by Elle Aycart
Wilma shook her head reprovingly. “You spend all your time in that garage of yours.”
“Cars don’t repair themselves, and they don’t talk back and argue, either,” she said, that last part in a barely audible mutter.
Her grandma ignored that completely. “How is it going with the dating service? Did you find any interesting candidates?”
Mike turned to Rachel, his brow pinched. “What dating service?”
“They signed me up for one of those dating apps,” she explained. “They faked my profile like you wouldn’t believe.” By now, Mike’s frown had disappeared and he was laughing. Or so she thought, because he’d covered his face and his shoulders were shaking. Either he was laughing or crying. She had a good hunch which it was.
“It’s what everyone does, honey,” her grandma justified herself. “They all exaggerate a bit.”
Rachel looked at Mike, whose face had resurfaced. Yep, laughing his ass off. “Exaggerate a bit? The only real thing on there is my name. You guys even uploaded a picture of me from ten years ago. I’m the youngest-looking thirty-four-year-old in existence.”
“Correction. You’re twenty-nine,” Rebecca pointed out. “We heard thirty is the tomb for dating.”
Wilma assented. “Besides, what could we do? You’re always in the garage, wearing those greasy coveralls. We can’t upload a picture of you working under a car. It’d scare the candidates.”
Why on earth Rachel had taught the OGs how to use their smartphones, she didn’t know. One thing was clear: she had no one to blame but herself.
“Results are what matter,” Greta decreed. “So, have there been any, honey?”
“Nothing promising yet,” Rachel muttered, “so don’t get your hopes up.”
She could have told them about the dates from hell she’d gotten on that app, but she feared the OGs weren’t ready for so much gruesome reality. Besides, they did mean well. It wasn’t their fault the world of dating was a cesspool.
“Now I’ve got to go.” After kissing her grandmother, Rebecca, and Greta, she took off in the direction of her business, waving at Mike. “If they get into trouble, it’s on you. I’m off duty.”
She heard his chuckle and a “you got it” before she turned the corner and entered the garage.
Rachel went straight to her office. She loved her grandma and the other OGs, but she was exhausted and didn’t have the energy to keep up with them and their shenanigans today. Man, and she’d thought she would never set foot inside another cell or courtroom. Ha. Think again, Rach.
“So, boss, how did it go? You going to prison?” Rico asked, peeking around the door, a smirk on his smudged face.
“Worse,” she said, dropping into a chair. “Community service. I have to teach automotive mechanics to a bunch of juvenile delinquents.”
Rico looked at her and burst out laughing. “Is the judge trying to put you away for murder?”
Probably. Rachel wasn’t the most patient, most diplomatic person in the world. Far from it. Add a group of unruly teenagers to her garage and disaster was bound to happen. “All this is Adrian’s doing, I’m sure.” He was the one trying to reinsert the thugs back into society. Convicting her for murder would just be an added bonus.
“The sheriff wants to keep them out of trouble,” Rico said.
“Why the heck doesn’t he take them into his office to help? He’s always complaining about being short-staffed.” Rico gave her a “duh” look and she sighed, resigned. “I know, I know. Those delinquents would burn down the sheriff’s department, so we get them instead.”
“Look at it this way,” Rico offered. “They might not know how to repair a car, but stripping it bare and reselling the parts? They must have that down pat. It’s a start.”
Chapter Two
Putting on the boxing gloves, Adrian walked out of the locker room at Haddican’s gym and headed for the punching bag. It had been forever since he’d had an afternoon free.
Mike approached, looking suspiciously amused. “You here to blow off some steam? I heard you had a rough day.”
Adrian frowned. “What did you hear?”
“I had karate class for kids earlier on. They were all talking about it.”
Of course they were. It had been a week since the grandmas from hell went in front of the judge, and today was their first day of community service. They’d been sentenced, among other things, to help with Pedestrian Safety Education Day. What the judge hadn’t kept in mind was that the sheriff, or one of his deputies, took care of those classes.
Adrian had begged and threatened and cajoled—all to no avail. Both his deputies had had airtight reasons why they couldn’t switch with him. And that had been before the trio made it to the station. After that, his deputies had said they’d rather go to jail than trade places with him.
Why, oh why was the damn universe against him?
“Yo, guys, whatcha doing?” Max Bowen walked to them, already dressed for his kickboxing class.
Grinning, Mike pointed at Adrian. “He had Pedestrian Safety Education Day at school this morning with the OGs.”
“And what went wrong?” Max asked. “Did they forget when not to cross the street?”
Mike and Adrian shook their heads.
“Did they arrive to school under the influence? Some of the pills they take leave them a bit out of it.”
Adrian would have preferred that a thousand times over. He would have arrested them and thrown away the key. Easy. Until Rachel came to raise hell, of course.
“They made costumes. They were dressed like a traffic light, one color for each grandma. And they made a stop sign for Adrian to wear,” Mike explained, attempting unsuccessfully to contain his laughter.
Max didn’t even try. “Oh, God. Did anyone get a picture?”
“It’s on Alden’s Facebook page.”
