Charged (3 page)

“Stop drinkin’ all my good bourbon and I wouldn’t have to cheap out on the shop tools.” Jack whips out his own rag and tags me across the cheek. “Now get the fuck to work. The cars aren’t leaving here in pieces on their own. That Cobra alone was supposed to be gone last week — the Bird too — so hurry the fuck up.”

I’m the best at what I do, and I’m the closest the old fuck will ever get to family. I make him money and I do it cleanly, no scuffs, no unnecessary cuts or dings, and he won’t ever find someone else like me. We both know it. There’s a shop full of guys here, and he doesn’t trust a one. 

I grin at him as I toss my stinky, oil infested rag on the workbench. “You want lunch? I’m gonna hit Hazel’s for a sandwich.”

Jack yells over his shoulder as he moves back over to the 69’ Cuda he’s been tearing down for a few hours now. “Nah, it’s good. You do me a favor though and remind that woman she owes me a date still.”

“Fine, suit yourself, but when you’re hungry in an hour, don’t think I’m gonna go back over.”

“Fuck off so you can get back to work quicker, you lil’ punk.” I hear him cuss as I wash up and leave the shop, ignoring his rant.

Jack’s Auto Body and Restoration. Everyone sees a legit shop, when really it’s a front for the chop shop at the rear of the six thousand square foot building, in the middle of nowhere USA. I’ve worked here, under Jack, for most of my informative years. 

After my mom died, I was shipped here to live with him. My dad was gone, and no family wanted me, so I didn’t get much of a choice in it anyway. I don’t really remember my dad all that well, and I think for both of us, that was always the best anyway. 

Growing up, I’d heard various stories of what Carlo  James Mancuso was like. I’m not sure how he’d ever survived into adulthood after all his antics. It seemed to be a goddamn miracle. Anyway, Jack avoided all conversations started by ‘what was’ or ‘what can you’, so eventually I just quit asking — well that, and if I did, there was a cuff to the side of the head on the best of days, and a punch across the jaw on the worst.

Now I’m older, wiser, and for sure way fucking bigger and stronger than I was then. Jack’s temper has been a bit less one sided since I learned to take a hit and dish em’ back out. Not many can get the jump on me now. 

Next door is the Harvester. It’s a small town burger factory owned by the sweetest, sexiest old lady you’ve ever seen. Hazel owns it and runs it with her friend, Gus, who makes the best damn fries in three counties. Contests have proved it, along with the lineup of college kids that can all attest to the home cooked flare and finish.

It’s your typical southern family run restaurant that her parents owned, leaving it to her and her deadbeat husband when they died a few years back. What a fuckin’ prick he was. Carl emptied the accounts for a gambling debt, and left her to run it alone, with the added burden of a massive debt. All the guys at our shop make sure she never has to close up by ordering any and every meal we can from her. It’s not that it’s out of pity though; Gus can cook a mean meal.  

“Hey Hazel,” I say as I push the door open for her. She’s just coming outside with an arm load of beer and fries to serve to a few punk college kids on the front deck. Hazel’s a pretty lady; hardworking and smart too. With her slim build, soft doe eyes, greying caramel colored, pin straight hair — and not forgetting her firecracker personality — Hazel is a catch for any forty some guy with a dick and a brain.

“Thanks Ryk’,” she says as I help her over to the table, lifting a few drinks off. 

“Jack said you still owe him a date.” It’s a running joke between them about who owes whom the date. 

“I have no intention of dating that man. If’n he can’t come here and ask himself, then he’s not worth my time. He has to stop sending you as his messenger boy.” I ignore the comment and pass right on to the pertinent topic of the hour. Food.

“What’s the special today?” I ask after she’s watered and fed the college animals. Each of the mannerless heathens act like it’s their last meal on earth, as they splash ketchup, hot sauce and mayo everywhere. 

“Chicken gumbo, sweet potato soup and grilled hash burgers with avocado.” She clears a few empty glasses off the tables, wipes them down and heads back to the restaurant entrance. 

I think about the lunch choices and wonder about the selection. “Avocado? Really.” I scrunch up my nose in disgust, gaining myself a slap with her dishtowel on the back of the head.

