“Okay.”
“I mean the kiss. It was a mistake. It's too fast, and I've got Rosie, and my life is... you don't want my life, trust me. So it can't happen again.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“Stop agreeing with me.”
“No.” He wipes his hands on a rag, calm as Sunday, and tips his chin at my car. “The starter's dead. Alternator's on its way out. Front brakes are a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
I grimace. “How much for just the starter?”
“Estimate's been finalized.”
He pulls a folded piece of paper from the chest pocket of his coveralls like it's an official document. It's diner placemat paper. In purple crayon, in my daughter's careful hand, it says:ESTIMATE. ONE (1) BACON.
The laugh comes up out of me before I can stop it, a little hysterical, and it keeps going until I have to press my hand to my mouth. He watches me laugh with that shine in his dark eyes, smiling back at me.
“That's extortion,” I manage.
“It’s our best price.” He leans over the engine bay, and I lean in too. He walks me through the ruin of my car, worn belts and the alternator on borrowed time, and his voice stays level while our shoulders touch. I hear maybe one word in four.
There's a streak of grease on his cheekbone, above the beard. I reach up and wipe it with my thumb before I can stop myself.
Wrench raises an eyebrow. “A mistake?” He’s daring me.
“A terrible one,” I say, and let him kiss me anyway. His lips move on mine and I gasp, electricity sparking from my core and spreading out all over my body.
His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, careful and huge, the engine block is at my hip and heat is rolling through me from every point of contact when a voice fills the shop.
“Well, well…”
“Sweet merciful heavens!” I jump back a foot. Wrench doesn't move at all, just closes his eyes, a man gathering strength.
A biker fills the side door, big and grinning, tattoos to the knuckles and up his neck, and a toothpick at the corner of his mouth. I vaguely recognize him as one of the Outlaws, the intimidating one with the scar across his cheek and icy blue eyes who only orders milkshakes at the diner, not coffee. He looks at me, then at Wrench, then back at me, with the delight of a kid on the last day of school.
“Savage,” Wrench says, “get the fuck out.”
“I work here.”
“You're fired, cabrón.”
“You don't pay me enough.” He saunters in, wipes a hand on his jeans, and offers it to me with a courtly little bow. “Ma'am. Savage. It's an honor. He's never once mentioned you.”
“Oh.” I shake his hand, my face on fire. “Well.”
“No, that's how I knew it was serious.” He beams at Wrench, who mutters in Spanish, low and long, something with the unmistakable structure of a threat. Savage ignores him. “I had money on the summer picnic. You couldn't have waited three weeks to kiss him?”
“Wait, you’re taking bets…already?”
“Ma'am, there's been a pool since spring. Haven’t you noticed this big lug crowding up your diner every day? Lucky's holding the cash.” He digs out his phone. “Shit, I’ve lost seventy dollars. This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me.”
“Savage.” Wrench's voice is icy. “The Carlton.”
“Quiet as a mouse. Doc's old room key still works on the vending machine, by the way.” He tips me a wink on the way out. “Ma'am. Come by the Saloon. Meet the fam in person. We’re nicer than we look…”
“Bets? About us? Is it that obvious?”
“Lila, there is no us,” he says, straight-faced, “you told me so five minutes ago,” and I open my mouth and close it again, outmaneuvered by a man who says maybe thirty words an hour.
