Page 1 of Grease & Grips (Friction Fiction #2)

“ I ’m hoping you won’t let this ruin your night, Mack.”

That’s how I know it’s already ruined.

“Triple A needs us out on a tow job. BMW off Griffin Road.”

I arch a brow. “Which part of Griffin? Paved or dirt?”

“Dirt,” he says, already wincing.

I curse under my breath. “Did they say what’s wrong?”

“Nope. Just said it needed a tow.”

I yank the hood strut out on a sigh and slam the hood of the Ranger shut with more force than necessary.

“I’d do it, but my girl’s recital is tonight,” Gary adds, like that makes it better. “You don’t mind takin’ the truck and grabbin’ it, do you?”

That’s the thing. People always ask that like it matters.

Like I’ve got some real say in it. Doesn’t matter if I mind.

It’s my job, and if I don’t do it, who will?

Doesn’t matter that it’s late, or that I had plans.

Not that I did, but still. What if I did?

Don’t I get to want things? Free time? A damn night off?

Apparently not.

The rest of the guys around here have real lives.

Gary’s got his ex-wife and two daughters he actually shows up for. Julio’s playing house with that girlfriend of his. Chuck can’t stay late ‘cause he’s taking care of his mama. So who does that leave?

Good ol’ Mack.

Ol’ reliable.

Ol’ “he’s got nothin’ better to do.”

And I don’t. Not really.

Ain’t nobody worth dating in Sycamore. Best I could hope for is a guy two hours in either direction, up or down I-75, praying I get lucky in Atlanta or Tallahassee. Emphasis on lucky. And even then, it’s apps and awkward drinks and ghosting before dessert.

Ask me how I know.

No family, either. Only my mom, and she only called herself that until I came out. After that, it was Christmas cards signed “All the best.”

She passed a few years back. Didn’t even know she was sick until she wasn’t around to ignore me anymore.

This job’s about all I’ve got. Mechanic for the only shop in town, tow truck duties included, because why not squeeze a little more outta the guy with no kids, no dinner plans, and no one waiting on him.

That’s why it’s me. It’s always me.

Late shift. Long drive. Some rich dumbass with tires made for mall parking lots stuck up to his axles on a road Google Maps probably called “scenic.”

Sounds about right.

I can already see it. I’ll find him out there, standing by some shiny car like it personally betrayed him, looking sheepish and soft not a scratch on him.

He’ll give me a shrug and say something real helpful like, “I took a wrong turn.”

“It’s the shit end, Mack, I know,” Gary says, trailing me into the office. “But hey… make the most of it. I used to love the tows. Turn on some good music, get outta the shop. Kinda peaceful if you ask me.”

I scoff. “Sounds like hell with better radio.”

He chuckles like I’m kidding. “Situations are what you make of ’em. Circumstances might not be perfect, but you hang on too tight to how it’s supposed to look, you’ll miss how good it could be.”

Right. Easy to say when you’ve got better circumstances than everyone else.

“It is what it is, Gare,” I mutter, snatching the tow truck keys off the hook.

“I appreciate this, man,” he says, on my heels as I cut through the shop toward the gravel lot. “You should come in late tomorrow.”

“Mrs. Headley’s dropping off her Buick at 8:30. I’m not gonna leave her hangin’.”

He winces. “Right. Forgot. Well…what about the next day? Take a little time for yourself.”

“I don’t need it. This is my job.”

“Don’t you want time to yourself?”

“Didn’t you say the tow’s the best alone time in the world? Peace. Music. Real soul-healing shit, right?”

He exhales, cornered. “Text me when you make it back safe, alright?”

Once I’m settled in the truck I fire it up. Plug in the aux and crank the volume until the cab rattles with the sound of Tim McGraw telling me what he likes, what he loves, what he wants some more of.

Good for him.

I want some more of not doing this. Some more of not being everyone’s backup plan. Some more of not getting called in cause no one else had the time.

