Begging For Mercy

by Mataya, Tamara

  “Yeah. She came in a couple days ago asking for help with her car; it was making a grinding noise. She was rushing to get to a court case—she’s a lawyer—and asked for my help.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, I removed the traffic cone from her wheel well, and we laughed!”

  “That’s adorable.” And sadly, not the first time we’ve encountered a traffic cone in a wheel well.

  “I know. She was so embarrassed and cute, and we clicked so well it felt like fate had brought her right to my doorstep.”

  “Who knew Cupid delivers. And you asked her out?” I’ll give her shit if not.

  “She insisted on taking me to dinner tonight.”

  “Let’s hope she does better than beer and monster trucks.”

  Chug’s long hair falls back from her face as she tips her head back and laughs. “What a dumbass.”

  “Worst. Date. Ever,” I agree. Even Matt thought that was a shitty date.

  Who knew he’d come roaring back into my life and sweep me off my feet? I don’t get the feeling he wants to move back here permanently, but there’s no way I’d move and leave the shop. What does that mean for a real future between us down the road? Am I getting too attached to someone who’s just going to ride off into the sunset soon, and isn’t really taking us seriously? If he wanted to be with me, he’d be with me.

  Man, I’m overreacting. It’s only been a few days, he’s probably still dealing with his brother’s situation, or even catching up with old friends. He’s here visiting, but has roots. I can’t expect to be his only focus while he’s in Miami.

  “What do you think?” Chug waves her fingers at me. Her fingernails are a deep, oil-slick-iridescent blue with black tips, and her toes match. I’m not a fan of French pedis as they make toenails look even longer, and long toenails gross me out, but I like the effect on hers.

  “They’re gorgeous! You know how I feel about the toes, but I’d consider the nails for sure.”

  “Hopefully Katherine feels the same.” She grins. “Yours are awesome too.”

  “Thanks.” Becka’s painted my fingernails a velvety, matte black with shiny black tips. My toenails are a soft, light pink with tiny black roses on the big toes, and little swoopy lines on the others. I don’t know how the hell she does it; something new, pretty, and intricate, and so fast every time. “Becka, if you ever want to switch to painting vehicles, you’re hired.”

  She grins. “You couldn’t afford me.”

  “Probably not. In square inches alone you’d kill me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Matthew

  The urge to vomit hasn’t eased in the five days since the run.

  How many people will be harmed by the drugs I delivered? How many lives will be lost to overdoses or people killing each other over the product, or unpaid debts? People stealing from others to pay for their habit? How many kids left alone or hurt by parents tweaking out on the very thing I served up to the dealer?

  Sure, if I hadn’t done it, hadn’t delivered the packages, someone else would have. That’s no real comfort. I don’t know for sure what was in the packages, if it was drugs at all, or the whole thing was one giant test from Aaron, checking out how I’d do if I went into business with him. But that seems highly unlikely with the amount of debt he wiped out in exchange for the deliveries.

  Maybe this is how everyone feels the first time they stampede way over their ethical boundaries, until their morality dies. I don’t want mine to die, so because I’m not justifying what I did, I’m stuck with this feeling in my gut that gets worse when I look in the mirror. The guilt’s stopped me from replying to Andy’s texts.

  Sweet, pure, wild Andy. If she knew what I’ve done she’d never look at me the same way again, wouldn’t let me touch her again. The drug running was a one-time thing to get a larger sum—forty thousand made it an offer I couldn’t refuse. If I wasn’t sure of it before, I know it now: I’ll never do it again. So what the hell am I going to do to get more cash? Aaron’s paid off, but we still owe Santos and the hospital, since Luke had no insurance.

  Turning Samson’s offer down was easy, paying this debt down through legally gotten gains, on the other hand... I could put out some resumes, but even if I got a job that paid two grand a month after taxes, it would still take... Christ, years to make enough.

  I trace meaningless patterns on the ceiling with my gaze, hoping for a solution or a meteor, which would also be a solution in a way, though wouldn’t make me feel better.

