Test Drive (38 page)

Man, talk about Santa coming to town early. Just breathing, the woman qualified as a statuesque knockout. But angry? A serious threat to his sanity. Now how to calm her down… Oh, right. Find and kill Dale, then get their cars out of her lot.

“Dale,” he yelled, then remembered the young service writer of Webster’s Garage had taken off early today.

“He’s not here, genius.” Johnny Devlin, one of the mouthier mechanics in the garage, lovingly stated the obvious. “Boy had plans to help his sister move, I think. He’ll be in first thing Monday morning.”

“Hell.” Foley rubbed his eyes, irritated. He needed to get a bunch of cars moved out of the fiery siren’s lot before she had them towed. Had Dale left the keys where Del normally kept them? Or had he taken to reorganizing again, so no one could find anything without the kid’s help?

Johnny went back to cheerfully whistling a Christmas tune while Credence Clearwater Revival came on the radio to replace some seriously awful folk music. Thank God. Now if Foley could just get Johnny to shut up.

“
Must
you whistle?” he growled, a headache brewing as the temperature started to get to him. They kept the garage bay doors closed but the cold didn’t seem to care, and the T-shirt and jeans he wore under his coveralls weren’t doing him any favors.

The bastard grinned back at him. “I must.” Johnny had recently fallen in love and now considered himself a dating guru. Well, technically the little bastard
was
pretty good with the ladies. He had a pretty face, a big brain, and had grown up around a bevy of strippers, so he had the female perspective down pat. Still, Foley would rather pull out his own teeth than admit Johnny knew more than he did about chicks.

Women, not chicks, you Neanderthal
, he imagined his mother saying before slapping him on the back of the head. He rubbed the imagined smack and sighed.

“Ha! I found it.” His best friend, Sam, victoriously raised his previously misplaced air ratchet and narrowed his gaze on Foley. “Quit fucking with my gear.”

Foley frowned, still off-kilter from the angry beauty in heels. “I told you I didn’t touch your tools. You need to clean up that mess.” He nodded at Sam’s tool bench, a clutter of disorganization that hurt to look at.

After nearly two decades spent around Sam and Sam’s chaos in regards to living, Foley should have known better than to try. But he figured one of these days Sam might actually heed his advice.

“I’m not seeing the problem.” Sam shrugged and tapped the ratchet into his huge palm. “You seeing a problem, big man? Want me to fix it? How about I fix
you
?”

He glanced at Sam’s thick, tattooed biceps, then at his own, and raised a brow. “I know you don’t think you can seriously take me down.”

Sam’s scowl lightened into what for Sam could be considered a grin. “You want to go,
boss man
?”

“Must chafe your ass that Del and Liam left me in charge.” Foley crossed his arms over his chest, amused at the thought of Sam taking the lead. His buddy didn’t want the responsibility. He just liked needling Foley for being a—quote—
kiss ass
. Foley continued his rant, “But then, what choice did they have?” He looked at Johnny, monkeying under the hood of a Honda. “The happy whistler who can’t think beyond his new girlfriend?” A glance at Lou, who leaned against his workbench, smirking at them. “The resident Romeo who’s better with a paint gun than a wrench?”

“Watch it, hombre, or I’ll paint your face a new color.” Lou didn’t put any heat behind his words, but his mammoth frame would be a challenge if it came to a fight. He was as big as Foley, though not as badass. Then again, Foley had never actually battled the garage’s resident know-it-all. He wondered, between them, who might actually win, and could see Lou thinking the same, his lips curling into a grin.

Thoughts of fighting brought Foley’s attention back to Sam. “Or you.” Foley scrutinized his buddy, teasing to conceal the worry he’d been feeling. “You’re practically all skin and bones. Eat a sandwich, jackass. It won’t kill you. Unless you’re starving yourself to impress Shaya?”

Sam snorted. “Shaya likes me just fine.”

“You mean she likes the wad of bills you stash down her G-string at Strutts,” Lou said under his breath.

Sam turned a cold eye on him. “Anytime you want to throw down, Cortez. I’m game.”