Adrian was going to get that account shut down. He still hadn’t figured out how to achieve that, but by God, he would. Oh, and he was going to have a talk with his dispatcher, Holly, because he had the feeling she was behind the offending pic.
Max took out his cell, did some tapping, and voilà, the bastard was laughing his ass off. “How did you agree to wear that shit?”
Adrian scowled. “Have you ever tried to tell them no?” They’d steamrolled over him with their innocent smiles, harassing and bossing him, and before he realized it, he’d had that shit on and looked like… he wasn’t sure what. Like a moron.
“Wilma is your neighbor,” Adrian reminded Max. Then he turned to Mike. “And Rebecca is your grandmother. Couldn’t either one of you have given me a heads-up?”
Both Max and Mike lifted their hands. “Sorry, man,” Mike said. “Too busy with Kyra and Sam. Besides, I thought they were getting ready for Halloween.”
Sure, because they weren’t in early spring, with Halloween months and months away. Adrian looked at Max.
“Too busy with Annie and the baby,” he explained. “Don’t have as much free time to control Wilma as I did before.”
“Yeah, yeah. Excuses, the both of you.” Although, in their defense, his friends definitely had their plates full. Not that they were complaining, mind you. They were happy, in love, and had big, sappy smiles plastered on their faces 24/7.
“Maybe you should have arrested them again,” Max offered, “for making a mockery of authority.”
Right. So they’d get more hours of community service. No, thank you.
“Wrong,” Mike interjected. “You shouldn’t have arrested them in the first place. At the very least not Rachel. She’s a sweetheart.”
A sweetheart? Maybe to everyone else, but not to Adrian.
The only positive note during the last week had been that he hadn’t seen Rachel. She always put him in a foul mood. She was loud and belligerent and aggravated the living shit out of him. He loved his women meek and agreeable, and definitely not smelling of gasoline. Or louder than him. Even when she was apologizing and cajoling, there was a hint of arro
gance on her face, silently screaming she was right, which only pissed him off more.
“Going to be late.” With a salute, Max headed for his class.
They walked to the bag and Mike held it from behind as Adrian started punching it.
“Wow, easy, man,” Mike said after a while.
Easy, his ass. He had some shit to work out of his system.
“You can’t be this pissed over the OGs and their stunt. They’ve done worse things,” Mike said, frowning. “And you ought to admit they’re ingenious. No kid in Alden will ever forget their safety education class today.”
That was absolutely true.
“I passed by my granddad’s after I finished my shift,” Adrian grunted. “Big mistake.” A perfect end for a perfect day.
Mike went for politically correct. “There’s no family without its fair share of discussions.”
Discussions being the key word. In Adrian’s case, it was more like open war. And Mike’s dad wasn’t a resentful bastard or a patronizing ex-drunk.
“What was it this time?” Mike asked.
“Same old shit,” Adrian admitted. “He pushes my buttons like you wouldn’t believe.” He was very restrained and didn’t let anything or anybody rile him, except for the man who had raised him. When it came to his granddad, he was still sixteen and pissed at the old man’s abusive and authoritarian ways. Yes, the old man had stopped drinking, and yes, he’d been a model citizen for the last fifteen years after relocating to Alden. Still, in Adrian’s mind, nothing had changed.
He should never have moved to Alden after the old man had a stroke. A pity his conscience wouldn’t let him do otherwise.
They trained in silence until Max’s kickboxing class ended and Mike had to go to his self-defense class.
After a few minutes, Max hollered to Adrian, “Sorry, man, you’re drafted.” Max all but pushed him into the practice room. “They’re short on assailants in the self-defense class. Everyone from my class is there, but we’re still missing one. You’re it.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Max cut in. “Let me remind you that this isn’t the class for senior citizens. Many of the women from Bottoms Up are here. You might meet the love of your life while being pounded to the floor.”
That was true. Not that he was that interested in finding the love of his life, but getting pummeled could cool him off. And Bottoms Up, a strip club on the outskirts of Alden, was famous for its beauties. Being manhandled by an ivory, delicate goddess was ten times better than being pounded by a 250-pound man.
When they entered the practice room, it was already full of gorgeous women. They were all paired with morons sporting very pleased smiles. Then he looked at the only woman without a partner.
“Fuck my life,” he muttered.
It was Rachel. No delicate goddess for him.
She didn’t seem too happy either.
Her community service with the juvenile delinquents he was trying to rehabilitate wouldn’t start until tomorrow. Which meant she hadn’t met the punks yet.
Good, he might survive this.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay?” Rico asked, eyeing the three thugs who had come for their court-ordered car repair classes.
Rachel ushered him and Julian away. “Go. Everything is under control.”
The day had been damn long, and her crew deserved the rest. Besides, she was the one saddled with community service and the thugs, not her employees.
“Call if you need anything,” Julian added. “We’ll be here in a flash.” He gave the punks a stern look on his way out. They didn’t even flinch.
“Will do.”