  My phone buzzes. My buddy Garth. Apathy has settled over my limbs and mind, making it hard to find a reason to answer the phone, but when he hangs up and tries again, it sparks a little curiosity. What the hell, might as well answer it. “Garth, what’s up?”

  “I’m glad you’re there! I’m in a bind, man. I know it’s a longshot and you’re just here on vacation, so you’re probably not looking for work, but...”

  The suave wheedling in his voice perks me up a bit, and I play along, faking lightness surprisingly well. “What are you after?”

  “My boss is turning sixty, and it’s also his twenty-fifth anniversary of owning the lot, so it’s sort of a big deal.”

  “And you’re looking for a date for the party? Listen, I’m flattered, but—”

  “Very funny. No, his wife got him a Spyder for a present.”

  “A Lambo?”

  “Yup.”

  I whistle my appreciation. That’s a seriously expensive gift. “Rough life.”

  “Right?”

  “And where do I come in to all this? Because if he hated it and is looking to give it away, I’ll take it off his hands.”

  “He hasn’t gotten it yet.” Garth hesitates. “Like I said, it’s nothing fun, and there’s a time crunch, it would be a total pain in the ass—”

  “Calm down, you’re overselling it.”

  He chuckles. “Sorry, just want you to know what you’re in for. You’d be doing a custom paint job—if you’re interested. He hasn’t seen the car yet—doesn’t know about it—and he’s all about customization. Helene, the wife, approached us to see if we’d help with sort of pimping his ride, but paint only. He’s obsessed with Game of Thrones, and we wanted to incorporate that somehow into the paint work. Can you do it? You’d really be bailing me out here. The guy we normally use for custom paint broke his hand in a jet-skiing accident.”

  Can I make something beautiful while feeling this ugly inside? “I don’t know, man.”

  “I’m not asking you to do it for free. We’d pay you what we’d have given the other guy. Seven grand. And it would make me look really good to the boss’s wife...”

  My hope perks up. Seven grand isn’t a tiny amount, and I could do that fairly quickly. Plus, if I do well enough, it will be like free advertising every time the car leaves the garage. This is something I can do to help Luke without hurting anyone or running the risk of being arrested. It’s something I can do that won’t make me feel more like a piece of shit. “You got the equipment? All my gear’s back home.”

  “We’ve got everything you need. So you’re in?”

  I grin, a real one this time. “I guess I am. When do you want me?”

  “Can you come to the shop now?”

  “Give me half an hour.”

  All of the sudden, I don’t feel like such a scumbag.

  THANKFULLY, I’M ALSO a fan of Game of Thrones, so a few ideas spring to mind as Garth leads me to the garage half of the luxury lot.

  Imports are spendy to repair and most places would get screwed on markups for the replacement parts, which adds up for the customer. Garth’s place of employment cut out the middlemen a couple years ago and added their own shop on-site.

  It’s big and spacious, clean and shiny, and full of cars that cost ridiculous amounts of money. The shop is in tip-top shape too, but clearly not as busy as Andy’s—though I prefer her smaller place. I

  ’ve almost gotten hard looking at a few of the cars in va
rious states of repair here, so as far as places to burn a few hours go, it’s not shabby. I love bikes, but there’s something sexy about luxury sports cars that turns my crank. Me and nearly every other guy seventeen and up.

  Garth shows me to the Spyder in a far corner of the separate building adjacent to the dealership. They don’t want to have the repairs in sight when selling the new vehicles—it diminishes the fantasy of the raw luxury they’re trying to sell.

  The custom paint room is set apart with heavy plastic curtains that will prevent paint from spreading, and also keep fine dust from migrating into the paint job. Nothing more frustrating than being super careful and ending up with a hair in the paint job you’ve got to pick out, sand out, and touch up. There’s a ventilation fan overhead to keep from fuming the mechanics out of the garage.

  The Lambo was black at one point, but right now it isn’t at its shiny best.

  Garth pats the hood. “We chem cleaned it and gave it a light scuff sand already to prep for you.”

