by Bella Jewel
Matty is our newest member, and he’s only twenty but is blossoming into a great mechanic with every passing day. He’s training under us, so he also studies as well as puts in hours at the garage. He’s good with his hands, but most importantly, he’s got an eye for the smaller things. The things we often miss. He’s smart as hell, and he’s taken in every single thing he’s learned in his time with us.
I arrive at the garage and pull my car into the reserved spot that’s always been mine. I throw my booted feet out and then slide my body out at the same time slamming the door behind me. I’m always first to arrive and last to leave. But it’s not just because I love this place. I help out with the cars, but I also have paperwork coming out of my ass on top of it. I don’t mind, though. There’s a certain peace this place brings me, and being here gives me stability. I’d be lost without it.
I walk towards the large, two-bay garage with Pixie Wheels written in bright blue across the top of the old, steel colored walls. My mom used to call me Pixie when I was little so Dad made sure to include it into the name when they started this business. I’ve never had the heart to change it. My parents had so many happy years in this place, and I think it’s part of the reason I hang onto it so tightly. It’s the only happy memories I have left.
I open the door that leads into the office from the workshop, and step inside. There are two offices in the front left-hand corner of the garage, one that has a reception desk and files, and another that has a computer and phone, as well as a crap load of tools and boxes stacked against the wall. The second is where I lock myself away to do most of my work. Matty rotates his time between the garage and reception, because we can’t afford a receptionist right now. I had to install a phone in the workshop so we could take calls out there.
I drop my phone down onto the reception desk and flick on the lights. I open the door leading out to the garage and see we have four cars still needing to be pushed through before we can take on any more today. The locals around here know the business, know me and know my story, so they are loyal and always bring their cars in to us, even still, when you’re so far behind, business has to be better than that to stay afloat.
I sit at the desk booting up the computer and hoping to get through some invoicing before the guys start in two hours. I have a lot to do and it’s the only time we’re quiet enough for me to be able to do anything without interruption. I manage to pore through fifty invoices before Lenny sticks his head in the door, his deep brown eyes softening when he sees me.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Lenny.” I smile, standing.
He studies me and his expression becomes grim. I know he can see that I’m exhausted, hell, I can see that I’m exhausted. I avoided looking in the mirror this morning because I knew that I’d see what resembled a run-over, beaten-up clown looking back at me. I don’t have time for a reminder of what I already know.
Lenny steps through the door, his tall frame taking up most of it. Even in his fifties, Lenny is strong and fit. His hair is more pepper than salt still, giving him that rugged, older hot guy look. I bet the old ducks go nuts over him. That thought makes me scrunch my nose up. Nobody wants to think about old people going at it. Great way to start the morning.
“Rob give you trouble again last night?” he asks as I try to step around him.
I wave a hand. “Nope, I look like a clown because I was out raging all night.”
He gives me a bitter expression. He doesn’t like my humor. He’s too caring. He doesn’t understand that my humor is all I have left.
He reaches out and takes my shoulders in his big hands, looking down at me, his expression dark. “Quinnie, you’re exhausted. You’ve got huge circles under your eyes. You look like shit. Don’t lie to me, honey.”
I frown, he can see right through me. “He got drunk, made a mess, it was fine.”
Lenny shakes his head and his jaw goes tight. “Goin’ to have a word with him again this afternoon.”
“What’s the point, Len?” I throw my hands up. “We’ve all tried and let’s face it, he doesn’t listen. He’ll never listen.”
“You’re running yourself into the ground.”
He’s telling me nothing I don’t already know.
“Don’t worry, I’m made of steel.”
“Quinn…”
“Lenny, I’ll be fine,” I say in a firm tone, stepping past him.
I enter the garage just as Jace, Oscar and Matty come in. They’re always on time, each and every one of them. I’m grateful for that. Jace strides over, wearing his favorite pair of coveralls, which believe me, do not take away from his masculinity one tiny bit. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and plants a loud, smacking kiss to my forehead. “Mornin’, sunshine, you look like crap.”
I smile. “Thanks, and you look like farmer Joe.”
He steps back, hooking his thumbs through his coveralls and grins. “You like?”
“Not even a little bit. Better not let your ladies see you in those, you’ll go from hot to … well … not.”
This is a lie. Women would probably throw themselves at his feet if they got a look at him in those coveralls with his long dark hair curling at his neckline and those bright blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Farmer Joe, eat your heart out.
“I always knew you thought I was hot.”
His grin gets bigger. I roll my eyes.
“How you got that out of what I said is far, far beyond me.”
“Morning, Quinnie,” Oscar says, winking at me. With his salt-and-pepper hair, he’s far more worn-out looking than Lenny, but he’s got the sweetest green eyes. “You do look like shit.”
“Come on, guys,” I protest. “You’re killing me here. Can one of you tell me my hair looks totally rad? Please? Hell, just lie to me and we’ll be cool.”
“You look like a sweet sugar pie,” Matty says in his Texan drawl, which I absolutely adore.
“Now you nearly made that believable.” I grin.
