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I’m at Danny’s, and it’s been a busy day. The temperature outside continues to climb, and it’s hot as fuck in here too.
Cars keep coming in. Heat exhaustion, I call it.
The radio is always on. The first sign of a fire, I’m out of there.
I know Philip’s dropping by, so when footsteps approach, I don’t look up.
Only friends and family walk back here. Everyone else waits in the front and rings the bell. I really have to get me a receptionist.
“Any trouble, Callahan?” I ask. “You went to check out that campsite . . .”
“I was wondering if you could help me?”
The guy’s voice isn’t one I recognize, so I don’t put down the tool in my hand as I turn.
He’s not from here, and not just because I don’t know him. It’s small, Norhill Tops, but there are bigger towns nearby, and it’s the height of summer. No, it’s his clothes, tight designer jeans that probably cost more than all my jeans, brand new work boots with a slick edge and spotless, soft leather, which tells me they came from a store with a high price tag. Made to be seen, not to work in. And a lavender button-down tucked in.
Blond hair styled just so, and he’s clean-shaven. He has some muscle from a gym because his shirt sleeves are rolled up and the shirt tight enough to show the cut of his muscles, which are too small for that kind of definition from working the land.
Besides, I’m betting he only sweats into designer towels made from imported cotton that’s been plucked by virgins on a full moon.
I lean back against the car. “With what?”
The guy sizes me up. I’m bigger and taller than him. He takes the tiniest step back, that makes me smile.
“A car.”
“Not a dealership. Mechanic.” I go to turn back to the car I’m working on.
“No.” The man clears his throat. “Sorry to bug you.”
He leaves, and I watch him go.
“Trouble?” Philip asks as he steps into the garage, looking at me and then the guy.
After wiping my hands, I throw the rag over my shoulder and go to the fridge for some water. “Drink?”
“Bourbon, but I’ll have some water.”
“Think you’re a clever fuckin’ man, Callahan.”
“I know I’m a clever fucking man, Burns.” He catches the bottle. “How’s your little lady?”
“Hands off.”
“Hey, I’d fight you for her, but that pretty girl likes you.”
“She has taste.”
He laughs, but tiredness and strain pull at his features.
“Trouble?”
“Those campers aren’t in a designated area. Wouldn’t have noticed them if Grover hadn’t flown by.” He leans on the car. “They’re young, got a baby, and they drink too much.”
I wince. “A fuckin’ baby? In this weather? Wouldn’t somewhere cooler or, y’know, indoors be better?”
“I’m not handing out lifestyle choice advice, Burns.” He takes a swig of the cold water.
