Flying Gold

by Vanessa North

  “Hey. I’ve got this. Go. Call me.”

  She goes.

  I take several deep breaths to calm myself. I’m the sister who can be calm in a crisis. I’m the one with the level head. I’m the one who fixes things. I can do this.

  “Teegs?” I call out, and she emerges from the parts room. “Duke’s had an accident.”

  “What kind of accident? Is he okay?” Her voice rises at the end.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. Accident probably isn’t the right word. Cliff’s involved. Tanner rushed out of here to get to the hospital. Can you text Ty and tell him we need him all day today?”

  “Oh shit.” Her eyes meet mine and it’s like looking in the mirror as we both bite our lips. She nods. “Yes, of course. I’ll get Ty here.”

  Just then, I hear a horn from in front of the shop. “That’s a tow-in. I’ll be right back.”

  When I step outside, expecting to see a hot mess, the breath is knocked from my lungs.

  My first car was a beat-up green Chevelle SS. I rebuilt the engine and transmission with my own two hands, even did the body work myself. Every time I see one from the same era, I feel a twinge of nostalgia, but this one—it goes past nostalgia to pure lust. Damn she’s a beauty.

  Champagne gold with black racing stripes and in glorious condition. This is a car someone loved—cherished and cared for over decades. I run my hand over the rear fender and take in the smooth paint, free of nicks and dings.

  “Purty, ain’t she?” The tow truck driver steps down, clipboard in hand.

  I nod appreciatively. “I used to have one—not so pretty, but I still regret selling her.”

  “I bet. Rare as hen’s teeth to see one in this kind of condition.”

  “Right?” I reach for the clipboard. “Can you put it out back? We’re short a tech and don’t have any free lifts, so I want to make sure it’s secure behind the gate.”

  I scan the clipboard for the car details. 1970 Chevelle SS, gold paint. Owned by Matt Adams.

  I always thought the expression “blood runs cold” was hyperbole, but my entire body freezes and my mouth drops open. No.

  No fucking no.

  I unfreeze, my face flushing hot with fury. I shove the clipboard back at the driver, turn on my heel, and flee back into the safety of the shop.

  Is this a fucking joke?

  “Hey! Hey, lady!” the driver shouts after me. “You didn’t sign it!”

  I don’t turn back. I go straight to the parts room and sink to the floor next to Tegan’s computer desk. “I can’t do this. I can’t. Tegan, you have to.”

  “I have to what?” She turns away from her Google Hangouts window and looks down at me.

  “It’s Matt’s car. The tow. It’s Matt’s car.”

  Maybe Matt Adams is a common name, but that car? Here? With that name attached to it? It has to be him. What the fuck? Why now?

  “Matt your boyfriend?”

  “Jesus, Tegan, we broke up ten years ago.” Why now why now why now? “I can’t do this.”

  “Okay, I’ll go take care of it. We can’t turn away business, though. Tanner will kill us.”

  “I’m not touching that car.” What if it smells like him?

  “Duke or Tyler or I will take care of it. I promise.” She stands, combs her floppy bangs back from her forehead and puts on her best resting bitch face.

  I listen to the engine sounds as the truck pulls out back, then a few minutes later, out of our lot and away.

  “It’s him,” Tegan confirms as she returns, the pink slip of the receipt folded in her hand. “West Hollywood address. California area code.”

  I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Did I wake up in hell this morning?”

  “Get up.” She nudges my butt with her foot. “You’ll feel better if you keep busy.”

  She’s right. Of course she’s right. But in this moment? I’d be happy if I never saw another car again.

  “Tyler’s on his way. He’ll do the service on Duke’s lift. Head down, get to work.”

  I nod. “I hope Duke’s okay.”

  “Tanner will tell us as soon as she knows anything.”

  I stand and tuck my braid into the back of my coveralls. “You’re right.”

  Twenty minutes later, Tyler finally shows up, hiding a hickey on his neck and blushing. “Hey. Sorry, I was still in bed when Tegan called. I had to shower.”

