Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC)

by Bink Cummings

  If I didnae know any better, I’d say this feels like a helluva psychotic break. It’s not, though. I felt more at ease than I have in weeks, havin’ her on the back of my bike with me today. Which reminds me, I gotta drop by the flower shop tae get Pip some apology flowers. Our argument was pretty heated this mornin’, and I gotta make it up tae her.

  “I told Magdalene I would ride with Josie to school, and I already told Whisky to pick me up,” Pip explained, finishin’ up her makeup in the bathroom.

  “I’m takin’ Mags tae her first day, and it’d be a lot easier if ye’d take the Tahoe,” I said, standin’ in the doorway, watchin’ her watch me through the mirror.

  Poppin’ her wee hip out, she met my eyes in the mirror, holdin’ her lip shit close tae her mouth. “I promised her, Dad,” she argued before smearin’ it on.

  “Then, un-promise her,” I contended, knownin’ damn well the truck was mine, but I didnae wanna force my upper hand if I didnae have tae.

  She shook her head. “You, of all people, know I can’t do that. I don’t want to let her down. We’re friends, and I love her. I want her to trust me. If I do that, she’ll think I’m not her friend, and I’ve been working really hard trying to get to know her.”

  Hell, I knew she was right. I just didnae have the heart tae back down. Takin’ her tae work was more important.

  “She’s yer friend and she’ll understand. I’m takin’ her tae work myself. Let me take her tae work, Pip.” I spoke softly, selfishly playin’ with my daughter’s big heart.

  Droppin’ her lip shit into some container, she turned around, shakin’ her head. “You like her, I know. But, you aren’t around. She and I are here. We have dinner together. . .Did you know she made me meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes the other night?”

  I didnae, so I shook my head as the guilt climbed up my throat and settled there.

  She kept on. “I don’t even like meatloaf, but I loved hers. It was the best tasting thing I’ve ever had. And those potatoes were fresh and delicious. If you’d have been here, you would’ve known how good the meatloaf was, and how much I talk to her. She listens to me. Really listens, Dad. And she asked me a favor, this one time, to leave the Tahoe here so she can go to work, and I bail on her?” She was tappin’ her foot now, the stubbornness winnin’ out over her sweetness. She is my daughter, after all.

  I swallowed the guilt down tae deal with later, when I could process how much I was hurtin’ my daughter for my own self-satisfaction. Then, I tried a different approach. “Do ye want her tae drive tae her job alone, on the first day? Dinnae ye think she’s gonna be nervous?”

  Pip shrugged. “Yeah, but—”

  Cuttin’ her off, I continued, “I wanna take her on her first day, Pip. That’s what I need tae do. Tae see she’s all right, and movin’ forward. I wasn’t there when she started goin’ tae the physical therapist, ye were.” I nodded tae her, watchin’ the pleased acknowledgement spring a wee smile from her lips. “I wanna do this, and she won’t let me if ye leave the Tahoe here.” I tried tae reason with her, and won out. She conceded with a sigh, before comin’ over tae hug me.

  Told ye, I’ve got the greatest daughter.

  Now, before I pick up a ridiculously big bouquet of flowers for Pip, I gotta make one more stop.

  Parkin’ in front of Mags’s therapist’s office, I swing off my bike and head inside. I need some answers, and this lassie better give ‘em tae me. Mags’s leg isn’t better, and there better be a damn good explanation as tae why. I’m aboot tae find out.

  This has been the best work day ever! After Cas had finished speaking with Lachlan, he showed me around as Sniper went back to working on an old Nova. The operations here are modern and efficient. Something you definitely wouldn’t expect, seeing the beat-up exterior of the place.

  Once we were done with the shop floor, he gave me a tour of their small waiting room, which I found manly, yet, homey. Then I was introduced to Rosie, a friendly, elderly woman, with curly gray hair, who runs the books for Cas, and mans the phones for him in the office three days a week. They’re open six. My guess is she likes to keep busy, and he’s doing her a favor. Seems like a thing he does a lot. Taking her in, and now me. I’m curious to see what else he’s got tucked under his softhearted sleeve.

