Relentless: A Bad Boy Romance (Bertoli Crime Family #1) (33 page)

He looked up from his desk, which was covered in paperwork and invoices, so much so I had no idea how he kept it organized. He must have had one hell of an assistant. "Not at all, Bell. Trust me, there's always more work to do with keeping this place going. Have a seat."

I looked down at my stained and spotted coveralls, and shook my head. "No offense, sir, but I'd mess up your office. If it's all the same to you, I'll stand."

Hank nodded, looking my clothes over. "Suit yourself. I just wanted to give you your first paycheck personally, so here you are." He handed over the envelope, which I glanced at before putting it in my back pocket. "You're not going to open it?"

"No, sir. I was taught that you don't tear open letters and stuff like that when the person giving it to you is still there. Either it's good news, in which case it can wait, or it's bad news, in which case you don't want to lose your temper in front of who gave you the letter. Besides, I trust you, and I've kept track. To be honest with you, no matter what it is, it’ll seem like a fortune."

Hank sat back in his chair, entwining his fingers over his belly. "I'm going to be honest with you, Bell. When my nephew said he wanted me to give you a job, I was confused. I don't know if you know, but he and that boy, Lloyd, knew each other before they enlisted in the Army."

I shook my head, surprised. "No, I didn't, sir. I always thought that the three of us met at Benning in Airborne School."

Hank chuckled. "Nope. That boy, Lloyd—his parents are from right here in Atlanta, same as Chris. In fact, Lloyd's daddy and I were high school classmates. Lloyd and his folks moved up to Pennsylvania right after he finished his junior year in high school. You never noticed he had an accent?"

"Lloyd was one of those guys whose accent never really gave him away," I said. "Maybe he blended his Southern with a bit of Yankee or something. Besides, a lot of us ended up with a bit of accent after a while. It kind of all blurs together when we're in green."

"I see. Well, anyway, those two boys grew up really thick, and I was glad when they met back up in the service. Guess what I'm saying is, if Chris stuck it out for you, there had to be a reason. So, I'm gonna make you an offer. Starting up soon, the shop has a summer surge of folks coming in. Lots of trade-ins and lots of repairs as folks want their cars tuned up for going out to the lake or going on summer vacation. We normally bring in a bunch of new folks around that time to do the lower level mechanical stuff—things like oil changes, tire rotations and changes, things like that. Pay's better. We pay each of them fifteen an hour, and those that have skills have a chance to become full-time mechanics if they know what they're doing. Tell me, do you have any real mechanical skills?"

I thought, then shrugged. "I learned how to do the basics on a Humvee, and back in my high school days I helped my dad with a rebuild of a small block Chevy engine for a '79 Camaro he was doing as a project. We finished just before I enlisted. Prior to that, I did basic stuff at a Jiffy Lube down the street from my house. But I never got any formal schooling or anything like that, if that's what you are asking."

Hank laughed. "I never went to any of those schools myself. I started the same way you did, rebuilding small block Fords with my daddy and doing oil changes here in the shop, back when this was a one-dealer operation. All right, then. The offer's on the table. You keep working hard as you've been the past two weeks, and tell me by the start of next month if you want a slot in the program or not. I'm not saying it'd be permanent. You might find yourself sweeping bay floors again come fall, but it'd be something."

"Thank you, sir. I'll think it over."

On the way back to the apartment, I did exactly that, mulling it over. Hank didn't strike me as the sort of man who would try and feed me a line of junk, so the offer did make me happy. I was a little disturbed by what I'd learned about Chris and Lloyd, but in the end, I figured that they'd just forgotten to mention it during the time we had been friends together. After all, military time was just different from civilian time. There's no other way to really put it. I didn't tell them too much about my life growing up in the Midwest, either.

When I got back, I found Chris leaning back on the sofa, watching the evening news. "Hey man, how was work today?"