  “You weren’t kidding about the timeline.”

  “Nope. Five days—including drying time. She’s all set for you to work your magic.”

  “What was the other guy going to do? Does he usually work so fast?”

  Garth shakes his head. “No, the boss’ wife just happened to get her hands on this two days ago, and finalized the sale last night. When Erwin told me his hand was fucked, my asshole puckered pretty tight, not gonna lie. You’re really pulling my ass out of the fire.” He claps his hands. “We’ll seal it and clear coat it after as well so you don’t have to worry about anything but the art.”

  “What’s your boss’ name?”

  “Darryl Newton.”

  I’m not working his name into the paint job, I just want to know the guy’s name. It’s telling that everyone is in on the surprise, and they also care enough about their boss to come together to make this happen for him. He must be a nice guy.

  It makes me want to deliver something next-level. I scope out the car for a few minutes, and narrow it down to two different concepts for the paint job I think will suit the shape of the body. “Who are his favorite characters from the show?”

  “You’re kidding right? The blonde chick with the dragons. Isn’t she everyone’s favorite?”

  “She’s cool, but I like Tyrion. He has a better character arc.” I smile. “I think I’ve got the perfect design idea.”

  Garth leads me to a staffroom where I pull a chair to a table, and he leaves me alone while I sketch with my colored pencils, first the car and then my vision for the car from three angles. Fifteen minutes later, the staff is buzzing with the concept, smiling their approval of the design.

  What I’ve done is unmistakeable to a true fan of the show, but subtle enough that it looks good out of context instead of being tacky or gaudy. He’s not going to look like a superfan or a paid advertiser while driving the car. The Iron Throne takes up the hood of the car in metallic hues over a rich, deep, greenish-black. The rest of the car is done with large, subtle, dragon scales in rich greens at the front, fading to pearly greenish-grays at the back, almost like lotus petals.

  I don’t have to ask if the design is successful. Garth points me toward the paint equipment with a giant grin and the promise of a beer after work.

  I step into the white coveralls and get going. It’s hard work, but something I love, and other than the cramping in my hands that sets in, the time flies by.

  Garth peels the plastic curtain back for a peek four hours later. “Holy shit, man, you work fast. Looks good so far!”

  I lower the spray gun and shrug the tension from my neck. The basecoat’s done, the throne’s outlined, and I’ve freehanded in some of the scale lines for markers on the body. “Thanks.”

  “You about done for the day?”

  I nod. “Until the basecoat dries I can’t really do much more.”

  His wide grin shows a lot of pearly whites. “Then lets carpe the crap out of some cervezas!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Andy

  The last time I was under a car, Matt showed up, pulled me out from underneath it, and gave the wrenches something to talk about.

  A good five minutes go by as the memories pour over me like warm, rich, caramel coffee dripping into a cup. I don’t want to move, don’t want to shatter the perfect clarity with which I savor the memory of his hands on my body.

  The passionate way he gripped my hips and thrust into me, using the freaking dolly as a sex swing...

  A thin whine of need escapes my lips, but unfortunately, when I open my eyes, I’m still underneath a car, and very much alone. The only things getting screwed around here are the lug nuts.

  It’s been too long. He texted me back, turning down my invitation to a pretty blatant booty call, and I haven’t heard from him since. I was looking forward to him seeing my pretty little toes after my pedi with Chug, but not even a peep from the guy.

  Again...

  Is Matthew all about the chase? When we’re together, it’s like I’m the only thing in his world. When I’m out of sight, I’m feeling very out of mind. Something’s off but I can’t put my finger—or hands, or mouth—on it. I guess Chug was right that I need to be careful with him off the course as well. Maybe he’s been racing without me, having a big old time winning my races while I’m not there.

  And I can’t have that.

  Maybe he met someone else, and instead of tearing up a race course with a bunch of racers, he’s heating up the sheets in her bed. Discomfort squirms through my guts at the thought of Matt’s hands on another woman, his mouth—

  I pick up the wrench and adjust the light. We never got as far as the ‘let’s agree not to see other people’ speech, but it sure felt like we were heading in that direction. Weren’t we? It hasn’t been that long since we started seeing each other, but he felt all in.

