  “Don’t mind my brothers, they just like to take the piss out of people, as our mother would say,” I say, keeping my voice cheerful.

  “Where are y’all headed, if you don’t mind my asking?” Hamish’s voice is pleasant, despite the fact that his question is nosy as hell.

  “None of your business,” I say, matching my brother’s tone. I walk boldly up to Mark and take his arm. “He’s surprising me. Aren’t you, Mark?” I look up into his blue eyes and smile.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, glancing at both of my brothers and then back at me. “You wearing sensible shoes…yes? Okay, good. Let’s get going!” He holds up the package of wipers and wags it. “Thanks again, I appreciate this.”

  “No problem. Have fun.” Gavin smiles and nods.

  “Don’t bring her home too late,” Hamish adds, smiling a slightly more genuine smile.

  I open my mouth to say something but Mark speaks first.

  “I’ll have her home before she turns into a pumpkin,” he says, smiling good-naturedly. “Have a good night.” He tips them a salute and then we get the heck outta there.

  Outside in the parking
lot, we walk quickly through the wilting heat to his truck. “Sorry about that,” I offer, quietly.

  “Nah,” he says. “That was basically about what you’d expect, Wee Marie.” He gives me a crooked smile and winks, his reassurance making me feel better.

  “They mean well,” he adds. “I hope you’ll enjoy what I have planned,” he says. “I’ll be honest…it’s just as much for me as it is for you.”

  “I can’t figure out what it might be,” I say.

  “Why don’t you take some guesses,” he invites, steering the truck onto the freeway. “That should be interesting.”

  “Something to dress down for…and we’re heading south…well…ummm…there’s farmland south of here. If it was harvest time, I’d say maybe we’re going strawberry picking or something. But it’s too early in the season for that. Are we…does it involve manual labor?”

  “Oh, you’re asking for a hint? I’m sorry ma’am but hints are not free, you know. All hints cost one kiss, each.”

  “Hah! Wait a second, though. How do I know what I’m buying with that kiss? It could be a simple yes or no, which isn’t much of a hint.”

  “Oh, you’re a haggler, too? Tough customer! Well…how do I know what kind of kisses you give? A peck on the cheek is worth a lot less than a tongue kiss, isn’t it.”

  He darts a look at me, blue eyes dancing.

  “You’re driving, so a tongue kiss is kind of out of the question at the moment, don’t you think?”

  “Not if you climbed into my lap and…no, no, I’m joking. I’ll take a peck on the cheek but all you’ll get is a simple yes or no hint.”

  Chortling, I lean close to him, and give him a smooch on his slightly whisker-y cheek, smelling the faint smell of aftershave.

  Mmmm. Damn!

  “Hey…that wasn’t bad,” he says softly. He smiles at me, his hand reaching for my knee, which he gives an affectionate squeeze…then he lets his hand remain there.

  “Okay…ready? The hint is…no, it’s not manual labor.”

  I chuckle and place my hand over his where it rests on my knee. He turns his fingers upwards to intertwine them with mine.

  That electrical surge seems to flow from his hand to mine, making me feel smiley and warm.

  “Well, I dunno then,” I say. “You have an ATV stashed somewhere and we’re going mudding?

  I glance over at him, very aware of the heat radiating between us.

  It feels amazingly good.

  “Close, actually. Very close.” He draws my hand to his mouth for another kiss, then lets go so he can signal an upcoming turn. “That’s enough hinting now. Any more and the surprise will be spoiled.”

  “Okay. You’re the boss,” I say, giving my voice a saucy lilt.

  “Now, that’s what I like to hear,” he says, grinning.

  I give him a grin right back.

  We travel in the ebb and flow of traffic for a few moments, letting a comfortable silence grow between us.

  “I’m curious,” I say, after a while. “How did you end up in the auto biz? Fulfillment of a childhood dream? Mechanical aptitude? Addicted to the smell of grease?”

  “Hah! The second choice, I suppose. Motors always made more sense to me than…” he waves his hand around vaguely, “…high-concept stuff like literature or philosophy or even, computer stuff like coding, which is what my brother Rob does.”

  “I see. So…would you say it’s more in your comfort zone or something?”

  “Well… how can I explain this?” He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s…it’s like, stepping into my coveralls and zipping them up puts my mind into a different place. Sort of. The zone, I guess. A place where I understand the rules. Drive trains and oil levels; air pressure, fuel mixtures; combustion and torque and differentials. I feel like I belong there.”

  “That’s kind of how I feel when I get behind the wheel,” I say, softly.

  “Yeah? Cool,” he nods. “For me, a motor is a safe place, kind of. Where even the most perplexing problem can be solved with knowledge, the right tools, and good old-fashioned elbow grease. Unlike reading or say, writing software. I mean, I know software involves algorithms that have a very simple logic of their own. And reading is just de-coding letters strung together. But my brain…it just doesn’t…click with anything, like it does with motors.” He glances at me, then looks out the window. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t want to sound like an idiot.”

  “You don’t sound like an idiot! I want to hear about it.” I turn my body so that I’m facing him more directly, encouraging him to go on.