Johnny took a break from his work, straightened, and faced them. “Guys, it’s almost Christmas. Tone down the testosterone, would you?”

Lou took a threatening step toward Sam, then stopped, grinned, and held out a hand. “Pay up, Hamilton. I told you he’d make sure none of us shake the peace around here. Getting laid has made our Johnny a lover, not a fighter.”

Foley laughed. They placed bets on everything in the garage, and Johnny’s maddening good mood was fair game. Good to know Foley wasn’t the only one who could use less whistling, more classic rock.

Sam gave Johnny a sad look. “Johnny, Johnny. All that happiness is turning you into a pussy. Does Lara know what she’s getting with you, man?”

“Turning into?” Foley repeated. “I thought he was born that way.” He laughed at the finger Johnny shot him.

Then in a sly tone, Johnny said, “Calling me names and betting on me isn’t getting you guys any closer to an invite to dinner next weekend.”

Foley and Sam exchanged a glance. Free food changed things.

Sam coughed. “I don’t suppose Lara would make anything special for us. Like, say, chocolate chip cookies?”

“I don’t know.” Johnny rubbed his greasy nails on his coveralls. “How sorry are you for being a dick?”

“
I’m
sorry Sam’s a dick,” Lou apologized, ignoring Sam’s suggestion of where to stick his head. “And that you have to constantly deal with lowbrow humor from the badass bros.”

Foley rolled his eyes. They’d been calling him and Sam that for years, and he hated to admit it, but he kind of liked the title.

“Lowbrow, my ass,” Sam muttered.

Lou shrugged. “Just my opinion.” He turned to Foley. “But then, I’m just a lowly peon working for the big man.”

“Please.” The guys always ribbed Foley whenever the Websters left him in charge. “Like you work for anyone but yourself.” All of them contracted their work for a percentage. With the raw talent and experience Webster’s had pooled the past few years with their current team of mechanics, it was no wonder the garage had overflowing lots and no time to spare anymore.

“That’s true.” Lou grinned. “But right now, I’m more than glad Del and Liam left you in charge. I wouldn’t want to be you when you’re standing in front of them, explaining why all our cars got towed away.”

Foley had been trying to avoid the pressing need to fix the situation. “Shit.”

“Good thing Del’s not here to collect on all the swearing,” Johnny just
had
to remind them.

As one, they glanced at the change-filled glass jar on a nearby counter. The ROP—Rattle of Oppression, as they’d taken to calling it—had been getting filled on a weekly basis. The boss had decided that in an effort to not swear at her upcoming wedding, she’d practice clean speech at work. Unfortunately, if she had to talk nice, she expected them all to do the same.

Foley grinned. “You have to admit it’s a challenge. Even Liam has cut back on his ‘fucks’ and ‘goddamns.’”

The guys chuckled.

Foley finished putting his tools away, then realized he’d only given himself a ten-minute reprieve. “Oh, hell. I’ll be at the coffee shop, dealing with our angry neighbor. If you guys leave before I get back, have a good weekend. And, Johnny? I’m marking my calendar about dinner next weekend.”

“With cookies, right?” Sam asked.

“Maybe.” Johnny shrugged. “Lara seems to like you, though I have no idea why.”

Foley removed his coveralls and hung them in his locker in the break room, leaving him in jeans, steel-toed boots, and a thin T-shirt. When working, he tended to run hot. But as soon as he stopped, the cold hit him. He washed his hands thoroughly and tried to finger-comb his hair, wanting to make a better impression on the sexy redhead. He grabbed his jacket and headed toward the exit.

Johnny hummed the funeral march, which earned a rare chuckle from Sam.

Lou called out, “Good luck,
jefe
.”

“Quit calling me boss,” he barked.

“Okay, walking dead man.” Lou laughed. “Wonder if she’ll puncture a lung with those heels. Might be worth it to see.” Lou made as if to follow him, and Foley ordered him to stay the hell away.