"Good," I said with a smile. I pulled my paycheck, which I'd opened on the MARTA, out of my back pocket. "Check it out. After taxes, nine hundred and forty-seven dollars and thirty-six cents."

Chris flashed me a thumbs up. “That’s good. You've been working your ass off. So are you on the schedule for tomorrow?"

I shook my head. "Nope. I'm off until Saturday morning. Why?"

"We're going out then," Chris said, getting off the sofa. "But you're buying the beer."

"I don't know, man. Since getting out, I've found that my taste for alcohol isn’t what it used to be,” I said, tilting my head and rubbing my hand through my hair. "You know, getting dried out by Leavenworth and everything. Not to mention, I don't need any trouble with John Law."

Chris wasn't to be denied, however. "Don't sweat it, man. We're just going out to celebrate. I promise, you're not going to get hammered, and we're just gonna relax, see if maybe we can find you a girl to take your mind off whoever the hell it is that's been keeping you tossing and turning on the sofa at night."

"Sorry about that," I apologized, knowing exactly what Chris was talking about. In the days since the night with Abby, she was always in my thoughts. A lot of it was silly shit, like if she'd be proud of me for how I worked or if she'd like the cut of beef I'd picked up at the grocery store. But whether it was just stupid rationalization or not, she was always on my mind. I tried to stop it, but the image of her eyes drove me from my sleep every morning, and it was the desire for my arms to hold her again that chased me in my dreams.

She'd even, after the week of sulking, fueled my renewed focus on working out. With Chris being home, I didn't feel so strange using the fitness center at the Tower, and I'd gotten back into the habit of morning PT. An hour on the weights alternated days with calisthenics and running around the park, using one of the jogging paths that ringed the place. Every time I went by the grove of trees where I'd rescued Abby from those scum that had assaulted her, I found the energy to push myself just a little harder.

Still, I woke up in the middle of the night more often than not, and I guess Chris had noticed. I made a firm decision. "All right, man. Let's go out and enjoy the world. We're single, under thirty, and we've got some money in our pocket. We're the kings of the goddamned world, aren't we?"

"That's the spirit. Come on. But first . . . you need a shower. You smell like a car service."

* * *

T
he club wasn't much
, just a pretty standard country and western bar that catered to the crowd that was slightly older than college age. There were plenty of college kids there, but the majority of the people there that night at Roundups looked like they had at least a car loan, if not a mortgage, in their name.

Unfortunately, the fact that we were there on a Wednesday night of all times meant that the crowd was light. We'd been there an hour already, and to be honest, even if I had been in the mood to chase a skirt, the pickings were mighty slim, and Chris was despondent. "This place is dead, man. Sorry about that."

I took a sip of my beer, the second glass of the night—I'd promised myself no more than three— and sat back, shaking my head. “It ain't no thing. It's nice to just get out a bit and chill. Hell, it feels good just being able to pay for the beer."

"Well, you still owe me about fifty more pitchers, by my calculations," Chris said with a laugh. "Do that over the course of the rest of our lives, and I'll call it even on that loan. No way in hell am I taking half of your first paycheck."

"Dude, you need to at least let me give you something," I objected. "Pay you some rent, something. And we go half on the groceries.”

Chris took another drink of his own beer—he was most of the way done with number four and warming up for number five—and it looked like he was about to object for a second, then he shrugged. "All right. We go half on the groceries, and your rent's four hundred a month. You pay me with your next paycheck."

Chris finished off his beer and looked around, seeing something that caught his eye. "Damn, check out the tits on that one. Phew, she'd be able to hold this whole glass in between those puppies."

I looked over and saw who he was talking about, a curvy girl who looked to be in her early twenties. She was pretty light skinned, but she still stood out in a place like Roundups, where most of the clientele was a shade lighter. "I see you still like chasing the younger ones," I said. “Though she isn't jailbait. When did you grow out of them?"

"About the time I started getting strange looks around the high schools," Chris said with another laugh. "So I graduated up to college girls, and that one looks like just about my type. You know what the best thing about undergrads is, Dane?"

