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Flipping the lever on the roll-up, I pull it up far enough for Tess to duck inside. “What time is it anyway,” I ask her when she pops up beside me.
“After eleven.” She smirks at me, arching a dark brow at me which means she’s about to talk trash. “I hear you landed a whale last night,” she says, giving me the once-over. “And then you got completely shit-faced.”
“And that’s different from any other Thursday, how?” After Mrs. Moneybags fled the scene, I power drank my through a fifth of whiskey, in hopes of knocking myself out while Declan grumbled about how irresponsible and impulsive I am.
“It’s not, you big tramp,” Tess says. “I just can’t believe you’re still able to find fresh ones, dumb enough to sleep with you.”
“What can I say?” I laugh because I’m supposed to, not because I think it’s funny. “I’m the Pied Piper of pus—wait,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my face. Christ, I need to shave. “Did you say after eleven?” I look at the shop clock in the office to confirm it. I slept. For seven hours straight. That’s never happened to me before.
“Yup,” she says pushing past me toward the heap of greasy coverall I keep piled in the corner. “Which means I’m about forty-five minutes behind on that tranny re-build that’s going to be picked up tomorrow—” She digs a pair of her coveralls from the pile—I know they’re hers because they look like they might’ve fit me when I was twelve. “When are you gonna wash this shit?” She holds them out to me. “Because this is almost as gross as seeing you naked.”
“Fuck you, Castinetti,” I say laughing at her expression. “You want your coveralls washed, you know where the washer is.”
“Doesn’t mean I know how the thing works,” she mutters under her breath while she pulled the coveralls up over her boots. “You working on the Impala today?”
The Impala’s my pet project. I restore vintage cars on the side, just for kicks. Sometimes I sell them. Sometimes I keep them. The Impala’s still a rusted out hunk of metal but she’s a keeper. I can already tell. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to run to the bar for a while. Couple hours, tops.” I still can’t bring myself to tell her Henley is back. I don’t know why. I’ll have to, eventually. But not yet. Not until I get the chance to wrap my head around it. See her and make sure I’m not going to swan dive into a pool of crazy. “I’ll start the Ford when I get back.” The Ford is a dilapidated Windstar that looks like it’s ready for the junkyard.
“How many times are you going to resuscitate that thing before you call it, Con?” Tess casts her gaze across the garage toward the farthest bay at the faded green minivan. “I mean is it even worth fixing? Again.”
Worth it—hell no. It stopped being worth it in 2005, but the single mom who owns it has three kids and two full-time jobs. Worth it or not, she needed it.
“What can I say?” I shoot her a smirk to hide the fact that she’d caught me on the chin with that one. “I like playing God.”
“Uh huh,” She straddles the creeper before lowering herself onto it. “See you when you get back, sucker,” she says before rolling herself under the Buick.
“Fuck off,” I call over my shoulder. I don’t have time to shave, but I can at least take a shower before I leave.
Tess’s laughter follows me up the stairs.