  “Hey. Whose bed?” I try for “teasing older sister” but from the way he cringes, it’s clear I miss the mark.

  “Don’t.” He picks up the work order on Duke’s toolbox. “Please don’t lecture me about my sex life.”

  Yikes. I definitely wasn’t trying for “lecture.” I hold up both hands in surrender. “I don’t even want to think of you having one.”

  He sighs. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m worried about Duke.”

  “He’s going to be fine,” I reassure him. “He has to be.”

  “Right. Because what we want always turns out the way we want.”

  I’m not ready for my baby brother to be a cynic. “Ty.”

  “Tiff.” He juts his chin out.

  “For today, can we be hopeful?”

  His steady blue gaze meets mine and then he looks away, flushing pink. “Yeah. He’s going to be fine.”

  Chapter Two

  Matt

  I like to study a location as we set up a shoot, so it’s five in the morning and my coffee is already cold as I make my way around the set.

  “Hey, nerd.” A shoulder bumps mine as I make notes on the script, sending my pen flying, and a smile spreading across my face. Not every member of my crew is family, but Elspeth Todd is like the sister I never had, and her brain and mine work in perfect harmony on set, which is why she’s always my first choice for a second camera operator.

  “Hey, yourself.” I throw an arm around her. “Thanks for coming out.”

  She pokes me in the ribs and makes a moue of distaste. “I can’t believe we’re doing television.”

  “It’s Netflix. And Ben Horvath asked me. On his wedding night. You gonna say no to Ben at his own wedding?”

  She stretches down to pick up my pen. “I wasn’t invited to Ben Horvath’s wedding. And I’m sure it’s not ’cause I fucked his daughter a few years ago.”

  I take the pen from her and continue my notes. “When are you going to abandon me and take a DP job of your own?”

  “When the right DP job comes along, I guess.” She shrugs, reading my notes over my shoulder. “You want to do this whole scene in one shot?”

  I meet her gaze. “Cutler wants the show to look like a Kubrick film.”

  “Oh, nice, no pressure.”

  My phone rings, an unfamiliar number on the screen. I hold up a finger and answer. “Adams.”

  “Mr. Adams, this is Tegan Ellis at American Heavy Metal.”

  Tiffani’s younger sister—the last time I saw her she was still in middle school. “Tegan? Little Tegan?”

  “I’m twenty-three years old now, Mr. Adams.”

  “Right. I’m sorry. How are you? How’s your dad and them?”

  There’s a long pause on the line. “My father passed away last summer. Listen, I have your car here, and I wanted to let you know our standard fee for two hours of diagnostic is $500. I can take a verbal approval for that.”

  “Tegan—I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Is—is Tiffani okay? Do you all need anything?”

  “I need approval for the $500 service fee before I can assign a technician to work on your car.”

  “You have it. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, we’ll call you after the diagnostic work is done.” She hangs up, leaving me to clutch my phone to my chest, my heart aching.

  “Everything okay?” Elspeth touches my s
houlder, her face a map of concern.

  “Um—yeah. I just found out my high school sweetheart’s dad died. They were really close. I don’t know the etiquette.”

  “Was the breakup amicable?”

  Tears. Mascara running. Stumbling backward down the steps while the front door slams.

  “No.”

  “Leave it alone. Let’s go over this single-shot Kubrick-esque scene you have planned.”

  I don’t want to leave it alone, but I can’t think of a single thing to say, so I turn my worries into work. When I agreed to come to Atlanta, I thought it would be an adventure. I never considered the idea of bringing along ten-year-old baggage, and right now, I’d give almost anything to be back in my apartment in L.A., playing video games with Trent and forgetting that being reckless and stupid has consequences that last long after you run away from them.

  Tiffani

  “This isn’t going to work unless we hire someone new.” I look over the proposal for the new pay structure. “I’m all for a team structure, but right now it’s just me. Tyler is technically a contractor, not a full-time employee, and he doesn’t want to be.”

