by Jordan Marie
“Afraid not, so see, I’ll need you to help me.”
“Help you?”
“The way I have it figured, if you say my name enough in your beautiful southern drawl, I’ll learn to love my name. Heck, it will make being called a member of the Crayola gang all worth it.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Crayola gang? Ouch.”
“It’s okay. I had it better than my brothers.”
“Name-wise again, you mean?”
“Well, that and the fact that my crayon is one of those thick, fat ones that—”
“Oh good lord…”
This time, he laughs… and it’s a really good laugh. It’s a laugh that takes away resistance. Not that that was a difficult job.
“My name is CC,” I tell him as I slide back into his hold.
“CC?”
“Yeah. In case, you know, you want to scream it out a lot tonight.”
His grin widens. “I’ll definitely make sure to do that. Often.”
Goodbye dry spell… and good riddance.
“Did you enjoy your weekend off?” Jackson asks.
Jackson is my main man at the garage. The two of us do everything. We could use someone else working with us, but there never seems to be enough money to stretch. I pay Jackson really good though—probably double what anyone else would cost me. He’s worth it, though. He’s the best there is… next to me. Banger told me that, and it is something I always remember with pride. Banger always taught me that if you were going to do anything, you had to give a hundred and fifty percent. Him saying I was the best at something means I did something to make him proud. Jackson has a similar code to Banger, and that reason alone makes him worth the money.
I think back over my wicked weekend with Grayson and can’t stop the grin that blooms on my face nor the way my body heats up with the memory.
“I’d say that was a yes,” Jackson says.
“Bite me,” I tell him. Shit, I’m still grinning.
“I am hungry,” Jackson says, “but you’re way too salty for my tastes. Speaking of which, what are we doing for lunch?”
“Well, I need to drop the oil pan off that baby there,” I tell him, pointing to the old Ford that’s in bay number one.
“That means I’m going to be delivery boy today?” Jackson asks.
“Like every other day. You know you only do it so you can go flirt with Mary Ann at the diner.”
“That woman can bake a mighty fine apple pie,” he says, already walking towards the door.
I drop down on the creeper. “I doubt it’s the pie you’re interested in.”
“Being around us men your whole life has destroyed you.”
“Whatever. It’s Monday, so make sure you bring me back the meatloaf platter.”
“Got it. Be back shortly,” he calls, but I can barely hear him over the loud roar of the air compressor and impact wrench in my hand.
Another day, another dollar.
“Will you give it a rest, Seth? I told you I’m here. I’ll play nice. I’ll even put up with Cammie.”
“You need Riverton Metals on board for this tour, Grayson—especially since Raver Athletics pulled out.”
“They’re idiots.”
“No, they’re a multimillion-dollar company that can’t afford to have their name linked with a golf pro who is more famous for his hard drive into a tour official’s daughter than driving the ball into the hole.”
“Whatever. They’d be crazy to keep me out of the tour over that shit and you know it. My name brings in the fans.”
“So do others. You’re cutting your own throat here, Gray.”
“Driving into Rachelle’s hole was more fun.”
“Her name was Michelle.”
“Close enough.” Honestly, I barely remember the girl. I was drunk as a skunk and the only brain working at the time was the one in my dick—a dick that got the workout of its dreams this past weekend, a dick that misses a certain redhead today. It was a damn good weekend, and if CC hadn’t been gone when I woke up Sunday morning, I would have tried my best to make it last for another couple of days. Cammie Riverton and her father could wait for all I care. I get that Seth is trying to help me out here, but I could give a damn. I might need Riverton's name to get me back on the good side of the officials, but unlike other sports, as a member of the league, I'm an independent contractor. I decide what matches I want to do and where I will appear. I oversee my own damn self. And that would be great, except being blackballed by the higher-ups means they push my entry into tournaments below everyone else, which in short results in filled-up courses and me out in the cold. So I'm trying here when what I really want to do is tell everyone to kiss my ass. I've never been good at towing the line; my mother could more than attest for that.