  “Yeah? Well…alright.” He clears his throat and sits up straighter behind the wheel. “I struggled with reading all the way through grade school. By Grade Eight, I was failing out at half-term, but the school librarian, of all people, recognized somehow that my brain had trouble with de-coding words. I think it’s because I was in there studying so hard all the time, she took pity on me and started asking questions about what was going on with me.”

  “Really? You mean…dyslexia, or something like that?”

  “Yes. Dyslexia,” he says, nodding. “It was a relief to find out, because up until that point, we all thought I was just stupid. But the librarian talked to my mom and got me into a program that turned things around in like, a couple weeks! That’s all it took. But, by then, I was already so sick and tired of struggling, it was too late to form a love of reading. Now, I read for information and education, not for entertainment.”

  “What a shame! There’s so much to be learned from books! You can live a lifetime through someone else’s experiences…” I let my words trail off, afraid that I’ll make him feel self-conscious or ashamed.

  But he just glances at me and nods. “Yep. That’s what I’m told. I’ve made a lot of progress since then, mind you. I don’t have much trouble with spelling or comprehension any more. But by the time college rolled around, I was already in love with engines and motors and mechanical stuff. That was my forte and I knew that’s what I’d be doing with my life.”

  “Well, it’s a fine profession. I mean, obviously, I have nothing against it.” We both smile. “But my place…my zone… is never going to be under a hood. I can do everything else…run a business from the ground up, deal with banks and accountants and ledgers and promotions and budgets…everything. But––and here’s a little secret for you––I hate getting my hands dirty!”

  “I can tell! You have lovely hands and nice, clean nails. You’ll not hear any complaints from me.”

  “Thanks. It’s kind of weird, maybe. I prefer jeans and running shoes over a dress any day. And I can drive as well as any man. But getting dirt under my fingernails…? Nope!”

  “Heh. Thank God for Orange Cleaner and latex gloves. If it wasn’t for those, my own fingernails’d be a lot worse than they are.”

  He holds a hand up to show me his remarkably clean-for-a-mechanic nails.

  “Hey, your hands are very clean! I’m impressed!” I say, and I mean it.

  “Well, I did take the time to do a good job on them today.”

  His hands are huge, with thick, square-ish, strong-looking fingers…so masculine and sexy! I immediately picture their strength and warmth, imagining how they’d feel if they were caressing my curves.

  “Although,” I say, trying for a confident and sexy tone, “there’s nothing wrong with a man who’s not afraid to get his hands on me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mark

  “You…what?” I glance over at her. “You like a man who’s not afraid to get his hands on you?”

  Shit, man! I hope she’s kidding. Because if she’s not…yeesh! She seems so sweet and nice but…you never know about people. I don’t wanna date the town bike, especially if she’s a Sinclair.

  “Huh?” Her face squinches up quizzically. “OH! What? Shit…that…that’s not what I said…is it?” Her eyes widen as she replays her own words in her head. “Oh my God. I mea
nt, I…I… like a man who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty!” She’s stammering, her face beet-red.

  “Holy shit, sweetheart! Hah! That must be the Mother of All Freudian slips!” I burst out laughing, but the look on her face stops me in my tracks. “Aww…hey…hey! I’m just joking.” I reach over and give her arm a gentle tug. “It’s okay! No, no, seriously! That was adorable!”

  She tries to smile, nodding, but then she turns away from me and looks out the window.

  Poor thing! She’s totally embarrassed now.

  Awww! Of course she’s not gonna make a brazen, dirty comment like some two-dollar whore on her first date with a new man. Granted, she has tattoos and drives a muscle car like a bad-ass. But maybe that’s her way of rebelling…her way of trying to look edgy and tough.

  Besides, don’t they say girls like that are sometimes protecting a tender, feminine nature?

  Maybe her bold flirtation with me the other day was an impulse. Maybe… she felt brave enough to do that because she was with a friend and wouldn’t have dreamed of doing it if she’d been alone.

  All I know for sure is, there’s more to this girl than meets the eye.

  If she’s not as forward as she seems on first glance, then maybe I just got a glimpse of the real Marie…and she’s really just a sweet, over-protected girl from a good family.

  I hope so. I really need something sweet in my life. My last girlfriend, who was separated from her husband, was a good person, but she was tough and not very vulnerable. Emotionally unavailable.

  She definitely wasn’t soft and sweet. Most of my dates before her were decent, professional ladies…but they all had something hard and edgy about them.

  I’m tired of cynical, jaded women. But at the same time, I don’t need a girl on the other side of the spectrum either…the special-snowflake type.

  I can only hope Marie falls somewhere comfortably in the middle.

  “Marie? You’re not upset because you had a slip of the tongue, are you?”

  She turns to look at me. “No, just a little embarrassed.”

  “Aww…sweetie, you don’t have to be embarrassed.” I try to think fast, looking for something to set her at ease.

  Just then, we crest a small rise in the road. Coming into view is a little ice-cream shop that I’ve stopped at a few times.