  “Duke will be back in a few weeks. At least to light duty.” Tanner stares at me across the desk. “Do we have enough work to hire another tech full time?”

  “Right now, yeah.”

  “And when Duke comes back?”

  “Maybe.”

  She sighs and twists her hair into a knot on the top of her head, skewering it with a pencil. How the hell does she do that? Sometimes I wonder at how the two years more she had with Mom gave her so much more talent with things like hair and fashion. Or maybe it’s just her personality lends more to girly things.

  Oh.

  “Hey, what if we did a ladies’ car clinic on Saturdays? We could do oil changes, services, check tire pressure—not just on muscle cars, but any car. Offer simple pricing so they know they’re getting a fair deal and not someone taking advantage. We’re a mostly woman-owned car shop. Why not capitalize on sisterhood?”

  Tanner gives me that look again, the one that makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. I know it’s just that she’s thinking, and she’s not even looking at me at all, but her focus is unnerving. When she does speak, it’s slow and measured.

  “I like it. We could serve lattes. Or mimosas. No, not mimosas. Too much involved in a liquor license. Do you think it would bring in enough business for a third tech?”

  Well, then there’s that. “It won’t be the same kind of business. We’re known for our work on vintage muscle cars. It’s a risk. But it’s money. And we like money.”

  Tanner smiles. “Money’s always nice. A good reputation in the community is nice too. And if we’re defining the community as only people who own muscle cars built within a set period of time—well, that community isn’t going to grow.”

  It was an argument I’d had with Dad more times than I could count. “Look, I love the muscle cars. I grew up loving them. My first car was a Chevelle. But we can’t sustain a business forever on a shrinking population. Maybe it’s time to be more.”

  It’s been time, to be honest. And I can tell by the look in her eye that Tanner agrees. “Good. Write up a job listing for Indeed? I’ll work on a marketing plan for the car clinic.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods. “Yeah. So. Speaking of Chevelles.”

  My stomach turns. “Do we have to?”

  “Yeah, Tiff. We do.” She straightens her spine and folds her hands primly in front of her. “Duke’s not going to be back for a few weeks. I need you to diagnose the car. I know it’s Matt’s car, but it’s been ten years. Can’t he just be a client?”

  Isn’t that how the world works? Men hurt us, and we adapt, make ourselves smaller, redefine things so the hurt is secondary? Why is his money more valuable than my feelings?

  “He broke my heart, Tanner. I don’t want to do a goddamn thing for him.”

  Her hands twist on the desk. “I know. And I understand. I’ve been there. But we can’t turn away work. And it’s not fair that this happened now, but it did, and we’re running a business.”

  “Tegan—”

  “Has to run the parts and service department. And she doesn’t have the diagnostic skills you do.”

  “Tyler—”

  “Tiffani.” The tone of her voice brings me up short. “Please?”

  I scrub a hand over my face to hide the angry tears threatening, and I swallow my pride, locking it away. “Fine.”

  “Here’s the key.” She hands it over on a simple leather keyfob, and I roll it around in my hand. “See if it’ll start. If it starts, drive it over to my place and I’ll cook dinner. You can meet the puppies.”

  “You’re keeping the puppies?” The puppies Duke got hurt trying to rescue. The puppies that are the reason I have to fix Matt fucking Adams’s car.

  She glances down, uncharacteristically sheepish. “Fostering. For now. Come on, Brit’s been texting me pictures of them all day. I suspect a cuddle with Foscoe and Ivy Lou are just what you need.”

  “Foscoe and Ivy Lou?”

  “It could be worse. I’ve seen the list of names Brit’s got for her human baby.”

  I bite back a grin. “Okay. Foscoe and Ivy Lou. My god.”

  “Puppies can’t fix a broken heart. But they’re pretty great.”

