Brock
That. Was. Hell.
I mean, the wedding itself was a comedy- who does that? Those dresses? Even Teagan had a hard time pulling off the hooker mermaid look and she’s practically perfection to me. It’s like Meghan wanted to punish the girls, except, her own dress was even worse! Like, that really was her taste of wedding. Makes me never want to visit their new house. Without sunglasses or blinders on.
The hell was having her in my arms, giggling if only for a moment. Even the bonding with her best friend; it was so amazing only to have it ripped away. I laid myself open for her, I can only hope she sees the truth in my actions and hears the honesty in my words.
When I got to my car, and turned on the heat, I pulled out the card that Seth had given me and googled “Fully Restored” on my smart phone. God damn, she had done it. She had finished her degree in half the time and built a shop from scratch. The woman was amazing. So was Seth. This site truly was awesome. Sub Zero Steele could use something like this, if we actually had a computer person.
I folded the card and put it into my wallet and, still sitting in the parking lot of the event center, got out the letter Teagan had just given me. I didn’t know if I really wanted to read this but I needed to, to understand what she was thinking. It was a poem.
Flesh and Bone
Not just flesh and bone
Not just one person, alone
I carry battle scars and bruises
I carry nightmares and abuses
I cover all that with clothes
To block out your words as they blow
The battle inside isn’t fair
Can you see what I see?
With my green eyed stare?
You tore me apart with your silver tongue
You might as well have handed me a loaded gun
I’m climbing my way back
From the abyss where you sent me
One day I will be a force to be reckoned with
For today I’m just being mindful of all of my
Blessings
Things that make my life full
Not just flesh and bone anymore
I’m finally coming into my own.
Through bleary eyes, I finished her words, reading what my poor decisions did to her and how she is now becoming someone she can be proud of. Hell, I’m proud of her. Opening her own shop and finishing school- that’s a damn big task.
I refolded the poem neatly, intending to keep it, and turned to head home for the night. The wedding was over and she was gone. Now, it was up to me to get into her life and I had a feeling Seth had given me an in, purposefully or not, and I was going to take it.
*****
By Monday morning I had a plan, with the help of Seth. He seemed to not only be a pretty smart dude but he also genuinely wanted Teagan to be happy and he knew an act when he saw one. She was happy with her accomplishments and her shop, but she was lonely. I intended to fix that.
Pulling up the Fully Restored website I saw what Seth had been hinting about; they had put out an Ad for mechanics and restorers throughout the Denver/Colorado area, even reaching into Nebraska and surrounding states. I guess she really didn’t want to take any of her father’s men. Well, I can name one that will absolutely be defecting. If she’ll take me. The “interviews” weren’t for a week or so, so I had until then to finish the Bee I was still working on. She was nearly finished if she didn’t keep breaking her parts. Damn new parts.
When I got to the shop there was a flurry of activity in front as the men and a tow truck loaded up Phoebe and secured her for, I’m assuming, the trip up the mountain. Shit. This wasn’t good. She was either moving on or really didn’t care anymore. This made me happy that the interview process was soon. I needed to get in there as soon as I could. Meanwhile, I had to deal with these men, If anyone was bringing her Phoebe, it was going to me be.
Inside the building was even more active, with people emptying out the room of the entire extra ‘Cuda parts. The ‘everything’ room. So weird, having that room that had always been unusable due to being filled with excess parts was now empty. I had to wonder what the plan was for the room. Then I remembered that I wasn’t planning on sticking around long enough to find out.
I headed to the beautiful Bee, now painted a perfect Sassygrass Green, keeping with the original color theme. Damn she was beautiful. Too bad I had to say goodbye to her soon to a Sunday driver who wouldn’t know anything about his car when asked. I shook my head; I don’t get men that replace male parts with cars when they can’t even get the cars up and running on their own. Same problem man. One is just much more costly and visible.
I sit at the work table and go over the plans again, look at what needs to be finalized before handing the keys off to the owner. Not much left but running final checks. I popped the engine open and checked the hoses and connections, the battery and all were fully charged and getting enough clean power to turn the engine. When I sat in her to start her up, the sound reverberated throughout the entire garage and everyone stopped to stare. That’s what a good car does. The engine sound stops everyone in their tracks and makes them wish they were the one with that power behind the wheel.
I took her for a quick spin around the block, even did a short peel out just to test the tires. She was prime. Could be a twelve second car if they could passably drive it. I didn’t think so though. This was a ten miles a month on a Sunday car. Sad thing that. It needed sun and admiration.
I put her away and covered her with a cloth as she was done and I didn’t need dust gathering on her before heading to the assignment board to get a new job. It needed to be a short one as I was planning on being gone in a week. Speaking of which, I should probably let both my PO and my boss know of my move. My PO had been great, becoming more like my friend, always encouraging me when I saw him, which had been less and less frequently. Apparently I was a good boy.
I stopped by Jonathan’s office on the way to the assignment wall and knocked.