They were just teenagers, between fifteen and seventeen years old. She could handle them. They called themselves Ash, Monti, and XL. Please. More like Ashton, Montgomery and… well, XL’s real name wasn’t in the files she’d been sent. Axel? They had tattoos peeking out of their sleeves and their T-shirt collars. Their hair was cut short, especially on the sides, where they sported some weird patterns done with the razor. Ash had a bandanna on his forehead, XL wore sunglasses, and Monti was chewing gum—or tobacco, she wasn’t sure. They were leaning on the hood of a car, their heads tilted, their arms crossed, giving attitude. Snickering. Man, they were just missing the gold chains; otherwise they’d look like they were going to film a rap video.
Their clothes were too flashy and new, so she handed them coveralls. Ash and Monti put them on. XL snorted and ignored them. Rachel decided to let it slide. They had many classes to get through; there was no need to go head to head on the first day. And it was his clothes that’d get shitty.
Once ready, she directed them to the car Rico and Julian had left for them.
“Okay, guys, let’s begin with the basics,” she said, opening the hood. “Do you have any experience repairing cars?”
The three punks smirked. “Define ‘repairing,’” XL said, in a lazy drawl.
“Not hot-wiring it or stripping it for parts.”
“Then not so much,” XL confessed, pleased, as if it were a badge of honor.
It figured. The papers she’d gotten from court hadn’t gone too deep into specifics, but she’d read that they’d been given this chance instead of going to a juvenile detention center because of their aptitude with cars.
“We know how to make a bridge circuit,” Monti offered.
Good. That meant they not only knew where the battery was, but also how to get it working again.
“And we’re aces at repainting a car and transforming it into the coolest shit around.” That was Ash.
“No repainting yet. This is a Honda Civic that needs maintenance. Oil change, checking the brakes, basic stuff. The owner has complained that it makes weird sounds and that it’s getting heavy to steer. So, let’s get to it.”
Kudos to the punks, they were talented when it came to cars. For all the wrong reasons, no doubt, but it was a start.
XL continued to play it cool. Arms crossed over his chest, he stood aside, refusing to get his hands dirty. He was the oldest and obviously their leader, and even though Ash and Monti seemed ready to have fun and dive in, they looked a bit reserved. They took care of changing the oil and the brake pads without a hitch. They’d lied to her; they knew much more than just how to make a bridge circuit and paint cars.
“Now, what would be your guess about the sounds and the steering problems?” she asked.
XL snickered. “The power steering pump is busted in this piece of shit.”
She thought so too. That was why she’d ordered the replacement part beforehand.
“Any of you know how to change the pump?”
XL shrugged, and the others followed suit.
“We told you,” Ash insisted. “We know how to dismantle a sweet ride, but we never bothered replacing any parts.”
Yeah, she bet they hadn’t.
“Let’s learn then.”
She taught them like her father had taught her: by allowing them to get their hands dirty and fuck up.
They got the Honda on the ramp, and Rachel, Ash, and Monti went under the car. Before she could blink, they’d stripped it of the broken pump. “Wow, you guys are good.” She wasn’t going to go to the bathroom as long as they were in her garage. If she left them unattended, she could kiss her cars bye-bye.
“We’re the best,” XL replied, still leaning on the chassis.
“I’m sure you are. But let me tell you, the pleasure you get from stripping a car is much smaller than what you get from repairing it.”
Their amused snorts said otherwise. It didn’t matter; she was going to prove them wrong.
XL, again, didn’t seem interested in learning. Rachel changed the pump, telling them what to watch out for, while Ash and Monti observed. Then she reinstalled the broken pump and ordered them to repair it by themselves.
She got up and stared XL square in the eye. “Get down there with your friends and help.” The punk didn’t move a muscle. “I see. You have no clue ho
w to do it.”
That got to him, because even though he said something through clenched teeth, he still obeyed.
“If you guys need help, just let me know. I’ll be here, waiting.”
They weren’t the help-asking type. Too tough for that. Fine.
She wasn’t sure what was going on under the car, but after half an hour, a dozen colorful curses, and several “ouches” and “damns” and “hold that fucking lamp steady,” the three reemerged, hands and faces dirty, but looking pleased.
They’d barely gotten up when a clunking sound came from the car. “Don’t tell me that’s the pump,” she said, stifling a laugh.
“No fucking way,” the three said in unison. Ash went to check and came back with the lamp.
“Thank God. It’s damn difficult to install the pump so badly that it falls out. Let’s check it, shall we?”
She inspected their handiwork, Ash and Monti by her side. It must have been beneath XL, because this time he refused to join them. She tightened the pipes to make sure they wouldn’t leak, but that was all she had to do.
“Good job, guys. I’ll make mechanics out of you three yet.”
After getting rid of their coveralls and washing their hands and faces, Ash and Monti waited for XL.
“You go first. I’m still not ready,” he told them. The two kids nodded and left.
When XL finished cleaning up, he turned to Rachel. Man, had he been this big all along?
“Not so bad, right, XL?” she asked, trying to engage him, reminding herself that he was just a disgruntled teenager. “By the way, what does XL stand for?”
He stalked toward her, backing her against the wall. He looked down to his crotch and then back up to her. “Do you really want to know?”