  It being a slow day, I changed two oils and a corroded battery before Cas gave me the green light to work on Viola. I’ve spent most of the late morning and early afternoon cleaning glass fragments from her interior, and popping some of the easier dents out.

  Now, I’m almost done taking my break.

  Ten minutes ago, Bridget had dropped by with a Sacred Sister cupcake and an ice cold bottle of water for me, which she used to administer an unnecessary apology. I’m not angry with her in the least.

  I’m not sure how Whisky came up with that recipe, but it’s the best tasting cupcake I’ve ever had. The frosting is sweet and light, the cake dense, with a chocolate chip cookie base. It’s heaven in a little baking cup. Ever since the first one Whisky gave me, I’ve been special requesting that Bridget bring me some home each week. And if she doesn’t stop, I’m gonna get fat. Although, getting fat while eating these delectable Sacred Sister cupcakes might be manageable. It’d be worth it, as I’m sure I’d die happy with high cholesterol and boobs that sag to my toes. Still, mighty worth it.

  Throwing my Whisky’s Corrupt Confections napkin in the trash barrel, I dust my hands on my overalls and leave Viola to check on the progress in the front.

  I hear Cas and Sniper bickering about something as I approach. They’re both draped over the hood of the Nova.

  “No; that costs too damn much. It’s smarter to do it the way I said,” Cas chastises his club president. When he notices I’m looming, he stands and Sniper follows suit. They both yank the rags from their back pockets, wiping their hands off.

  “I’ll see you boys later. I’m heading out for the day,” Rosie calls from behind me.

  Sniper raises his hand, tipping two fingers to the side. “Okay, Rosie, have a good one, and say hey to Peanut for us.”

  “Will do, dear,” she replies, before disappearing down the front drive with her patchwork purse slung over her frail shoulder.

  My attention reverts to the two men standing in front of me. Both lean, tattooed, muscular, and by any woman’s standards, so handsome you’d need to throw a bucket of ice in your panties to cool down. That’s where the buck stops on their similar looks, though. Cas has dark, messy hair, a stubbly jaw, and caring eyes. The tattoos on his forearms are flames that lick up his skin with screaming skulls of the underworld trying to tear through. They’re pretty sick. Sick, as in good, not bad. Sniper’s Native American skin is also inked, but not as heavily, as say, Lachlan’s or Cas’s. But his complexion. . .I imagine most people would pay good money for—it’s gorgeous.

  Shaking my head, I clear my thoughts to stop myself from staring at my boss and coworker.

  “What’re you two having troubles with? Can I help?” With the sweep of my hand, I motion to the opened hood.

  “Sure,” Cas comments, as a pissed off Sniper stomps away, cursing under his breath.

  Uh-oh. Perhaps I shouldn’t have butted in.

  Cas slaps the corner panel, drawing my attention, and nods to the engine. “He’s not mad at you; he’s pissed at me, and about to go take it out on Whisky’s cunt. Now, check this engine and tell me what you think we should do about it.”

  Taking three steps to the car, I lean over and take a quick gander. Without question, this needs a major overhaul. It’s rusted, hoses are dry rotted, and I’d be willing to bet that the oil is seeping into the engine. And there’s probably a coolant leak, too. I can’t even imagine what else we’ll find.

  I open my mouth to express my sincerest regret that his engine is a piece of shit and needs to be replaced. But when I do, Cas stops me by saying, “Keep in mind, the owner doesn’t want to spend over a thousand on her.”

  Tilting my head, I sideways glance
at Cas, who’s tucked under the hood of the car with me. I tap the coolant tank. “I bet that has a leak, and that’s the least of our worries. . .A thousand bucks ain’t gonna cut it. And dropping the engine is going to be the only way to make sure it’s rebuilt properly.”

  He snorts. I’m not sure if it’s an amused one, mocking one, or something else I can’t pinpoint. “Would you rebuild what’s here?” He signals to the engine. “Or would you find one in better shape first, and rebuild what’s needed?”