“There’s more n’ more kids comin’ in here from froofoo families outta California n’ New York. I have to adjust to fit what they are use’ta eatin’.” Hazel tosses plates and cups into the bus trays while I plunk down on my usual chair by the door. “If’n I don’t do it, then I best adjust to the idea I’m closing up.”  

“You close up and I’ll find a spot in the back of the shop.” I know this will earn me another cuff, but it’s so fun. “It’s right beside the Firebird quarters and a 53’ Dodge hood.” 

Hazel grins widely. “The day I close up n’ cook full time in that old geezer’s shop is the day I fly unicorns out of me’ own ass. Now what the hell do ya' wanna eat, Ryk?” 

“Give me the hash burger, and I’ll even try the avocado. The same for the geezer that wants’ your unicorns.” This earns me a shit eating smile and that second slap from the wet dishtowel I was waiting on. 

“No problem, kiddo, I’ll get it right up.” She slides a Coke across the counter, knowing exactly what I always get, then walks over to the order counter to set shit up with Gus. 

Grabbing my frosted glass, I spin my worn chair around towards the front deck where the street is. The kids on the patio are just like all the rest, and just like Hazel said; spoiled, privileged jackasses with high expectations of the world. Not an ounce of ambition. They will be handed everything on a silver spoon, or expect it to land in their laps when they reach a certain age. They haven’t had a hard day in their whole existence. A bad day to them is a stray hair out of place in their perfectly coiffed hairdo’s. 

As I sit watching the idiots make even bigger assholes of themselves, our tow comes into the yard, dragging behind it the rattiest, dingiest poor excuse for metal that I’ve seen in a long time — which is saying something for rural Miss. “Well shit, Trav’.” 

I leave my Coke on the counter, tell Hazel I’ll be back for the food, and head out to see Travis. Travis is one of those guys you just genuinely want to care for. He’s not bright, which is totally his drug addicted mother’s fault, but he does his job and he does it well. I’ve gone with him on drives before, and we get along great. He talks about Pokemon, Marvel comics and movies. In exchange I teach him about girls. 

He’s never been with a woman, which makes him a twenty-nine-year-old virgin that looks about fifty. He actually really likes this girl in town, so I’m trying to give him an edge on asking her out. It’s been five years since we started this, but he finally rounded up the courage last month to say hi to her. It’ll probably take him five more just to get a date, and at this rate he’ll be eighty before he gets even a shit round of head out of it, but whatever floats his boat. 

I walk across the front driveway towards the jalopy, realizing it’s in worse shape than I originally thought. It has holes in pretty much all of the panels, and to be honest, there’s probably more rust than actual panels. It seems to have once been a steel blue VW Scirocco. They had not bad engines, pretty good shift patterns, and for the price, they were cheap little pocket rocket cars. 

“Hey Trav, what’s with the wreck?” I ask crossing the scorching pavement. 

“Creature is not a wreck, you fucker. He’s very sensitive about his blemishes, so if you don’t mind, could you keep your opinions to yourself please. I want it to start again,
someday.
” 

Looking for the owner of the voice, I turn seeing a petite, spitfire brunette stepping out of the passenger side of the truck. 

I ignore her. “Trav, we pick up cars, not rusted sheet metal.” 

With her ‘I’m with idiot’ tee shirt, cutoff jean shorts and bright pink flip flops, she seems to be the perfect example of ‘college student broke down’. The little hussy rounds on me, levelling me with a look of disgust. It’s probably the most menacing face she can muster as she stares up at me. I seemed to have pissed her off, riling the cornered raccoon right out of her.  I figure I’ll keep it up, as today I’m in the mood to start shit. Stuck up princess probably hasn’t had a working day in her life. She lost her daddy’s money somehow, probably drank it away in Daytona, and had to drive into college feeling inadequate in a full-on wrecked car. 

“Put it over by the bins, Trav’. We’ll crush it tomorrow afternoon. Look…” I motion to her for her name.

“Kate,” she says harshly, and it makes my dick rebel within the confines of my tight jeans. 