"What's that?" I asked, feeling like the years were falling away. We weren't pushing thirty anymore but were twenty-three and on leave in between Airborne School and heading back to Fort Campbell to join the 101st, and everything was relaxed and cool.

"I keep getting older, they keep staying the same age," Chris finished with a laugh. "Why don't you try for that one? You always struck me as a tits man."

I shook my head. "Nah, that's okay." I looked around for someone else to take my attention from the girl, someone who looked like she was already attached. It wasn't that the girl wasn't hot, it was just I wasn't interested in a one-night stand.
Besides
, the inner voice said,
that isn't Abby.
"How about that one?"

Chris looked over at who I pointed out, laughing. “Her? Didn't think you chased married women."

I shrugged. "Maybe it's just the beer, then. Hey, what ever happened between you and that girl you were dating right before I went up? You know, the one we called Miss Teen USA?"

Chris polished off the rest of beer number four, his expression darkening. "Never came to anything, man. Just . . . never came to anything. Listen, you going to find some pussy or not? If not, I'm going to look around myself.”

I looked around and shook my head. "Nah, I'm good. Probably got whiskey dick right now anyway."

Chris grunted and heaved himself out of his chair, putting his glass down on the table. I looked, and the girl he'd first shown interest in had seemingly disappeared, while the woman I'd indicated seemed like she was still there. Chris studied her for a second and shrugged. "Hell, any port in a goddamn storm. Yo, you good at getting home tonight by yourself if you need? I'd rather not bring this one home, if you know what I mean."

"I'm good, man. Happy hunting."

"You're goddamn right about that."

I
came
out of the Clough Undergraduate Commons building, frustrated with myself. I'd stopped by the building to find a quiet spot to do some studying for my European History final, which was the next day, when I'd fallen asleep in one of the comfortable chairs that you could find in the study rooms. When a chime had woken me up, I was pissed to find that it was already noon, and I had agreed to meet Shawnie for lunch in fifteen minutes. If I hurried, I'd just make it.

Heading off campus, I rounded a corner to come to a screeching halt before I got run over by someone on a bicycle. "Hey, watch where you're going!"

The bike came to a stop, and I saw that the man was wearing a business suit, one of the seeming army of young executives on bikes that had sprung up around Atlanta as the city became more bike friendly. This one had the whole nine yards of gear, including aerodynamic minimalist helmet and even a protective tight spat on his right lower leg to protect his suit pants from the oil and dirt of his chain.

When he turned, I felt like I'd been smacked in the face. "C-Chris?"

Chris blinked, his momentary expression of anger over being yelled at being replaced by a gape of surprise. "Abby? Abby Rawlings?"

I smiled, stunned. "Yeah. Wow, it's been so long."

He got off his bike and came over, grinning. "Yeah, it has been. How have you been?"

I shrugged. "Well, you know . . . nearly done with college now. And you?"

"Running back to the office," he said. "I had a client meeting downtown, and the traffic is hell in a car that way this time of day, so I jumped on the bike instead. I have to say, you look great. So you're what, a senior now?"

I nodded. He was the same as ever, with the sort of personality that never let up and never really backed down. "Yeah. What about you? What are you doing?"

"I'm in real estate. Hey, you know, we should catch up sometime. I live near here, if you don't know. The Mayfair Tower. You know it?" Chris said, smiling wider.

The mention of the Mayfair filled my heart with dread and trepidation as I thought again about Dane. It had been Dane who'd taken me to the tower, and it was through Dane that the memory of Chris was strong in my head again. Most of all, though, it was Dane. Dane, Dane, Dane damn-his-heart-for-disrupting-my-sleep-for-five-weeks-Bell. Chris saw the change of expression on my face and tilted his head to the side, confused. "Abby, I know that I was kind of an idiot in breaking things off between us the way I did, but that was a few years ago now. Listen, I'd really like the chance to at least explain to you why. Would you mind if I got your number?"