  Is he seriously asking me this question? A man, in a shop, is asking his new employee, who’s a female, this very question. I can’t believe it!

  I stand back, knowing my eyes are wide with wonder. Cas takes notice when he stands, too, and bumps his shoulder with mine. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

  Stuck with shock, I swallow hard before clearing my emotionally clogged throat. “Um. . .I’ve worked at many shops and nobody’s asked my opinion on an engine rebuild for a classic car like this one.”

  Stupid, weak female tears pick the corners of my eyes and I blink them away before they fall, making me look like a damn wuss.

  “Seein’ as though I hired you, and you probably have a helluva lot more experience than Sniper, I expect you to know your shit. And by knowing your shit, I’m gonna ask you what you think of this unfortunate hunk of junk.” He yanks a smoke from behind his ear, points it to the engine, and then puts it to his mouth, lighting it with a match he snatches from his front pocket.

  On a sighed exhale, smoke billows from his lips. “So?” he prompts.

  Here goes nothing.

  “If you rebuild what’s here, it’s gonna cost a lot more money, because of the unknowns and labor. But, it would be more authentic to the car, keeping it as the original.” I shift to face him, cuffing my hand over the lip of the car. “To be honest, it looks like this car’s sat in a leaky old barn with the hood up for about a decade or two. The bird shit, smell of mildew, dust, and poor condition of the engine, are pretty much all the evidence I need.”

  Cas nods like he’s listening, as he continues to smoke.

  I keep talking. “A grand isn’t enough money. Might as well sell it to someone who would put the dough into making her beautiful again.” My palm smooths over the lip, loving the feel, getting off on the feel. My lady parts tighten. “I would replace the engine with another if you could get it for a steal. Then I’d rebuild it. This way there are way fewer variables. And it’s obvious the owner doesn’t care about originality, because they only wanna drop a grand into her. Which is a shame, because ten to fifteen grand, if done right, could make her beautiful. . .If her undercarriage hasn’t already been eaten alive by rust.” I shrug. “That’s my thoughts, anyhow.”

  The sly grin that Cas produces makes my mouth go dry and feel slightly uncomfortable. I’m not sure if that’s a good expression or a bad one.

  Cas snuffs out his cigarette. “I knew I hired you for a reason...” He sounds pleased with himself. “You’re tellin’ me the same shit I just schooled Sniper on. He’s only been workin’ for me about two years. Good with bikes, decent with basic car shit, and sucks at rebuilds. You and I are gonna take the lead on all of ‘em. Including Viola.”

  “Okay,” I squeak out, unable to say anything more in fear of breaking into a fit of tears.

  I can’t believe I not only got a job, but now I have one where I can focus on the things I excel in—like rebuilding engines and body work. Not simple oil changes, which I’ve been stuck doing for years. Not that I mind. It is money, after all. However, this is something much more. Something I’ve dreamed of doing since Brian and I restored Viola and his old 1957 Ford F100, which I’m sure his dad sold for over a hundred grand after he died. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about that horrible man. Not after he cremated the man I loved. Not after he’d kept everything, including Brian’s F100. Not after he’d dismissed that I ever existed.

  “I don’t care, Magdalene! I’m his father, and you were just some girl he liked!” he yelled, standing on the front stoop of his farm house as I stood in the gravel drive.

  “I’m his fiancée!” I screamed, tears teeming down my cheeks, as I threw my hand in the air and pointed to the tiny ring on my finger. “His fiancée!”

  “Fiancée don’t mean wife, little missy,” he sassed unapologetically, like the knockdown drunk he was. “And I’m his father. I know what’s best. My son will have his place on the mantel text to my Papa, Mama, and Sheldon, my old coon dog. . .And that’s final!”

  It was final. I’d attended his wake, where an open casket sat in the front of the room with Brian’s beautiful body resting inside. A body that looked like him, but didn’t. The suit he was wearing had been new. Brian never wore suits. He loved his Wranglers and white t-shirts. It was rare to see him in anything else.