“Yeah Brock, I know, finish out the week and if she takes you, good luck. But, if you ever come close to making her mad at all again, I promise no one will ever find your body.”
Damn, didn’t even open the door, he just knew and told me as it was. I stuck my head in, “Uh… thanks boss, I think.”
He looked up from the piles of papers on his desk and winked, “Good luck. You’re gonna need every bit of it you can get.” He snickered. I think he liked the fact I was going to be crawling to get his daughter back.
His phone rang while I was still standing half in the room. “Fuck,” He looked at me. “Are women all like this now? Calling and wanting to know what you are doing at all times? I want out of the dating scene. I’m thinking prostitutes have their good points now. The phone ring is starting to scare me.” The look on his face as the phone kept ringing…it was like the look on that famous painting, all screwed up and frightened. I had to laugh. “Looks like you need the luck too,” he nodded and picked up the phone as I headed out.
Once at the assignment wall I picked some meaningless task, again, and just prayed for the weekend to come fast, because I had an appointment Monday and nothing was going to change that.
Chapter Nineteen
Teagan
With Seth at the helm for the website and the magazine Ads, I was up to my eyeballs in prospective employees, all with various skill levels and nefarious pasts. The pasts, for the most part, I could live with. I mean, look who I fell in love with. The past means little when the person is currently doing everything to make it right. Wait. Did I really just pull my own head out of my ass over employee forms? Was I holding Brock’s past, from so long ago, against him still? Really – it was Summer who was the ho. The town slut. She was the one trying to bring back bad feelings and poor rumors to make herself feel bette
r and I was giving her that power, up until dinner the other night.
Pushing the thought aside since Brock was nowhere anyhow, I moved on looking at and sorting through the applications. I put some in a yes pile, a maybe pile, and a hell no pile. If you can’t spell your own name right on your job application, you’re out. If it is so riddled with typos that I can’t tell what language it’s written in, it’s out. If your only reference is that you work on your mom’s car, you’re out. And never do I ever want to see the word cutesy names for the spouse as a reference again. EVER.
*****
The next morning, armed with the most massive cup of coffee the hut would give me, I sat down to begin interviews. Holy shit. Since when did it become okay for men to talk to and treat women in this manner? Not just that she would be the boss but the fact that they thought complimenting her legs or breasts or eyes was something that added to their acceptance at the job, it was so completely wrong. Men need lessons on how to treat women.
By the end of the day, in jeans and a ponytail, nothing even remotely suggestive (as if that would even be a reason for bad behavior) I had hired a total of one person. One.
I think I interviewed 20. That was such bad odds I couldn’t even begin to think about how tomorrow would go. Those women on “Spin and Grin”, I’m starting to feel sorry for them. They have just the same skill base as the men but have to do it in skimpy clothing and suggestive positions. And, if you ever pay attention, they STILL get hurt less than the men do.
I walked home, slowly and defeated and called my dad hoping he could cheer me up. I told him about my day and his answer was not a good one. Apparently I should have expected this reaction. This meant tomorrow I was going dressed as Jabba the Hut. And holding a chain that I expected the men to want to attach to and do their work from. Ha!
Maybe I should lay off the wine.
I decided to move on to something that would absolutely make me happy. My car. I needed my ‘Cuda in front of my shop because when she was done, she was going to be a show stopping, draw people in, eye catching car. I needed to finish her ASAP. Dad promised to have someone bring the car up the next morning, before my next disaster of interviews occurs. Something to cheer me up. I hang up the phone and take the rest of my wine to bed, drunk texting Seth that men suck and passing out.
Turns out drunk texting that to a gay man lands you some funny answers. Seth kills me. In quick response I had “Yes they do… brilliantly. Often like a shop vac if you’re lucky. Most of them swallow too. It’s good to be gay…” So I started my morning with a laugh and formulated a new plan of action for my interviews.
I got up, showered and found the only “power suit” that I owned. I put my hair into a severe knot at the top of my head and added sensible heels. I hardly applied any makeup, just powder and mascara before heading out for coffee.The guy at the coffee shop that I talked with every day actually snorted when he saw me.
“Rough night?”
“More like rough job. Apparently a woman cannot be a boss with any power. I hired one- ONE – person yesterday. So, today, I’m going for bossy and mean. Now, give me my coffee slave!”
He laughed and grabbed me a coffee to go while wishing me luck. I nodded before heading down the street to the shop. The men were already outside working on the new sign. My sign. My shop. My dreams. I smiled so big, and then I saw the man waiting with the ‘Cuda dad had delivered on time.
What the fuck was Brock doing hanging on the side of my car, looking like he stepped out of a magazine, modeling both clothes and cars. He sauntered over to me, like he knew the effect he had on me and was going to play it up to the best of his abilities, and handed me a stack of paper.
“So, I’m here to apply for a job. I’m pretty sure you’ll find I have exceptional credentials and meet all the certifications. Can we go inside and discuss this?”
Turning to head in and leaving me with my mouth wide open catching flies, he sat at the desk and waited for me to catch up to his latest devious move. Regaining my composure, I headed to the desk as well and sat across from him.
