Page 9 of A Real Goode Time
She nodded. “Yeah, maybe. If you let Leighton interrogate you, though, you may end up regretting that offer.”
I was already half regretting offering to let her stay at my place. She needed the help and I didn’t regret offering. I just knew it’d be hell on my libido being a gentleman, and something told me she wasn’t in a place where she’d want me making a move on her.
I wanted to, though. And that was even before sleeping under the same roof. And shit, I’d offer her my shower, because that’s the nice thing to do.
I’m an idiot.
I was already halfway home by this point, and I couldn’t take the offer back, so I’d just have to do my best to be decent, keep my hands to myself, and not let my dick run away from my manners like my mouth does my brain.
Problem is, my dick and my mouth have similar issues, and this chick was proving to be havoc on my impulse control.
We were at my place in less than ten minutes, and I pulled to a stop outside the building. I could tell she was confused: I lived in a tiny loft apartment tucked into the top back corner of a small warehouse. I owned the warehouse, which was where I ran my business. But from the outside, it just looked like a generic square of metal in an otherwise industrial area.
“You…live in a warehouse?”
“Sort of,” I said. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”
She grabbed her backpack this time and followed me out of the Jeep and through the rain to the huge garage door. I grabbed the handle and pushed in, flicked on the overhead lights, and gestured at the shop. “So this is what I do.”
She stood up, backpack dangling from one shoulder. A gorgeous black ’74 Nova SS, raked, with wide back tires sat menacing and sleek on the floor, hood up. My work light hung from the open hood, my rolling toolbox nearby, wrenches and sockets scattered on the top.
“You’re a mechanic?”
“Among other things, yes.”
She eyed me. “You can’t be old enough to have your own shop, and do work like that.”
I laughed. “I’ve been working on cars since I was a kid, and I had some money saved for a down payment. I don’t do bodywork, I just do engines. Tuning, rebuilding, maintaining, that kinda thing. And, honestly, I don’t usually do muscle, I’m more of a trucks and 4x4s guy. Do most of my work on big block V-8s and old diesels and in-line sixes and shit.” I gestured at the Nova. “But the owner of this baby heard of me through a friend and he wanted his 440 tuned for some extra horses, and I’m not gonna turn down work I’m more’n capable of doing.”
She took in the shop—a hydraulic lift, an engine hoist, several different rolling toolboxes, an air compressor and impact drill, and the various equipment and machinery required for engine work. In the back corner sat my pet project: a 1949 Ford F-1, currently half disassembled. It was, ostensibly, baby blue, but was dirty and old and had a lot of surface rust. Once I rebuilt the engine, transmission, and exhaust system, I’d have it sandblasted and repainted and then I’d replace the front bench and she’d be good to go.
Basically, I had a shitload of work to do on it.
“How old are you?” Torie asked.
“Twenty-six.”
She shook her head. “And you have your own business?”
“My dad was a mechanic at a gas station, and my ma was a waitress, so I spent most of my childhood in that gas station shop helping Dad. We didn’t have much, so if I wanted anything, I had to work for it. Trouble is, even in the boonies of Kentucky, most folks won’t hire a nine-year-old. So I started figuring out ways to earn money on my own.”
“Like?”
I laughed, self-conscious. “Well…when I was nine, I found a five dollar bill on the ground. Being nine, I wanted the one thing a nine-year-old boy would think to buy: candy. The most candy I could get for five bucks from the dollar store was an old bag of assorted Halloween candy. I put the candy in my backpack and sold it for fifty cents apiece. It was a fifty-piece bag, so I made twenty-five bucks. I went out and bought two more bags, sold the candy for seventy-five cents apiece, and made almost seventy-five bucks. Bought three bags, and sold the candy for a buck a piece.” I chuckled. “I was a ruthless little shit, now that I think about it.”
“So you found a five-dollar bill and turned it into more than a hundred dollars by reselling candy?” She sounded impressed. Which I admit did feel pretty good.
“Yeah…until I got shut down by the principal. She said if she caught me selling anything else on school property, I’d get suspended.”
Torie laughed. “Let me guess…you found a loophole?”
I shrugged. “Sort of. By that point, my client base was sort of tapped out. I mean, little kids can only scrounge up so much loose change, and I’d gotten greedy, charging a dollar apiece. I spent some time collecting bottles and cans around town, and even tried setting up a system where I would pay neighborhood kids to collect for me, but that was too much to keep track of: who I owed, how much, and how much to pay them and still make a profit.”
She snorted. “You’re a real natural-born entrepreneur, huh?”
“I mean, we were dirt poor. I was stuck wearing my dad’s old six-sizes-too-big boots and my sister’s old jeans cut off into shorts. So yeah, if I wanted to buy lunch at school, I had to find money, because god knew my parents could barely afford rent with them both working two jobs. They often had to decide between keeping the lights on and buying food every month.” Out of habit, or instinct, I’d wandered over to the Nova and started tinkering with it; Torie followed, leaning against the side of the hood and watching.
She was watching me mess with the radiator, and circled around to the toolbox, rummaged through the sockets with what seemed like a knowledgeable eye, and handed me the correct size socket.