  * * *

  The car doesn’t smell like Matt. It smells like old leather and fresh dirt, motor oil, memories, and one of those cheesy pine-tree-shaped air-fresheners. That doesn’t seem Matt’s style, but then, I haven’t seen him in a decade. I slide into the leather seat, adjusting its position for my shorter legs, and run my hands over the steering wheel, test the heft of the horseshoe shifter. The car is a beast, but a familiar one. It feels like home—like a nicer, cleaned up for company home, but home nonetheless.

  I turn the key and the engine roars to life, a throaty, head-turning growl. So far, so good. I squeeze the shifter and pull it back into gear. I ease down on the throttle and she purrs as we slip out of the parking space and turn out onto the open road.

  I push my foot to the floor.

  The wheels grip the asphalt and spit us forward with a squeal. The car flies over the road, and I wish I were on a track where I could just let go and see how fast she could go, but instead I pull to an obedient stop at the corner. The car is in phenomenal condition for its age, and it shows no sign of being in trouble. What kind of shenanigan is Matt trying to pull?

  I put it through its paces as much as possible on the city streets, bustling with people at the end of the day. Tanner’s house is just a few blocks away, but I don’t turn down her street, instead heading for the interstate and its 70-mph speed limit.

  Once on the highway, the Chevelle lurches forward like a dog tugging at its leash. At speed, the engine sounds just like it should: thick and hungry, the vibration palpable through the seats. With that sound comes a rush of memories. Screaming down the old state road with Matt at my side, laughing and teasing and telling secrets.

  My face warms with shame, which just pisses me off, and I push the pedal to the floor again. The tall pines lining the highway blur in my peripheral vision and the Chevelle leaps eagerly to the challenge.

  Blue lights flash behind me. Goddamn it.

  I pull to the side of the road, practicing my best, most winning smile, thankful I still have my coveralls on. When I recognize the state trooper strolling up to the side of the car, I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Tiffani.” Shane Tucker scowls at me as I roll down the window. I’ve known Shane most of my life—he’s brought his motorcycles to the shop since he started driving. I was a wide-eyed seven-year-old, and I thought he was the coolest person ever. That lasted about until he became a cop when I was twelve, something I still find completely bewildering.

  “Hi, Shane.”<
br />
  “We can’t keep meeting like this.” His lips quirk up in a smile, but it disappears as quickly as it formed.

  “I’m test-driving it. I had to see how it responded to acceleration at highway speeds.”

  “You can do that without driving ninety miles an hour, Tiff. I have to write you a ticket.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yeah, I really fucking do. And you have to stop driving like a bat out of hell before you hurt someone. What would your dad say?”

  I swallow. That’s a low blow. Dad loved these cars, but as far back as I can remember, he never once got a speeding ticket. When I got a ticket six years ago for making an illegal U-turn in the middle of nowhere, he lectured me for an hour about keeping my driving record clean as long as I was working in his shop.

  “If you weren’t my daughter, I would have fired you already. Don’t let there be a next time.”

  “He’d fire my ass,” I mumble.

  “Yeah, he would.” Shane stalks away, leaving me to stew in my embarrassment and grief. When he returns, he has me sign the ticket, then tears off a copy. “Your court date is on the bottom—it’s three weeks from Thursday.”

  “Shane—”

  “Don’t. I’m doing my job.”

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt, as if he can absolve me of this rush of guilt. But he’s not my dad.

  “I’ll see you in a few weeks. So help me god, Tiffani, if I pull you over again before then, I’m hauling you down to lockup.”

  I watch him stride back to his car, climb in, and drive away, then I send Tanner a quick text. I’ll be there in twenty. There’s nothing wrong with this fucking car.

  I bury the ticket in my purse. Maybe Mac can take care of it for me and Tanner won’t ever have to know.

  Matt

  “That’s it for today.” Jeremy Cutler stands shoulder to shoulder with me, watching the last scene we’ve shot. “We could do another ten takes and I still wouldn’t be happy, so let’s not put the actors through it.”