One last nod to Gary then I pull out. Tires crunch gravel as I set off for the ass end of Griffin Road. I’ve got the next forty minutes of hauling ass toward some dumbass with a luxury vehicle and a death wish over nothing but cracked asphalt and washboard dirt.

I’ll be lucky if the tow pays for gas.

Hell, maybe he’ll at least be nice to look at. That’s about all I’m asking these days.

A line of flares flickers out in both directions converging on a BMW that’s parked off the shoulder with the headlights on and hazards blinking.

Okay… so the guy’s not a complete idiot. At least he knew enough not to get himself killed out here in pitch-black backwoods nowhere.

But there’s some idiot to him. As I pass I notice he’s still sitting in a car that’s barely a few feet from tipping nose-first into the ditch that separates this sad excuse for a road from the tree line.

After lining the tow up right, I kill the engine, pop the door, and step out. Every motion feels heavier than it should. That’s when his door opens and goddamnit it takes everything in me to remember how to breathe.

I’d said he better be nice to look at. Bare minimum. But this is a full-on act of divine intervention.

He’s my height. All olive skin and dark features like the kind of man who knows what cologne to wear without being told. Wavy black hair, probably styled earlier, now pushed around from his fingers. Stress-tugged, judging by the state of it.

All I can think in this moment is the different ways I could tug it myself.

He’s got on navy slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled just enough to show off the kind of forearms that make you believe in God or at least a good romance novel. Top few buttons undone, and underneath, a white tank clings to his chest like it was made for my viewing pleasure.

Hotness like this is effortless, but so damn intentional.

I’d wreck my whole night on him.

Who the hell is this fancy-ass man and what is he doing out here in the boonies?

Better question… how the hell do I survive this without embarrassing myself?

I’m not much to look at. Strawberry blonde hair, broad shoulders, busted knuckles, and a beard I trim the same way I’ve trimmed it since high school. Not cause I’m tryin’ to make some kinda statement, cause it’s what works. Always has.

I got the kinda build that comes from hoisting engines, not dumbbells.

Tank tops in the summer, thermal flannels in the winter, jeans year-round no matter how hot it gets.

I wear the same boots every day, and they’ve still got grease in the laces from two years ago.

Skin’s full of freckles and usually sunburned, arms tanned, hands calloused to hell.

Seems like I’m mean to most people cause I don’t smile much. Truth is, smiling feels like too much effort. The few times I’ve done it, it hasn’t exactly gotten me anywhere good.

My eyes are this weird washed-out color like the inside of a beer bottle left in the sun. Folks around here say they look like they’re always squintin’ at something, like I’m suspicious, which to be fair… I usually am.

Only thing soft on me is my belly. Everything else got hardened up somewhere along the way.

I don’t advertise it, but I’m sure it’s there.

In the way I walk or the way I love, and I don’t know how to carry that, but God help me…

I wanna try. Cause here’s this man standing in front of me like the answer to a prayer I never had the guts to say out loud, and his eyes are on me and I don’t know what to do except want him so bad it hurts.

He steps toward me extending a hand. “Sorry to drag you out here.”

I take his hand and nod. Not a word. Nothing.

It’s rude, sure, but better rude than me opening my mouth and saying something like “Well ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” in full hillbilly drawl. Or worse, stuttering like I’ve never seen a hot man before.

Truth be told, I kinda haven’t. Not in person. Not this hot.

He’s standing there, sheepish smile and all, like I knew he would be, and I can’t be mad about it. Not with those navy slacks stretched tight across a perfect, round ass and him smelling like expensive soap and a skincare routine.

So yeah… all I can do is nod.

Better rude than sweaty-palmed and stupid.

“I wasn’t even supposed to take this road,” he says. “GPS rerouted me and I didn’t realize how rough it got until I was halfway down it and… well… here we are.”

To him it’s a cute little mistake, but his mistake has him chuckling and me actively trying to remember how basic social cues work.