“My advice is to play nice and get this contract with Riverton and his support under our belts. Without it, you’re not going to get half the publicity as the other pros on tour and you want that green jacket, even if you do try to deny it.”
“Who gets that jacket has more to do with—”
“You and I both know that you can be the best player out there, but if you don’t get the publicity, the powers that be will make it hard on you in every way they can.”
I sigh. “Whatever. I said I’m doing it. I’m in this small Kentucky town now. Have no idea what time I’ll get to Riverton’s, though.”
“Can’t you just punch it in—?”
“Hell, some of these roads aren’t even showing up on my GPS. I swear, Seth, earlier I came through a town called Pussy Holler.”
“Sounds like you should live there.”
“You got jokes. Fuck!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Something’s wrong with my car.”
“Wrong? What happened? I told you to fly out there.”
“I don’t know. It just died. No warning or anything,” I tell him, coasting to the side of the road. “The dash lights and things are on, but it won’t hit a lick. Maybe a starter or something. I told you I’m not flying into a place where they only accept tinker-toy planes. That’s not happening.”
“I’m no mechanic, but since you already had it started and driving when it died, that doesn’t sound like it,” Seth says sarcastically.
“Fine, then. Alternator or something. I don’t know,” I grumble. I look out the windshield and can see a garage about twenty feet in front of me. That, at least, is a stroke of luck.
“You need me to locate a tow service?” Seth asks.
“No. I see a garage up the street here. Claude’s Garage. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, call the cops.”
“Oh, will you stop? It’s not like I sent you to the town where Deliverance was filmed.”
“If I hear dueling banjos, just know I’m coming back to haunt your ass Seth.”
“Yeah, yeah, check in in an hour and try to keep your pants zipped up. I know it will be hard for you.”
“You said hard,” I joke, breathing a little easier when I walk towards the garage. It looks normal. Hopefully I won’t die at the hands of some Norman-Bates-wanna-be-grease-monkey.
“Fuck off,” Seth says before disconnecting the call. I click off my phone, stow it in my pocket, and walk the rest of the way to the garage. Blue would have a freaking ball laughing at me right now. Suddenly all those times I made fun of him for taking mechanic class instead of co-ed PE seem less amusing. Then I think of how grumpy Blue seems to be all the time and immediately nix the idea. Hell, if mom hadn’t caught him with Sara Jane in the barn loft when we were kids, I’d think the man was still a virgin. I should have brought the Caddy, but honestly my Tahoe reminds me of home and I’d never admit it to my brothers or my meddlesome mother, but I miss Texas.
When no one comes out, I go through the open bay doors looking for Claude. The smell of oil and gas is strong. My nose curls in distaste. There’s a reason I’d never pay attention to Blue. The interior is dimly lit. There are florescent lights humming abov
e, the light is stark and shines mainly over the cars that are inside. An old truck is on one side, jacked up and on ramps. Coming out from under it are two oil-soaked legs in thick mechanic coveralls and steel-toed boots. Claude, I guess.
“Hello? I’m looking for the owner? Claude?”
I know that voice. I know the deep baritone that sends shivers down my back and tingles of need through my body. I’ve been thinking about that voice since Sunday morning when I left him lying in bed, sound asleep. I know that voice and that voice is here inside my garage. The shock of that causes the wrench I’m using to remove the plug from the pan to slip. The plug does indeed come out, but at an angle and before I’m ready. Oil spurts out onto my face and pours down my chin and neck. I quickly divert it to the draining pan, but the damage is done.
“Motherfucker,” I gripe. It’s not very ladylike, but cut me some slack. I was raised by a guy named Banger; most of my vocabulary isn’t ladylike.
“Excuse me?” Gray asks.
I know it’s him. I don’t need to see his face. My problem is, I don’t know why he’s here. Surely he’s not here to find me? How would he have done that? He doesn’t even know my name. I mean, he called me CC, but I sure didn’t tell him my name was Claude. And I know for a fact that I never once mentioned where I live. That’s something I would never do, especially with a random hookup. Not that I’ve had those that often, or really much at all. If I did, my dry spell wouldn’t have lasted so damned long. Still, I’m not stupid, and you never give out your personal info. Somewhere in my head, I hear Banger growl at me about sleeping with strangers. Crap!