  On the way there, Grams had to stop every five miles to let me throw-up alongside the road. Then, when we’d arrived, I couldn’t stay long. The flowers were all wrong; he didn’t love roses. The music was all wrong; he loved country, not rock. It was too hard, and hurt too much. I’d cried so much that my eyes were almost swollen shut. And his father ignored me, didn’t care who I was, or that I’d been the love of his son’s life. Until death parted us.

  Grams had nearly punched the old, drunken farmer in the face when he’d refused to let me stand with him in the receiving line. But everyone knew who I was. I still received condolences and hugs from the visitors. They knew I was his, and he was mine.

  Then that was it. No more Brian. No more happiness. No more car rebuilds, or men who appreciated me for my brain. That is. . .until now. Now, I have a boss who values my opinion, who bought me a toolbox full of normal tools. Not ones for women. Not ones to make me feel lesser. Ones to make me feel accepted like I’ve never felt before.

  Cas shoots me a wink. I’m pretty sure he’s aware of the emotional rollercoaster I’m riding right now. “Why don’t ya get your sexy ass back to work?” He winks again, smirking at me, which causes me to grin, too, and heat to trample my cheeks.

  Still grinning, I shyly wave and turn to leave, but halt midstride when a friendly male voice booms, “Casanova and the pretty Miss Magdalene; just the folks I came to see!”

  Spinning on my boot heel, I stop and freeze when a colossal man, bigger than Lachlan in girth but shorter in height, stops at the entrance of the bay. He’s wearing a white button down, rolled up his swole, tatted forearms, a pair of black dress slacks that look painted onto his massive thighs, and at his base, he’s sporting expensive dress shoes. My gaze lifts to meet his eyes, and find those hazel beauties trained on me. He smiles in my direction, all teeth, straight and movie star white. I gulp, stuffing my hands into my back pockets, trying to curb the unease that’s creeping up my spine.

  Cas is the first to burst my haze when he fist bumps with the silver-haired goliath. “What’s up, Bonez? What brings you by today?”

  Bonez, or whatever his real name is, stops staring back at me and shoves his own hands into his front pockets. I watch them slip in next to a massive bulge. A bulge that’s so frickin’ difficult to ignore, that I don’t. I gape. Then I turn red before I finally stop being an idiot and lift my eyes to Cas, who’s grinning hugely at me right now.

  Crap. I’ve been made.

  This is the time I should crawl into the corner, chew my nails, and die. Only this Bonez fella apparently doesn’t want that, because he unhurriedly advances on me. It’s like he’s preparing me to be near him, by affording me the chance to scurry away and hide if I need to.

  Using this time to sort my pathetic self out, I give my brain a short scolding about keeping my eyes to myself and away from men’s privates. And, I also take a moment to tack on a lesson to stop being surprised if most of the men I come in contact with are stupidly hot. Some of which might come with arms the size of King Kong’s—like Lachlan’s do. Or some of them might have bulges that look like a grapefruit has been smuggled in their pants. I blame it on the water. The wat
er here is laced with something; something that makes all these men too attractive. You really need to visit Carolina Rose sometime and see for yourself.

  By the time I complete my internal dialogue—which doesn’t make me crazy, okay?—Bonez is a mere foot away, extending his hand to me in greeting.

  Zoning in on his moving lips, I come to when I hear him repeat my name three times.

  Get your head out of the clouds, Magdalene.

  I do the quick shake, expel a nervous “hey”, and shove my hands back into my pockets where they’re most comfortable.

  “Guess you’re probably wondering why I’m here?” Bonez swaps glances between Cas and me.

  “I’m guessin’ Smoke sent you,” Cas comments and slams the hood of the Nova closed, before running a hand through his hair to remove it from his forehead as he leans against the Nova. “That why?”

  Bonez doesn’t answer him, and looks to me instead. “Smoke dropped by, said your leg isn’t gettin’ the physical therapy it needs. . .That right?”

  Lachlan went to Bonez? Why would he do that? I didn’t tell him about the bane of my existence. And there’s no way he could know, unless Bridget told him. I don’t think she’d do that.