“Yup,” I mutter heading over to check out the car.

I crouch down and assess the damage. The front driver side tire is toast. Shredded to hell, with little scraps still clinging to a rim that’s full bent into a curve where no curve should be. Must’ve hit a rock or something solid.

This ain’t a simple swap-the-wheel-and-go situation. He’s gonna need a shop. Probably a new rim. Maybe a reality check.

Something must be written on my face because he leans in and asks, “That bad?”

The grimace I offer in response should confirmation enough.

“Can you put the spare on for me?”

“Spare’s not gonna help if the rim’s shaped like a Pringle,” I cut in.

I stand and wipe my hands on my jeans, already turning toward the truck to lower the lift.

“I’ll tow you to the shop.”

My hands know what to do. The rest of me is completely malfunctioning.

“Is the shop nearby?” He asks, stepping a little closer. He’s far more open than he should be out here on the side of a pitch-black road surrounded by nothin’ but trees, raccoons, and the Holy Spirit.

“Nah.” My voice comes out rough as I kneel to check the tires, grateful for the excuse not to look at him cause meeting his gaze might be like inviting demons in. The kind my Meemaw used to warn me about.

He chuckles again. “Cool. I’ve never been through here. Sycamore, right? Is it big?”

“Nope,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. “Not much to see. You’ll be better off once you’re back on the highway.”

There’s a pause. I feel it. He’s probably blinking. Possibly reconsidering being nice to the feral mechanic who growled at him.

Every second he keeps talking, I feel my brain leaking out my ears. I need to get this car hitched and get out of here before I say something like “your jawline is upsetting me emotionally.”

“I was on my way back to Miami,” he says. “Coming down from Charlotte. Figured the drive would be nice. Sounded peaceful.”

I shouldn’t scoff at that, but it’s the only move I’ve got.

He rears back, eyebrows lifting. “Why the scoff?”

“Sorry,” I mutter, too quick. “You’re just the second person today to say something like that to me.”

I get his car hooked, lifted, and secured without saying much more. The only reason I haven’t combusted yet is cause my hands stay busy.

He watches me close with his arms crossed, and somehow even out here on red dirt surrounded by mosquitoes he still looks like he was pulled straight from a magazine ad.

“Is it a quick fix?” he asks.

“Yeah, we can knock it out first thing tomorrow,” I say, double-checking the straps. “You can find your way back, yeah?”

He glances down at his phone and holds it up. “No signal and I’m pretty sure Uber doesn’t serve the middle of nowhere.”

Despite my grunt in response he keeps talking. Bless his heart.

“I was kinda hoping you could point me toward a hotel or something?”

Of course he was.

Of course he’s stuck.

Of course this hot, lost man wants me to recommend the Sycamore Motel. The only hotel in a sixty-mile radius which boasts hourly rates and bedding with minimal blood and cum stains.

If I were a braver man, I’d tell him he could stay with me.

Nope. Don’t do that.

You’re not that forward, Mack. Calm the hell down.

“At the very least, you think you could give me a ride?” he asks casual. “Would help to know where my car’s going, and I’d rather not sleep out here on the side of the road.”

Then he’s laughing and it ain’t fair how nice it sounds or how bad I wanna hear it again.

I shove that down. Because right now he’s asking for a ride.

God. I could give him a ride, that’s for sure.

FUCK… I’m horny tonight.

This asshole brings it outta me. He’s got some pheromone I’m not built to resist. That must be it.

A ride in the truck, Mack. That’s it.

Be cool. Be normal. Be a decent goddamn human.

Forty minutes. Two people. One bench seat and zero possible chance I’ll keep my mouth or my libido in check.

What did Gary say? “Situations are what you make of ‘em. ”

Yeah, well… situations are currently staring at me with eager eyes that I know even the strongest men alive would have trouble saying no to.

I shove down the fire crawling up my spine setting up permanent residence in my pants and nod.

“Get in the truck.”