by Cathryn Cade
“Huh?” T-Bear gave her a strange look, then shook his head. “You look fine. You look like a strong woman who took some knocks and came back up fightin’. So don’t you worry for one minute what anybody else thinks—worry ‘bout what you think of them, huh?”
Her face heated, but she smiled at him. “Okay.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
At first sight, Manda was not impressed with JJ's Auto Repair & Service.
Just off the main road through Airway Heights, the one-story, gray cinder-block structure sat on a paved lot with a few parking spots in front, and an open area behind. Two garage bays on the north end, a small office on the south, with a storage area in the rear.
The neon sign, two red J's on a black auto, was cool in a retro way, but the shop itself looked run-down. The grey cinder-block exterior needed a fresh coat of paint and there were stacks of old tires along the south side.
The landscaping consisted of dead weed-stalks poking up through the remains of a snowbank at the corner of the lot.
The front window of the office was so dirty and dusty Manda could barely see out, and she wasn't sure she'd want to sit on either of the grimy plastic chairs in the small customer waiting area.
There was a high, customer counter with a credit card reader and a brochure rack sitting on the faded linoleum. Behind that was a battered desk with a computer, a large wall calendar from a local farm & ranch store, and a short hallway with a bathroom on one side, and a storage room behind it.
A door in the north wall of the office opened into the garage itself.
"Well, here it is," T said, waving a hand at the place. "Not much to look at, but we do good work. JJ's a real good guy. We do all the repairs for Flyer families and JJ gives 'em a discount."
"I'm sure you do good work," she said. "So... how long has your boss been sick?"
He followed her gaze around the office, and winced. "Moke and me don't have time for cleaning. Prob'ly should get someone in here to take care of it. I'll mention it to JJ, if he feels good enough to come in today."
"Good idea. I can see you guys keep your work areas organized and neat." The garage floor and walls were grimy, but Manda understood this. Working on vehicles was a messy business. There was oil, gasoline and road grime to deal with.
But even if T and Moke did the best work in town, Manda wondered how many customers, especially women, walked back out after one look at this office. Or told each other, 'Oh, don't go to that place, it's filthy. George takes his truck there, but I refuse. Why, you can't even sit on the chairs!' The guys didn't have to worry about a Titty Auto sign running off female customers, when they had this office.
Even if this JJ was ill, this was not a few weeks worth of mess, it was ground-in grime. One thing her mom had taught her was to keep a clean house—or apartment in their case, as there had never been money to own their own home. And she'd insisted Manda do her part, which she sure hadn't appreciated as a kid, but did later, when she was on her own.
A horn sounded outside, and T turned to peer out the window. "Well, gotta get to work. There's my first job. It's a drop-off, so you won't have company in here for a while." He moved to the door into the garage. "You need anything, I'm right out here."
"I'll be fine," she told him.
And she would, just as soon as she found the cleaning supplies.
* * *
Nearly two hours later, T walked into the office, gaze on the clipboard in his hand and the repair invoice he was laboriously filling out. Then he stopped, and sniffed. Was that lemon cleaner? He looked up, and focused on the strange sight of Manda's pretty heart-shaped ass swaying in front of him. He blinked. Not that he didn't appreciate the scenery, but what the heck was she doing up there?
She stood on one of the old plastic chairs, a pair of too-big rubber gloves on her hands, a plastic container in one hand, a rag in the other. She was scrubbing the front window for all she was worth.
Finishing with the last corner, she tipped her head to observe the results. She'd pulled her hair back in a ponytail that swung with each movement. Cute as a filly.
"Damn, don't think that window's been that clean in twenty years," he said, admiring her work. "And the front door, too. But you don't have to do that."
She twisted, and looked at him over her shoulder. "Oh, yes, I do. This place was filthy."
She hopped down from the chair, and pushed it back into its normal place before the window. She wiped the seat where she'd been standing, then stripped the rubber gloves off, set her hands on her hips, and looked around her, smiling. "I think it looks better, don't you?"