“Shut up, Banger. You knew my bitch of a mom and you still slept with her. That didn’t work out so well for you either, did it?” I whisper to the voice in my head. Yes, I realize that’s a stupid thing to do, but I’m in a panic, and it seems better than having to talk to the man standing out there in my garage waiting for me to roll out from under this car. Shit!
“Listen, I need my car looked at. It quit out front and I have a meeting. Is Claude around?”
A meeting? His car quit here? Is he telling the truth?
Am I cursed?
I push out from under the car with a sigh. I’m not one to hide, even if the urge is strong. I grab a clean shop rag out of the box to my right, hoping to at least get most of the oil off, then I get up. I’m still wiping up the mess that is me when I look at him. I don’t think he recognizes me, at least not right away. Then again, I look completely different from the way I did this past weekend. There is nothing sexy about shop clothes, oil, and gas, or the skull cap I keep on my hair while at work. It’s hot at times and some may think it’s weird, but then I figure those people have never had to wash oil and gunk out of thick, curly hair, so it’s just simpler.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask him, my voice sounding as miserable and uncomfortable as I’m feeling right now.
“I’m not sure. I was just driving down the road and it quit. It won’t even crank. It’s not the battery though, because the radio and lights come on.”
Yep. He doesn’t recognize me. I don’t know whether to be relieved or upset. He’s sexy as hell though, even if the mint green oxford is uncomfortably preppy and a far cry from the jeans and black t-shirt he wore over the weekend.
“I’ll have a look. Where’s it at?” I tell him, walking towards the door.
“No offense, but I’m in a hurry. Is the owner around? Maybe he could—”
“I am the owner,” I tell him with a sigh, starting to regret my weekend with him even more.
“You’re Claude?” he asks, and I ignore it. “It’s just down the road there,” he tells me, pointing up the street. I go to the tow truck, Gray following along behind me. “You’re taking your truck? It’s just right there,” he says again.
I sigh. “If it won’t start, I can’t very well push it here, now can I?” I ask him with exaggerated impatience.
“Oh. Right.” He climbs up into the passenger side of the tow truck just as I close the door. He looks around the old truck and I can literally see his nose curl in disgust. The old jewel ain’t much, but it’s not that bad. The seats are ripped and the black dash is now faded and cracked. The doors are squeaky and, okay, there’s dust and dirt everywhere, but it runs like a top. I take off towards the bronze-colored Tahoe and stop when I can park in front of it. I jump down and go to the Tahoe. I open the front door to his car as I hear Gray screech. “What are you doing??”
“Popping the hood,” I answer, staring at him like he’s crazy. I think he might be. Did he think I could tell what was wrong just from looking at it?
“But you’re filthy!”
Oh, good Lord in Heaven, is this really the same guy who went down on me for a freaking hour? I reach in and pull the lever for the hood, slam the door shut a little stronger than necessary, then look at him, daring him to say anything. His mouth tightens up like he’s dying to, but he restrains himself.
“Really,” he goes on. “I think I can just call triple A, and…”
I ignore him. That seems to be the best option at this point and, since I chose it to begin with, I’m staying the course. His battery terminals are caked and I can tell from just looking at one that it’s loose. I’m surprised he’s been driving at all, though maybe he hit a bump or something and jarred it. I go back to the truck and grab a screwdriver, a wire brush, and a rag.
“What are you doing now?” he asks, sounding put-out.
“Cleaning your terminals. For someone who was worried I might get grease on his sweet leather interior, your battery posts are horrible. You got to clean under the hood sometimes too, Ace,” I tell him. Once I have one of the posts clean, I tighten the connector to it and do the same to the other. The battery could be bad, but somehow I doubt it.
“It’s not the battery. I told you the lights are on. Hell, even the radio still plays.”
I ignore him. Yet again.
“Get inside and see if it will start,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes at me and I briefly imagine stabbing him between those eyes with my screwdriver. The engine turns and tries to hit, but it doesn’t have enough juice. I go back to the truck and get out the cables, pop my hood, and get ready to jump the engine. Just as I’m about to attach the ends to his battery, he grabs them out of my hand.
