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“Considering how little I know about cars, I’m going to say you’re pretty safe,” I state. I’m doing what I do best when I get nervous; babbling. “I guess I should consider myself lucky you were with me when I broke down.”
“No, you’re lucky I’m good with my hands,” he corrects, the tiny freckle that sits under his right eye disappearing when he smirks.
Oh God.
I look around, desperate to focus my attention on something other than what I’d like him to do with those strong, masculine hands. I need to change the subject to something that doesn’t have me thinking inappropriate things involving Brix Wilson.
“This place is great,” I say, my voice way too enthusiastic.
Really? I shake my head, because I sound like I’m talking about a trendy bar, not a greasy, old service station. Brix chuckles. He shifts his gaze around the room, and then he shrugs.
“Sure. I guess it’s okay. If you’re into getting hot, greasy and dirty.” He grins at me.
“Grease wrestling’s a thing, right?” I quip.
“If it’s not, I’d like to see you make it one.”
I snap my mouth shut, not trusting myself to respond. I make a beeline for the other side of the room. There’s a few photos tacked onto the wall near what looks like an office.
There’s not many of them, but from the discoloration around the edges, they look old. In the center of every one is a very proud looking man, posing next to a different car.
“Who’s that?” I ask over my shoulder.
He glances over. “That’s my dad.”
His mood changes completely, with all traces of humor leaving his voice. He wipes his hands clean, and then wanders over to where I stand, a pained look clouding his eyes. He studies each photo. I do too, intrigued that every single one is of his dad by myself. There are no photos of Brix, or any other family members. Just his dad and his cars.
“Were these all his?” I ask.
Brix laughs. “God no. In his dreams, maybe. These were cars he fixed up.” Brix glances around, a wistful look on his face. “This place was his pride and joy. It meant more to him than we did,” he explains with a bitter laugh. “Most people surround themselves with photos of their families. Just so they can remind themselves of what’s important. Not Dad. They only thing he loved were his cars.”
“He looks happy,” I comment, peering at a photo of him sitting on the hood of a classic Mustang.
“He was only ever really happy when he was here,” he agrees. “I used to come down and try to get him to teach me things. It was the only time he showed any interest in my life. He was like a different person when he came here. You could see how much he loved what he did.”
“It must have been nice to share that with him,” I say.
He shrugs, his expression turning dark, then rubs the back of his neck, like he’s cramping up. He laughs off my concerned look.
“It’s fine,” he assures me. “It’s just all the work I do on my back takes its toll on the rest of my body.”
“Singing requires you spend a lot of time on your back, does it?” I tease.
His eyes flash with a mix of responses, and then he laughs.
“I meant in my spare time. I come here a lot to help Nate out. He does a lot of exhaust work, which means flat on my back, beneath a car for hours at a time.” He grins at me. “That’s not the only thing I like to do on my back, though.”
“It must be cool to share something like that with your brother,” I muse. I never had anything in common with Sara. It’s like we each went out of our way to do the opposite of what the other was doing.
“I’m gonna assume you mean cars and not the other activites,” Brix chuckles. “Cars are about the only thing we have in common, but in some ways, it makes our relationship worse. It’s like we’re always competing with each other.” He shrugs. “Not surprising I guess, when you consider our childhood.” He glances back at my car and then at the clock on the wall. “I better get this car fixed, or we’ll have to spend the night here,” he says, walking back over to the car.
I nod, even though the idea of spending the night with him sounds pretty good to me. I wander back over to my car, clearing a space on the ground with my foot. I sit down, crossing my legs, and watch him work. His last comment about his childhood is still with me. What did he mean by it? He obviously had it rough as a kid, and it’s not my place to push him for answers, especially just to satisfy my curiosity.