T looked around, at the gleaming counter, the sparkling windows and door frames, at the clean chairs, the scrubbed table, and the tidy desk. "Better? Hell, it looks like a whole new office. Smells good too. JJ better hire you quick before someone else does."
He set the clipboard on the counter, and then tilted his head to peer through the open door into the bathroom. "Holee Cheezus. You cleaned the john too?"
She made a face. "Yes, and I could've used a hazmat suit for that."
His face heated, and he shifted uneasily. "Guess it was pretty bad, huh?"
"Let's just say I'm gonna buy you guys one of those floating targets for little boys."
He winced. "Yeah, sorry. Gotta say, honey girl, I didn't invite you here to do all this." He'd pictured her relaxing, maybe scrolling on her new phone, and waltzing out to visit him once in while, flirt a little. Not work as a janitor.
She grinned at him, pretty as a picture, with a smudge of dirt on her cheek and perspiration dampening her temples. "I know. But it's the least I can do."
He shook his head. "No way, this is above and beyond any payback—way beyond. Now I'm thinkin' I owe you a real nice lunch, over at The Hangar."
"No, T, I already owe you for a phone," she said, her smile fading as an uneasiness filled her brown eyes.
T shook his head at her. "Babe, I know how much the Soapy Bubbles, or whatever they call themselves, charge to clean the clubhouse twice a month. To swamp out this place, they would've charged more'n that phone was worth, easy. I'm taking you to lunch."
A horn sounded outside, and Manda looked to see another vehicle pulling in. T sighed. "Right after I get this invoice settled, and the next job finished."
He slapped the clipboard on the counter and rubbed his forehead. "Now, where's that parts & labor list? Old man Rieman will be here to get his truck, and he don't like waitin', even for two seconds. Gets all grumpy on my ass."
Manda stepped forward. "Do you need the calculator? I saw it... right here." She held it up triumphantly.
"Nah, I do the math in my head. I just, uh, mess up the spelling sometimes an' customers can't tell what I'm chargin' 'em for." He avoided her gaze, still fishing around in the cubby holes under the counter for the laminated list.
"Wow," she breathed. "That's so cool that you can do math in your head like that. I'm terrible at math, but I spell okay. D'you want me to maybe check the invoice? You can just tell me what it's supposed to say."
"Okay.” He found the parts & labor list and flipped it to her. "Lessee how you do on readin' my chicken scratches."
While he waited, he pulled a protein bar from a pocket of his coveralls, ripped the wrapper open and took a bite. Cheezus, he hoped he hadn't screwed up the words so bad she couldn't read them.
She bent over the invoice, traced her finger over the first line of print. "So this is a..."
"Carburetor rebuild," he said, his ears hot.
"Oh, okay. Good that you use pencil, that's easy to fix." She quickly erased and wrote in the new words. "Gee, carburetor is hard to spell. Okay, next are the other parts, right?"
"Yep. Pump, screws, hose, one bottle of cleaner. Also oil change. And the prices are right here on the list. Want me to read 'em off to you?"
It was her turn to flush. "No," she mumbled. "I'd just mess them up. I have to see them. I can copy them off the list." This s
he did, following each number with her finger as she wrote.
He bent his head beside hers, catching a whiff of clean, somewhat sweaty woman mixed with lemon cleaner. Oh, man, that was nice. His groin tightened, and it was all he could do not to lean in and nuzzle his face into the curve of her throat and sniff his fill. Maybe get a few licks in too. He took another bite of peanut-butter protein instead. "That looks great."
"Okay." She pushed the clipboard back to him.
Trying not to think about where else he wanted to lick her, he chewed his bar and quickly wrote in the prices, then totaled it up at the bottom. "There. $347.99."
"Are you sure?" She gave him a wide-eyed look as he tossed the empty wrapper into the trash can. "Shouldn't you at least check those numbers?" There were nine different charges for parts and labor on the invoice, all with dollars and cents.
T grinned at her. "Sure." He took the calculator and clicked through the sequence. Then he tipped it so she could see the total—exactly the same as the one he'd added in her head.