  Like the way he’d filled me with his—

  “Hello? Anyone here?”

  I roll out from under the car, and stand. Temecula Frank! “Frank! How are you, sir?” This is either going to be great or bad news.

  “Just the woman I came to see.”

  “The bike doing okay?” I keep my tone casual while my mind frantically spins its wheels, trying to figure out anything I might have done wrong. Screwing up is bad enough, screwing up a client with this much influence would be catastrophic.

  He grins and tips the brim of his cap back from his face a bit. “Better than okay. Gave it to my daughter. She loved what you did to Lola, can’t stop raving about it.”

  My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Aww, thank you.”

  “No, thank you.” He tilts his head. “I’ve got a couple bikes I’ve been meaning to get looked at, but wasn’t happy with the last guy who touched them. Would you be interested in having a look?”

  Be still my ego. “Are you kidding me? Bring whatever you want over. I’d consider it a privilege.”

  He grins and holds out his hand. “Sounds great. I’ll bring them by next week when I’m back in town. I wanted to come and thank you again in person.”

  He walks out, and I practically strut to the coffeepot. I impressed a freaking racing legend enough for him to let me get my grubby little hands on more of his bikes. Regardless of anything else, this is the most validating moment I’ve had in my career. It’s one thing for any client to say they’re impressed, but this legend is proving it by bringing back repeat business. I’m exactly where I should be. This proves Patch and Dad are wrong about things; it’s a sign to keep doing what I’m doing and take no prisoners.

  I whip out my phone and dial a number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hiiiiii.” I grin.

  Patch laughs. “I know that gloating tone. What happened?”

  I clear my throat, extending this I-told-you-so moment a little longer. “Who’s the best?”

  “Me.”

  “Patch!” I stomp my foot. “Can you indulge me for just a minute?”

  “Fin
e. What did my little sister do now? Did you invent a better mousetrap?”

  “Temecula Frank!”

  “You did Temecula Frank?! Isn’t he married?”

  I roll my eyes. “Shut up, that’s not what I—”

  “—and, like, three times your age?”

  “Patrick!”

  “And a client? Way unprofessional to be seducing clients—and not the most efficient business model.”

  “Har-de-har.” I sigh, deflated like a balloon with old helium.

  “What’s the big news?”

  “No. I was going to tell you, but not anymore.”

  He laughs. “Don’t be a brat. Temecula Frank...?”

  I try to hold out to make him die of curiosity, but excitement wins. “He came in and said I blew him away, and his daughter was thrilled.”

  “That’s awesome!”

  “And, he’s going to bring more of his bikes by because he liked what I did so much.”

  “Good for you, sis. I’m proud of you.”

  I hear the pride in his voice, and it salves the resentment of our last conversation a bit. Satisfaction and excitement fill my lungs. “Thanks. I mean, even if he doesn’t bring anything else in, it’s still awesome of him to come in and say so.”

  “He wouldn’t make the trip to blow sunshine up your ass.”

  Probably not. Excitement wiggles through me again. “I can’t believe it!”

  “I can. You know that your abilities were never in question with Dad and me, right? You work your ass off. You deserve this.”

  Emotion overcomes me, and I breathe deeply to sift through it to find my words. “Thanks. I’m going to call Dad and tell him now. Talk to you later?”

  “For sure.”

  I hang up and call Dad, and have a similar conversation with him, including the teasing. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I hang up a few minutes later feeling lighter than I have in days.

  I need to do something to celebrate.

  I PROMISE GREEN GOBLIN a full tune up tomorrow, leave her on the stand, and wander up the stairs to my apartment, dead on my feet. I really shouldn’t have raced tonight after a full workday. Excitement is a fickle fuel at best. I should have just had a glass of wine and an early night to unwind. What I did instead got me sore wrists, tight quads, and an adrenaline burn out.