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The chest patch on the lucky bastard I’m not beating up says Reed. The other guy’s says Manuel.
“What can we do you for?” Reed says. His narrow eyes measure my height, width, and the distance from me to Lil Bit’s ass. I don’t move.
“Truck started acting up. Think it’s the transmission, thought someone might take a look at it.”
I’m still talking to Lil Bit, even though she’s tits-deep under that hood, but Reed’s eyes light up when I say transmission. I don’t know much about trucks, but I know it’s an expensive repair, and a shop would have to be stupid to turn down a sure job with the vehicle sitting like a stone in the lot.
“Yeah, sure,” Reed agrees easily.
That echoey voice calls out again. “Touch that truck and you’re fired, Reed.”
He licks his lips like it pains him to tell me, “Sorry, no can do, man.”
I take a deep breath, hold it, and then exhale loudly, knowing I sound like I’m accepting defeat. I’m not. I get in one more dig. “Mind if I leave it in the lot overnight ’til I can get it towed somewhere else that wants to take my money?”
She grunts. I’m fluent in them, though, known for speaking the language myself, so I hear her permission to leave Bessie overnight. I’m also planning to be here when the tow service comes to get Bessie, just so I can get another eyeful of Lil Bit. Maybe see if she’s as ornery when I haven’t scared the shit out of her right out of the gates.
I nod to Reed and Manuel and step toward the open bay door to dig my phone out of my back pocket.
I could hit up one of the guys at the ranch to come get me, but it’s a long drive over the mountain, and Katelyn, my boss’s wife, is at the resort right between me and home. She’ll be heading toward the ranch shortly when she gets off work, so I shoot her a text thinking it’ll consolidate trips, if nothing else.
Me: Bessie died. Stuck at Cole Automotive. Need a ride home.
Yeah, not so much on the manners, but of anyone, she’s the most used to it since she’s married to Mark. Mark is, to put it as kindly as possible, an utter asshole and even quieter than me. Once upon a time, we’d been sworn enemies, but he’d come through for us Tannens when the shit hit the fan, and I’ll be forever grateful for that, even if I have to work for the motherfucker now.
Katelyn: Busy. Will send Marla. Hang tight. Mark loves that truck.
See? She’s accustomed to it. And she’s giving me fair warning that Mark is going to kick my ass for being the unlucky son of a bitch who was driving Bessie when she finally gave out. She’s had a good life, though, and hopefully isn’t ready to be sent to scrap. She just needs a good mechanic. One not at Cole Automotive.
Not meaning to, I overhear Reed. “Hey, you wanna grab a bite tonight?”
He’s nervous, the question weighted with intention beyond grabbing a burger with a coworker. His possessive look comes back to me, and I realize something. Reed is sweet on the ball-busting, wrench-wielding woman and doing his best to flirt with her. I chuckle under my breath. “Good fucking luck, man.”
Anybody who ever tells you women are the gossipy ones ain’t never spent time with men. We might not sit around and gab about shit like women are wont to do, but we have our own ways. Like me right now, leaning against the doorframe, hat pulled down low so it seems like my eyes are on my phone. But I’m watching everything go down like a bored housewife at church on Sunday.
Lil Bit ain’t having it. She’s wiping down something under the hood with zero interest in, or even the slightest awareness of, Reed. “Nah, heading home early to catch the game tonight.”
He shoots, but instead of scoring, he goes down in a blazing ball of flames. But he’s not done.
“We could watch together?” Give the man points for gumption and perseverance. I don’t, but somebody should.
“You don’t know the first thing about baseball, and I’m not spending three hours explaining shit to you, Reed.” She manages to make it sound like he’s not worth the spit it’d take to explain a strike-out, but then she laughs, softening the insult like it’s something they’ve done a thousand times before.
From my undercover vantage, I see Reed shake it off. Manuel looks back and forth, from her to him, and then he follows Reed out the door like a catty hen ready to get to clucking about the situation.
See? Gossipy guys are the worst.
I wait a few minutes in silence, examining Lil Bit’s ass in those coveralls, and when that doesn’t yield any useful information, I scan the rest of the shop. It looks busy, several vehicles in the lot and every bay filled. There’s a long workbench along the front with organized tools arranged on a wall of pegboard. The left side of the garage holds an old refrigerator, a cheap pressed wood cabinet with a hanging door that’s topped with a small microwave and a coffee maker, and a desk piled high with file folders. It reminds me of Mark’s office, bare-boned and functional, nothing that’s not useful and necessary. It tells me something about the woman who’s still busy working under that hood.