“Well, Kate, your car is not a car. It’s a rusted shell that needs to be retired. Now run along, call daddy n’ tell him you need more money for a pretty new—” 

“Bentley,” Trav chimes in, grinning from ear to ear as he walks back to the truck door. 

“Right, Bentley.  Ask for the pink one. We’ll send you the bill for the crush,” I say turning away from her.  

“Hey look, that’s my car and you have no right to just trash it. I don’t have ‘daddy’s money’,” she air quotes, “and that
is
all I have. Now I’m asking nicely. Please tell Travis to bring my car to the mechanic so it can get fixed. I need to get going as soon as possible.”

I’m intrigued that she has the balls to try going toe to toe with me. Kate’s no more than five foot five, and I tower over her at six foot six, with at least a hundred and fifty pounds on her. This little lady can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking fucking wet, but she has no issues stopping me from turning her car into a box the size of an end table. If I’m not careful, s
he
could be very dangerous to my dick. I like a little fireworks from my ladies. 

I step closer to her, noticing those crystal blue eyes widen as I loom over her little body. With the obviously dyed, jet black hair — I can see her platinum blonde roots peeking through — her thin frame, slim hips, petite tits, and the sweetest set of full-on Steven Tyler lips that beg to be sucked on, I only think one thing; damn it will mean trouble for me later, I’m sure. Fuck me, she’s gorgeous and feisty. My dick damn well knows it wants her, standing ready to take on the world. 

As she looks from me to her car, to Travis and then back to me, Travis starts off toward the scrap bins with her car in tow, and I turn, ignoring her as I make my way back to Hazel’s for my lunch. It should be ready and I’m damn hungry. 

“Wait!” Surprising me, the little spark plug grabs my arm, attempting to stop me in my tracks. The touch heats me where her petite, barely there fingers leave feather light contact on my skin. 

Turning slowly, I look her in the eyes with a pinched glare. Being smart about the circumstances, Kate releases my arm, gazing back at me, shell-shocked with a hint of challenge. 

Normally, I know who the lion in the pack is. In this instance though, I’m just as much the prey as the predator. Goddamn those lips look fucking tasty, and if she keeps this up, I might just lose control and taste them here and now.  

“Listen, I want my car — no, I
need
my car — back quickly, and if you aren’t going to help me with Travis and/or with the mechanic, then you’re of no use to me.” 

Letting go of me and huffing her frustration, she starts to walk off towards her car, determined to save the fucked up metal as it grunts and groans its way across the yard. Her indignant quip fires me up as she follows Travis. 

Against my better judgement, I step towards her, rounding on her, determined to put her in her place. I know this spitfire will be trouble. Hell, bad news is written across those pert pouty lips, but she needs to know who the power in this struggle is, and it isn’t her.

“Look,” I say, stopping her dead in her tracks. “The tow was seventy-five dollars. We charge sixty-two-fifty an hour, and it’s a minimum of three hours for diagnosis. You able to pay that?” 

I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but fuck it, I’m a masochist. Flicking stray hair away from her face, I smile down at her. “Oh and by the way, spark plug,
I am
the fucking mechanic.”

“Oh shit,” comes out in a whisper, but it’s sexy as hell when her cheeks heat with embarrassment. 

“Yeah, oh shit,” I mock. “Now, I need to grab my lunch and get back to work.” We’re standing so close I can smell her; it’s like cinnamon and vanilla, and god fucking dammit is it intoxicating. Fuck, this is a bad, fucking horribly bad idea, especially knowing the way she prods my dick into drive. 

I go against my better judgement reaching out to touch her elegantly soft looking skin. Lightly, I brush my fingers along the edge of her arm. Kate stops and turns, finally facing me once more. Shit, I didn’t think I was that much of an asshole. Tears threaten to spill forth, and I’d swear those are the bluest of blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I suddenly feel like a total douche. 

God damn chick will be hard to forget. 

Pulling myself together, I gain my composure and gather the meanest asshole pieces of my soul, putting my attitude in check, before I lose my shit, and strip her bare right here in the parking lot. It’s been awhile since a girl like her, overflowing with attitude, has fired my cock into overdrive without showing me a piece of her creamy, soft flesh.