He chuckles. Matty has only been in Florida for the last four years, before that he was a Texan boy through and through. He’s going to be handsome as all hell when he fills out from that young man to an older, more mature man. He’s got sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. His face is handsome, yet sweet and there are a good lot of girls who want to get their hands on him.
“What’re we pulling in today?” Lenny asks, coming up behind me and resting his hands on my shoulders.
“We need to move what’s already in here and then bring in as many more as we can get through before closing.”
“I’m on it,” Oscar says, disappearing into the office to collect the booking information schedule.
“I’ll do the little sedan,” I say, nodding to a red sedan that’s without its tires in the corner. “Tell me what it needs.”
“The alternator has shit itself,” Lenny informs me. “Got all the parts ordered in and ready to go. Also got some new tires for it.”
“Cool,” I say. “Well, let’s do this.”
I disappear into the office to get my things and then head into the female bathroom to put on an old pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved button-up shirt that’s seen better days. I quickly change, rolling up the sleeves on the shirt and lifting my black hair into a high ponytail.
Then I dare to look in the mirror.
I don’t like what I see.
They’re all right. I look awful. My eyes, which are usually dark brown, are bloodshot and there are some serious dark rings under them. My hair, black as the night, is limp and gross. I look drawn out and tired. I splash my face with some water and slap my cheeks a few times to give them color before heading back out to get started on the day.
I slide right on over to the car that will occupy my morning and get it raised up so I can slip underneath it. I get down to work and listen to the guys chatting casually as I do. The radio is playing through some speakers that are mounted on the walls, and every now and then one of the guys will laugh loudly, whic
h always brings a smile to my face. They’re a dream to work with.
I finish the red car in about two hours and move on to replacing a few batteries and doing a few general services on some others that come in. Then I get to work helping Lenny fix the body of a car that has been in a serious accident. It’s not easy when there’s so much damage, but I do love replacing old parts with the new. It seems to give the cars a fresh vibe that most people are happy to drive away with.
“Yo, Quinn!” Jace calls just after lunch, when I’m head deep in the engine of an old Ford that sounds like it’s about to fall to pieces.
“Yeah?” I call.
“Call for you.”
Ugh.
Why must people be so needy?
I push up to my feet and walk into the reception area, lifting the phone. “Hello?” I say in my best chipper voice.
“Hello, Quinn, my name is Wesley. I’m calling about my car.”
I sit down, crossing my legs. “Sure Wesley, what’s the problem?”
“Well, Betty seems to be smoking quite a bit.”
I blink. Betty?
“Ah, Betty?”
“Her name.”
Oh dear.
“Right.” I fight back a giggle. “And has Betty been doing this a lot?”
“No,” he says. “Well … she’s quite old. I’ve had her since I was just a teen, so it’s been a long time.”
Sounds like Betty is trying to blow herself up. I wouldn’t blame her.
“Has, ah, Betty been regularly serviced?”
He snorts. “Of course, she’s my pride and joy.”
Alrighty, then.
“Okay, listen, Wesley, it sounds like I might need to take a look at her. Smoke from the engine is never a good thing. Don’t worry, we’ll lead her away from the edge.”
Wesley is silent. “Do you think she’s on her way out and is trying to tell me something?”
Dear lord.
“I think so, Wesley. But we’ll see what we can do.”
“I’ll bring her right down!”
He hangs up the phone before I can even say good-bye. I shake my head with a smirk on my face when the bell above the door rings, indicating someone has just entered the office. I turn and my mouth drops clean open as I take in who just walked into my garage. I must be seeing things, because there is no way in hell I am actually seeing who I am seeing. It can’t be right. I blink a few times, I’m pretty sure I even rub my eyes. No way. It can’t be.
It is.
Tazen Watts.
Tazen freaking Watts.
He’s only a world-famous custom car builder. Everyone in Florida, the States and probably the entire world knows who Tazen Watts is. He has been building cars since before he was eighteen and is now well-known for his television show Hot Fury, where he is filmed building some truly amazing cars. Some of the best racers in the world have cars from him. He’s … epic. He’s not only built cars for racing, he’s also built customs for millionaires, celebrities and even for charity auctions. I’ve seen him on television, watched him, swooned over him like every other hot-blooded female in the world.
He was my idol when I was younger, I spent hours watching his show. He inspired me to keep following my dreams, even when I wasn’t sure this was the right place for me. Seeing the way he created such beauty, made me determined to one day build another car for myself.
And he’s in my garage.
Wait, why is he in my garage?
“Morning there, little angel,” he purrs, letting his eyes travel over my body.
I shudder. He just checked me out. Oh my lord, Tazen Watts just checked me out.
Swoon.
I changed into my coveralls earlier, when the job got a little more greasy, so I have them down, tied around my waist so he is getting a full view of my tank top–covered breasts and nothing more. I don’t like bras when I’m working. My breasts don’t agree with me on this poor choice, but they don’t get a say in the matter.
“Ah,” I say in a weak voice, and I know my eyes are wide and shocked. “C-c-c-can I help you?”