“Pardon the question babe, but, what’s with the getup for interview days?”
Yeah. If only he knew.
“So, let’s just say men have no manners and I would rather hire stray dogs.”
He laughed. “That bad huh? Well, since I’m hired, I’ll stick around and see if they stay in line and we can actually come away with a working shop today, yeah?”
He was so taking over my dream. Okay, well, he was also a part of my dream, no matter how much I didn’t want him in it, but he was so taking over. I nodded. “Okay, you’re obviously hired. And yes, I need your help. Help me weed the jackoffs from the actual workers. Please.” But because I couldn’t be that conforming to him, I rolled my sleeves all the way up my arms, showing all the deep, red, raw cuts that were just starting to heal on them, with the older silvery ones underneath. I saw his eyes close slowly and a grimace cover his face. Yeah dude. You better feel that. You helped cause that. I know he thought he knew…but the new ones were so much more.
If just my arms made him cringe, then I couldn’t wait to show him the rest of my body. My thighs and stomach. But really, should I be ashamed? Should I really be ashamed of the bulges and rolls that even the running doesn’t get rid of? Should I worry about the row after row of scars on my inner thighs that I caused by cutting myself so deep that they will forever be red-lines, like a tigers’ stripes. But you see, tigers are strong. They are one of natures most feared creatures, capable of killing an animal twice its size. Their stripes are unique to themselves. No other tiger will have those stripes. They form as they grow, so, in effect, they are earned as well. I too, earned these stripes.
My stripes were just like that. Instead of seeing them as proof of my weakness, of my breakdown and inability to handle my life, I chose to see them now as evidence of my strength. See, scars don’t form on the dying. The dead cannot scar, only the living can. So, I am strong. I, like the tiger, took down something bigger than I was, and survived. And yes, I have scars and evidence from it, but it was a beauty to me. My stripes meant I was strong. My stripes meant I survived. If he had a problem, if he ever got the chance to see me naked again, that was his issue and not mine. I was going to accept my body. Starting now, with my sleeves up and interviews going.
*****
It turns out having a man, not just any man, but a super alpha protective man, at your interviews helps with the process…a lot. By the end of the day I had shaken hands and been called Ms. Steele instead of “babe” or “honey” or some other variation of the word. And best of all, we had a fully hired well-rounded staff that I felt confident in. Thank God for brooding men and power suits. Hillary Clinton knows her shit when it comes to keeping men in line…except for that pesky Monica Lewinsky issue.
After the last interviewer left Brock stood and started to walk around the shop, as if he was making himself at home and taking notes as he went. By the time he finished, I was standing with one hand on my thrust out hip in an act of impatience. He laughed.
“You’ve done this perfectly. I love how you won’t have to send out for paint. It also makes me want to reconsider some of the painters we hired. I want the best.”
Excuse me? “You want the best?” My head shook, like I was going to impress the importance of this conversation with head movement. Whatever. “You have no say in who is or isn’t hired. In fact, you’re fired. See ya never!”
I turned and held the shop open for him to walk out and I could lock up. He just stood there and smirked. “Not going anywhere babe. Told you we weren’t done. Told you that you were mine.” With that the corner of his mouth lifted and he walked across the front room towards me. When he got to me he grabbed the keys from my hand, held my hand to pull me out the door and locked up.
He then proceeded to walk with me, ho
lding my hand, all gooey couple like, to my place. Which I wasn’t too certain I liked him knowing where it was. He seemed to sense that, “Not too hard to figure out where you live when you lead like a horse pulling the wagon. I haven’t made a single move- you brought me here.” He full on smiled with that one. And he was right. I did. I even wanted him here.
How did I become this scared woman, this little girl in a shell, hiding from the world because of the simple words of stupid people who weren’t worth my time? How did I allow myself to become so wrapped up and scarred by the world? The world shouldn’t matter in my day to day life. I need to live for me and only me. If I’m happy then the world is fine. If I’m not, the world still continues just the same, only I think I am worth it stopping for. I’m not. No more. I am no more the scared little girl who lets fear out through her cuts and lets it dictate her life. I’m so much more now. I own my own shop, I have my own degree, I have a new and caring best friend and an old and messed up one, and maybe, if I’m lucky and he’s luckier, I have a boyfriend. Maybe.
I watched him fumble with the keys to the front door before he finds the correct one and lets us in, kicking the door closed behind him in that way that only a man can pull off. He threw the keys on the little table by the door, grabbed me gently and backed me into the wall. When he kissed me, it was like starting over. It was as if I could finally breathe again. Like I had been slowly suffocating and was completely unaware that I needed him to survive. He kissed me until the air I found was suddenly lost and again I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t miss the air. I wanted more him, less air. When he broke the kiss and licked at my lips I moaned. “See you at work tomorrow, gotta get the shop ready and you and I are working on the ‘Cuda this week. It’s gonna be finished. You and me. Lock the door behind me.” And then he walked out.
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