“Whoa, now. I don’t think you should be doing that.”
“Seriously?”
“Listen, I appreciate your help and all, but I told you my lights and things come on. If the battery was dead, that wouldn’t happen. I’m pretty sure it’s something more mechanical. I’ll just call triple A and have them send a tow out, you can go back to drowning yourself in oil, and everything will be fine.”
I sigh. “Listen. You’re obviously not from here. So let me explain a few things. First of all, I’m the only tow service for at least sixty miles. Which means if you call roadside assistance, they’re going to call me, and I’ll have to come out anyway. Second of all, the nearest garage besides mine is at least two hundred miles away, which means your tow bill, while nice for my pocket, is not worth it. Plus, I have things I need to do today and I really don’t feel like driving into the city. Third—and this might be the most important—I really would like to get you back on the road just to get rid of you,” I tell him, taking the cables out of his hand. “Now, this is obviously not your area of expertise, but things work according to amps. That means, your radio or lights might work with just a little juice in your battery, but there might not be enough to, say, run your car at the same time, or even start it,” I explain, attaching the cables. “It also means if there’s not a good connection, the output of the battery might not be strong enough. Understand?”
“Listen, I just don’t think you—”
“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” I mutter, walking around and going to start his vehicle. When it fires right up, I slam the door—hard. He stands there looking at the car like it has Martians surrounding it and is getting ready to take
him back to the mother ship. I proceed to take everything back to my truck while he stands there still looking at his car. When I slam his hood (again too hard), he turns around to look at me, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. He looks a little embarrassed, and that makes me feel marginally better. Now if he apologizes for being an ass, I might feel better about the weekend I spent with him. I’ve seen the signs and maybe it’s because I’ve dealt with them over and over, but I really get tired of men who think I don’t understand how to do my job because I’m a woman.
“How much do I owe you?” he asks as he goes to his wallet, no apology in sight.
Okay, then. If that’s how he’s going to play it.
“Hundred bucks.”
“You’re kidding me! You weren’t out here but for ten minutes! That’s highway robbery. With prices like that, I’m surprised you get any business at all,” he grumbles, handing me a hundred dollar bill.
“Oh, what I did here was free.” His mouth goes tight again. Strangely enough, this time I smile.
“If that’s free, then why am I giving you money?”
“Because you were really that annoying. So I charged ten dollars for every minute I had to be around you. I probably should have charged more, but I’m feeling charitable.” I jump up in my truck and leave Gray standing there with his mouth open.
Yeah, I liked him better when his head was buried between my legs.
As I watch Claude drive back to her shop, I can’t shake the feeling that I know her from somewhere. There’s something about her voice … and that face—well, what I could see of it that wasn’t covered with oil. I have the strangest urge to follow her, but I can’t because I have to meet with Riverton.
This is bullshit. I’m not Green after all. Being in the majors like he is, he has to deal with bullshit sponsors. Golf is completely different from baseball, and it’s one thing I’ve always been thankful for. I’m also unbelievably fucking good at it. That’s not ego, though I will admit to having that at times. It’s just the truth. My sport is filled with middle-aged men; there’s a reason they call me the young stud of the sport. I like that title. Fuck, I live up to that title. I’ve become the face of the industry in just a few short years. I took a bunch of ribbing because I went into golf—most of it from my own fucking brothers. But I silenced them by bringing home the bank. Shit, I make more than Green and I don’t have to tow the line like he does. That might be the very reason I’m resenting the fact that Seth has me out here playing nice with Riverton. I am not a fucking yes man. I am who the fuck I am and I like being me. Kissing up to some man just so his company can smooth the way with the big wigs in charge of the tour pisses me off. Everyone thinks money greases the wheels, that it’s all about the money, but the truth is … it’s politics. In the big leagues, everyone has full pockets. They just want to show off who has the bigger dick. The people in charge of getting me exposure, ensuring my rank and position for the tournament, are major dicks.