Great, just pretend you don’t know him. It’s better that way.
There’s a good chance I’m going to pass out.
“Yeah, you can help me all right,” he says, his eyes lusty. God, he has beautiful eyes. In fact, he has beautiful everything.
I don’t even try to stop my eyes as they travel over him. He’s standing there, looking devastating as hell, and I have the urge to rush over and lick him. Tazen is the picture of hot male. He’s tall, maybe six feet, and built like a brick wall. He’s all muscle, from the bulges at his shoulders to the biceps pressing against his shirt.
His longish brown hair is a mess, but in the best possible way, as it curls slightly near his collar. His eyes are the color of milk chocolate, melted milk chocolate. His skin is lightly tanned and he’s got killer dimples. There was a time when I stared at those dimples every time I watched his show. They are to die for. Tazen Watts has the power to make any girl’s panties melt off, even if they’re batting for the other team. He’s that beautiful.
I’d take a guess and say he is around thirty, and he is rocking it. Oh yes … rocking it.
“Well,” he says, his voice a low, thick husk, “you going to help me, angel, or are you going to stand there and give yourself wet panties checking me out.”
My eyes snap up and I splutter, “My panties are not w-w-w-wet.”
I’m stammering. Someone kill me.
He gives me a lazy, half grin. “That so?”
Oh boy.
“What can I do for you?” I say, trying to steady my shaky voice.
A dimple appears in his cheek. Well, now I have wet panties. “I’m here to see a dude named Quinn. Heard he’s running this,” he glances around, “old fucked-up place. Get him for me, will you, love?”
Oh. He. Did. Not.
My back snaps straight and all my attraction for him flies out the window. He just insulted my garage, and worse, he insulted me. I hate being called love, and more than that, I hate arrogant men that assume that it must be a man running the place, because it couldn’t possibly be a woman. I study him and then grin. “Of course, I’ll just go and fetch…” I trail off and run my fingers down my cleavage. “Him.”
His eyes drop to my fingers hovering over the swells of my breasts, and I want to slap him.
Tazen who?
Asshole.
“You do that.”
I turn and with a grin, I untie my coveralls, pull them up over my shoulders, wipe any emotion off my face and turn back to him with my hand extended. “Hi there, I’m Quinn. How may I help you today?”
He blinks.
Then he narrows his eyes.
Then he bursts out laughing.
“Right, good one.”
I don’t smile and I watch as his eyes travel to the name embroidered onto my coveralls. Then they widen and he mutters, “Fuck.”
“Yes, that would be an appropriate word,” I point out. “Now, what exactly brings you into my garage, Tazen Watts? I’m sure people like you have plenty of better things to do than come into my old, fucked-up garage. Right?”
His eyes skim over my face and my skin prickles. “People like me, angel?”
He did not say angel in the loving kind of way this time.
“Yes, people like you. I understand my little space isn’t up to standards for a man like you, but you’re here and obviously you have a reason. I want to know what that reason is. The fact that you came in here, and insulted me by insulting my garage and assuming that I was a man has already pissed me off, so make it quick, will you? I have no time for sexist pigs.”
Now his brows shoot up. “Sexist?”
I lean in close. “Yes, sexist.”
“You have a name that can be read wrong, it’s hardly being sexist.”
He has a point.
I say nothing.
“Why are you here?”
He crosses his arms and it t
akes all my strength not to stare at the bulging muscles that pop out from that very movement. “I’ve heard this joint is for sale. I’m interested.”
Say what?
My body flinches and my eyes widen as I let his words sink in. For sale? No. He must have it wrong.
“I think you’ve misunderstood, Mr. Watts. This place isn’t for sale.”
“Tazen,” he says, his voice a low growl. “My name is Tazen, angel. Mr. Watts makes me feel, well, old.” His eyes drop to my lips. “And I can assure you that I’m far, far from old.”
I shiver, but manage to force out my next words.
“My place isn’t for sale, Tazen.”
His teeth flash as he smiles over my use of his name. I hold his eyes, my glare not wavering.
“You really are a tiny thing, aren’t you? This place is adequately named, wouldn’t you say so, Pixie?”
My blood boils.
“Don’t ever,” I growl, stepping closer, “call me that again.”
“I wonder,” he says, lifting his perfect freaking hand and scratching his chin. “How well you really run this place? I mean, obviously you’re not doing a good job … from what I’ve heard.”
I’m going to lose my shit in about three point five seconds.
“Tell me why the hell you’re assuming my business is for sale?”
“Your business?” he says, raising his brows. “I thought it belonged to Robert Peterson and you’re just filling in?”
“It does,” I say through gritted teeth. “But right now, he’s out of action so I’m running it. I’m his daughter.”
His eyes flicker over me, and I shift uneasily. “Well, it would appear you’re in some trouble then, wouldn’t it?”
“Hey,” Jace says, stepping into the office and up to my side. “Back off.”
Tazen gives him a bored expression, as if he’s no more than an annoying fly buzzing around in his space, then turns back to me. I get in before he can.