"Oh, my gosh," she breathed, like he'd just whipped through a bunch of advanced calculus while blindfolded . "You're really smart."
"Shyeah, only with numbers. Wish I could read and spell good as you do." He tapped her forehead lightly with his knuckle. Now he really wanted to grab her, and show his appreciation, in a very physical way.
She shrugged, looking pleased as punch. "No way. Reading's easy, numbers are hard."
"I guess between us we got a fan-fuckin-tastic brain," he said.
They exchanged a look of understanding, of years spent struggling even with extra help in school, and patient teachers going over an assignment again and again.
Just then Moke opened the door behind them, a clipboard in his hands as well. T reached for it automatically.
"Already added up the charges," Moke said mildly. "You check your parts list?"
"Manda did it for me," T said with a proud grin.
Moke looked at her, his dark eyes narrowing. "Huh. Can you use a computer—typing and creating forms and all that shit?"
She nodded, and the big Hawaiian looked at T. "We could maybe have her make some of those click-list invoice forms for us, like I asked JJ for, only he thinks we don't need 'em. We have those, we can just open up the computer, click the items we wanna charge for, and print off the invoice."
T cocked his head toward Manda. "Or have our part-time receptionist do that for us."
"I can do that for you," she said, looking eager as a pup with a bone dangling in front of her nose. "While I'm here, I mean. Just as a thank you. You don't have to pay me anything, of course."
She was the sweetest thing ever to set foot in this place. If Moke wasn't here, T would definitely kiss her. Hell, maybe he would anyway. Moke had seen him do more at the club during some of their wilder parties. He leaned closer, gaze on her puffy peach lips.
He’d be real careful, on account of the scabs on one corner of her mouth, but he just had to have a little taste.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
The front door opened, the little bell jangling. "My truck ready yet?" demanded a reedy voice.
T turned, and Manda slipped behind the counter, a smile on her face. "Hi, you must be Mr Rieman. Yes, sir, your truck is ready and we have the invoice for you right here."
T closed his mouth and leaned back against the corner of the hallway, hands in the pockets of his coveralls, watching as the grouchy, retired farmer looked Manda up and down, and then reached up and tipped his Case Harvester baseball cap, and smiled. Whoa, the man's creased, weathered face didn't even crack.
Manda placed a pen on the invoice for him, and took his credit card. "Just sign right there, sir, and I'll get a receipt for you. Are you enjoying the dry roads?"
The old man chuckled. "Sure am. I'll enjoy 'em even more if my truck's running right." He slanted T a look that said it better be.
"Purrin' like a kitten," T said. "Changed the oil for you, too. See you back here in September?"
"I reckon."
Manda handed the man his receipt and another smile. "I'll make a note of that for you, Mr Rieman. Now you have a great day."
"Thank you, young lady," he told her. "Bout time these fellas got a pretty girl in here to brighten the place up."
T chuckled. "You're right about that."
He waited until the old farmer had walked stiffly out to his truck, and then moved over to lean on the end of the counter.
"Now that was fine customer service," he told Manda. "I tell you what, if Moke and me do ever buy this place from JJ, you're hired. Part time, anyways. Don't know if we could do a full-time position, but we sure as shit need someone like you in here. Didn't know that old guy could even smile, much less chit-chat."
She leaned over the counter from her side, batting her lashes at him. "Thank you. Prob'ly 'cause you never chit-chat with him."
"Now that," he said, "Just ain't true. Everyone knows me, knows I could chit-chat the fuck outta the devil himself."
And then he leaned that one more inch, and kissed her gently on those lips of hers. They were as soft and sweet and warm as he remembered. No, make that even more than he remembered. Just this little taste had his big brain in a fog, and his little brain perking up.
He barely noticed when the bell jangled again.
"Hey, handsome, do I get one of those with my oil change?" called a strident female voice.
Manda's eyes flew open, and she jerked away from T, her face turning pink. He took his time savoring the taste of her on his lips, 'cause it was hard to get his mind back out of where else he wanted to put his mouth on her.
