Page 12 of A Real Goode Time

Thick black hair, straight and glossy as a raven’s wing, hanging well past mid-back, nearly to her butt. Loose, brushed, a wild jet fall of glory I wanted to sink my fingers into.

I reminded myself I didn’t even know her last name and she was a damsel in distress. Not a hookup from the local bar.

She looked young—younger than me. Over eighteen, I fucking hoped. But probably not old enough to even go to a bar.

God, I’m an idiot.

“You just gonna stare at me, or do you have something to say?” she asked, her voice wry and amused.

I blinked, shook my head, turned away, tossing the wrench onto a nearby tool chest. “Sorry.” I wanted to provide some kind of explanation for my asinine behavior, but I had none.

She was leaning against the bare steel column holding up the loft area. “Just wondering, if you have a lift, why you’re not using it.” She pointed at the hydraulic lift, capable of lifting several tons well overhead.

I kicked the whitewall tire of the truck. “This is a personal project, so I don’t wanna tie up the lift in case I need it for a client.”

“Oh. Makes sense.” She walked around the truck, glanced into the open engine bay, into the cab. “What’s your plan with this?”

“A full restoration, eventually. It’s got a nice straight body, no rot, and just a little corrosion here and there, a few edges and corners to fix up. The engine is seized and the tranny is fucked, though, so I’m replacing both.”

“What are you putting into it?”

I gestured at a motor sitting in a wooden crate. “A three-fifty-one V-8 from a seventy-seven Bronco I salvaged, with a rebuilt three-on-the-tree from another old Ford.”

“You do a lot of salvaging?”

I swept a hand at the parts I had piled all over the garage. “It’s the other half of my business, and salvaging is actually where I really started in the automotive business. Soon as I could drive, I bought a beat-to-shit old wrecker, got it running, and started salvaging. I’d drive hours to get old wrecks off of lawns, out of backyards, from impound lots, wherever I could find ’em. Dad got his boss to let me use their shop after-hours, so I could strip the wrecks of usable parts, which I’d sell piecemeal to local garages, auto body shops, and dudes looking for parts for their pet projects.” I tapped the motor on the truck in front of me. “I think I learned more about engines from taking them apart as I did from helping Dad fix them.” I pointed at the back wall of the shop. “Out back is my salvage yard—I’ve got about fifty different vehicles out there that I need to strip, and I’m actually still running that old wrecker I got in high school. It’s more replaced parts than original at this point, but she still runs.”

She inhaled deeply. “The smell of this place brings back a lot of memories.”

I grinned. “Best smell on earth, you ask me.” I thought about the scent of freshly showered woman, which was higher on the totem pole than even an auto garage, but I wasn’t about to say that to this chick. “Grease and metal and oil and…I don’t even know what else, but it’s the smell of home, to me.”

At that moment, I heard the unmistakable sound of a stomach growling—Torie’s.

I scoffed in annoyance at myself. “God, here I go again, running my idiot mouth while you’re probably about to pass out from hunger.”

“I am pretty hungry,” she admitted. “But I…I don’t want to—”

“Where I grew up,” I cut in, “hospitality was a way of life. We didn’t have much, but if we ever had a guest, we treated them like royalty with all we had. So you ain’t imposing or asking or being needy—I’m insisting.” I moved for the stairs. “Now come on and eat, before you faint.”

I made sure to precede her up the stairs, or I’d spend the whole walk up staring at her ass, and she didn’t need me ogling her backside, too. Again.

I pulled the roast out of the Crock-Pot, set it on a platter, and set about slicing it the way I’d watched Dad do countless times. I plated up two heaping portions, and set the plates on my little round table, which was about halfway between the kitchenette and the living room area.

“I don’t do much by way of sides,” I explained. “I tend to just eat the meat and not much else. Don’t have the patience or the time for the other shit.”

She just did that sultry, negligent roll of her shoulder. “I’m not picky. Just grateful to be somewhere warm and dry.”

“You want somethin’ to drink?” I asked.

“Whatever you’ve got.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Well, being a bachelor, I’ve got tap water and beer.”

She just grinned at me. “Beer is good.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Hate to sound…I dunno, like a fartsy old guy, but…are you legal drinking age?”

“Twenty,” she answered. “Twenty-one in a month and a half.” A wry grin. “So, close enough, I’d say.”