Page 10 of Diesel

“Good.” He crouched down to look under the front end, and I forced myself to look literally anywhere else. The pegboard. Very interesting pegboard. Those were some well-organized wrenches. My brows furrowed at a sign with the word “Pookie” on it in glittery markers. Weird.

“How long do you think it’ll take?” I asked the Pookie sign.

“Few hours.” He stood, brushing off his hands. “You waiting or coming back?”

“Waiting, if that’s okay. Maureen, my dispatcher, doesn’t have another vehicle available.”

“Works for me.” He gestured toward a door at the back of the bay. “Waiting area’s through there. Got coffee, some pastries. Help yourself.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Remote’s on the table if you want the TV.” He was already moving toward his toolbox. “Holler if you need anything.”

Following the direction he’d indicated, I pushed through the door into a small waiting area that was significantly nicer than expected. A couple of worn but clean couches sat against one wall. A coffee maker gurgled on a small table, and next to it sat a box of pastries that looked bakery-fresh, not gas-station sad.

The good kind.

A flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall, remote sitting on the table like Diesel had said. I glanced at it then back at the door to the bay.

Television had never really been my thing. Too many channels, too much noise, not enough actual content. Reading was better. Or people-watching. Or, apparently, mechanic-watching, if my brain’s current fixation was any indication.

I poured myself a cup of coffee—black, because I’d never understood the point of turning coffee into a dessert—and grabbed what looked like a cheese Danish and bit into it. Flaky. Buttery. Definitely from an actual bakery.

These guys had their priorities straight.

Through the door, I could hear the clank of tools and the squeak of something rolling across concrete. Diesel’s low voice talking to someone. Maybe himself. Maybe the shuttle. Mechanics did that, right? Talked to vehicles like they were sentient beings who just needed encouragement?

I took another bite of my Danish.

The sounds from the bay continued. Metal on metal, something pneumatic hissing, the scrape of a tool against a surface.

Setting aside my coffee, I stood. The couch was comfortable, the Danish was excellent, but sitting here felt wasteful. I was burning daylight in a waiting room while something significantly more interesting was happening twenty feet away.

I headed back into the bay. Diesel was bent over the open hood, both arms deep in the engine. His shirt had ridden up slightly in the back, showing a strip of skin and the top edge of what looked like a tattoo.

“Hey.”

He glanced back then straightened. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m not really a TV person. Thought I’d see if I could watch you work. If that’s not breaking some kind of garage code.”

A glint of amusement flashed in his eyes. “No code. Just be careful and try not to touch anything.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. My mechanical knowledge tops out at the gas pump.”

“Good to know your limits.” He winked. The flirt. “Come here.”

I walked over to the front of the shuttle. Up close, the engine looked even more complicated than it had yesterday. Wires and hoses and metal thingies. I did recognize the container for the windshield washer fluid. Go me.

“Very bad. Alternator charges your battery while the engine runs. When it fails, you’re running on battery power alone. Eventually, the battery dies, and—”

“Errrrrrrr-clunk-nothing,” I finished.

His mouth twitched again. “Technical term.”

“I’m full of them.”

“I’m learning that.” He reached into the engine. “Hand me that ratchet. The one with the red handle.”