"No, ma'am," he said, gaze still on Manda. "You get my hands on your oil filter, but my lips are only for my woman."
The newcomer, a short, stout, sixty-something woman with black hair streaked with silver, cackled delightedly, and Manda's face turned even pinker.
T straightened, grinning. "Manda, meet Ms Greta Meier. She drives that sweet cherry red Mustang out front. Ms Meier, this is Manda. She's new in town, but you can tell her all kindsa good stuff about us, and help me convince her to stay."
"Now why'd I want to do that?" the woman demanded, with a wink for Manda. "Then I'll never get you to take me out for a spin on that Harley of yours."
His neck reddening, T backed strategically toward the door into the shop. "Yeah, uh... I'll just go get busy on that oil change for ya."
Greta was a great old gal, but Cheezus, she loved to give him grief. He'd hate to see her at one of them male strip shows—she'd be in the front row, stuffin' twenties in man-thongs and trying to cop a feel.
"Go on then, handsome. Harold's picking me up for lunch, or I'd stay and get to know your gal."
Then she gave Manda a narrow-eyed look. “Honey, you look like you ran into a fist. You okay?”
T stiffened. Manda turned a deep pink, but she held her head up. “Uh, yes. I did, but I’m okay.”
“Whoever did it in jail?” the older woman asked, her gaze swinging to T. “Or better yet, in way worse shape than this?”
“Not yet,” T told her. “But he will be, you can bet on that.”
“Good.”
A late model pickup swung into the lot, the driver already laying on the horn. Greta Meier pushed out of the door with a friendly wave, and T looked to Manda. “Shit. Didn’t think she’d give you the third degree, or I wouldn’t have brought ya.”
“I’m okay,” she told him. “You better get back to work.”
T didn’t like to leave her, but another car was already pulling in, which meant he needed to get his ass to work, or he wouldn't be leaving for lunch anytime soon.
At twelve-thirty, T came in, washed up in the bathroom, combed his hair back with wet fingers and tied it at the back of his head. He surveyed himself in the mirror, saw a smudge on his cheekbone, and lifted the hem of his tee to wipe it off. Then he donned his cut, checked to make sure he had wallet and phone, and collected Manda, who was rubbing
a tiny smudge off the front door.
"I'm confiscatin' your cleaning cloth before you start in on the floor," T told her, tossing her rag over the counter. "Time for you to get your hungry on."
"I already mopped the floor," she told him. "I used the broom and some of those big wet-cleaning cloths. That didn't work great, but it looks better."
He didn't give a fuck. He was busy looking at her.
She had her long sweater on over her jeans and tee, her little gold purse over her shoulder. He noted she’d applied some more makeup to her bruises, and combed her hair forward on that side as well. The Hangar wasn’t real brightly lit, so he hoped she’d feel comfortable there and not have to deal with any more looks or questions.
“You don’t look like the cleaning ladies I know,” he told her. “You look good enough to eat.”
This made her smile, which he liked. Maybe he could talk her into being his dessert, kinda like going to the drive-in and ordering an ice cream cone after eating a burger and fries. This hot fantasy meant he was grinning, but also adjusting his pants as he walked her out to his truck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
* * *
In contrast to her first impression of JJ's Auto, Manda liked The Hangar right away.
The exterior, with corrugated white steel siding and deep blue metal roof, meant the place was modern, but the neon sign rising above the parking lot had a retro vibe. It depicted a silver, old-fashioned prop plane with the words 'The Hangar' arcing over the top in big red letters, and 'Brewpub & Grill' below in smaller red letters. At least there was no lacy bra hanging off this sign, unlike the propeller over the Flyers' clubhouse doors.
A low post-and-rail in front of the building, to one side of the handicapped spaces, held a sign that read 'Motorcycle Parking Only'. In direct violation of this command, T parked his pickup beside three gleaming Harleys. But she guessed since it was his friends' bar, he could park where he wanted.