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Not the shaft he’s talking about, Freya… I said to myself, telling my vag to cool its horses.
“Uh, yeah, shaft,” I blurted. “I know how to work the shaft.”
He burst into crusty laughter under the car, and I watched him writhe sideways while he did, probably gripping his belly as he made fun of my bumbling.
“Oh, shut up!” I yelped, “or I’ll stick you with the damn shaft!”
His laughter increased while I stabbed him in the side with the driveshaft with a deep heave because damn, it weighed a ton.
“Fucking hell,” he gasped, grabbing the shaft and arranging it under the car where it’d hook to the clutch and carriage.
“Get your ass down here, Frey, I could use some help holding the shaft, since you’re such an expert and all.”
When did he decide to start calling me Frey? Nobody had ever shortened my name, not even my parents. I kind of loved it.
I rolled my eyes, ignoring the flush on my cheeks as I worked myself under the car on the opposite side so we were head to head.
“Just try not to stroke it, will ya?”
I smacked his head as best as I could while having my movements restricted, and he just laughed again while trying to dodge, still holding the heavy pipe.
I helped hold it up while he lifted the socket wrench to tighten the bolts around it. Funny thing though, the shaft was fucking heavy. Too heavy.
My arms started trembling while he was working on the third bolt, and he paused, pressing his hands over mine for a second.
“Want me to hold it?” he asked, voice low and sweet even though I couldn’t see his face.
“No, I’m ok, I just need a sec.”
His hands took the weight, fingers brushing mine as my arms rested for a moment to regain some strength.
“I’ll hurry it up,” he told me when he released the weight to me again, his fingers leaving mine cold and lonely while he finished up with the bolts.
“Next time I get to use the socket wrench,” I complained when I finally let go.
“You get the other side,” he told me, putting the wrench in my hand while he wiggled back out from under the car.
I handled the last couple bolts where the drive connected to the transmission myself.
We worked around each other like old pros, though it probably helped that I waited for instructions from him. At one point, I even just held the flashlight, which brought back so many memories from my childhood.
About two hours later, the mid-summer sun was dipping behind the Las Vegas mountains as Ashton stood and wiped off his grease-stained hands.
“Let’s get it started up,” he told me, moving toward the driver’s seat.
I waited by the door as he sank in and pressed his foot on the clutch, then turned the key in the ignition.
Lifting two fingers, I crossed them for luck as the engine turned over and the car purred.
We both whooped and hi-fived, happy to hear the Firebird come to life.
“Get in,” he told me, flicking his thumb toward the side seat.
I hurried around while he pulled the T-top panels off, essentially making it a convertible.
Once I was in and buckled, he dropped back into his seat and we set off, peeling out into the street with wind in our hair and grins on our faces.
Chapter 12