He didn’t need an audience when he worked his charms on that delectable redhead. And he especially didn’t need any unasked for competition when it came to getting that first date. That was, if he could convince her not to stomp his head in with those four-inch heels.

He grinned. He loved them mean.

His grin faded and he turned around and headed for the service desk. First, he had to find those damn keys.

* * *

Cynthia Nichols had done some stupid things in her time, but not wearing a jacket in this weather ranked among her top five. Her earlier phone conversation had made her so blasted angry, she’d torn out of the shop without thinking. She shivered and glanced at the mass of vehicles taking up her customers’ spots and swore at all things car related.

Hurrying through the café door, she inhaled the scent of coffee and freshly baked goods and let out a sigh. Nichols Caffè Bar—her most recent acquisition and newest workplace.

Warmth embraced her, internally and externally, as the heat sunk in. For years she’d been investing in businesses, getting them going, then leaving once they turned a profit. But this was the first one she’d decided to work and keep as her own. A family-run company, since she owned half of it and her brother and sister-in-law owned the other half. She finally felt at home.

“Where have you been?” said sister-in-law, Nina, asked before calling out a name for the cup on the counter.

Cyn joined her behind the counter. “I went over to Webster’s Garage to talk to the idiot in charge.”

Nina frowned. “I like Liam, and I wouldn’t exactly call Del an idiot. Not to her face.”

Cyn understood. The gang at Webster’s was decidedly…rough. Liam Webster had to be in his late fifties, yet the man looked like he could bench-press
her
—and she hadn’t been a lightweight since the fourth grade.

Del, his daughter, had ash-blond hair, a few piercings, tattoos, and the meanest glare on a woman Cyn had ever seen. She had been nice and polite the few times Cyn had run into her, but Cyn had sensed a predator behind those cold gray eyes from the first.

Eyes a lot like those of the testosterone-laden idiot she’d just lambasted with a bit of redheaded temper. Dear God, where did the Websters find their mechanics? San Quentin? Rikers? Baddies-R-Us?

Aware her sister-in-law waited for an answer, Cyn said, “The Websters are out of town, so they left Foley Sanders in charge.”

Nina sighed. “Foley.”

“Hey. You’re married to my brother, remember?” Cyn frowned. “Do the names Vinnie and Alex ring a bell? You know, your
children
?”

Nina laughed. “Hard to forget a house full of boys and your manly brother. Hubba hubba.”

“Ew. Forget I asked.”

“But Foley Sanders.” Nina wiggled her brows. “He’s so big and strong and just…yum.”

Nina wasn’t exaggerating. Which made Cyn dislike him all the more. She knew all about guys like Foley. Men who had looks and muscle, the envy of other men, and the fantasies of heterosexual women. Men who acted like they didn’t mind what a girl looked like, then dumped her for a skinnier, younger model.

“Yum or not, it’s his job to be responsible for the garage, and you’ll notice that over half our lot is full of cars that don’t belong to us.” She knew for a fact that they had come from Webster’s because she’d seen their blue-haired clerk parking them randomly in the lot earlier today.

“So who else was there?” Nina prodded.

“Three other brutes.” Sexy, big, and handsome men wearing tattoos and attitude. The kind of men her mother had long ago taught her to beware.

“God, kill me now. It’s a good thing I’m happily married to my own stud. I can’t believe how close we are to all that man candy.” Nina practically glowed. “Sam is so hunky but scary. He’s got those tattoos all over. I wonder how far down they go?”

“
Nina.
”

“Then there’s Lou. The brooding Latin lover. I swear, he gives me goose bumps when I see him.”

“What?”

“Johnny Devlin’s a real charmer. He’s the one that looks like a cover model. He flirts a good game, but he’s never been serious. Probably because I’m married.” Nina fingered her ring.

“So glad you remembered,” Cyn muttered, now trying not to laugh. Nina was a petite beauty with blond hair, green eyes, and a sunny personality. It had been a no-brainer as to what her brother saw in Nina. After twelve years, they still had a happy, healthy marriage and two handsome sons to prove it. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you go on about the Webster guys before.”

“Matt has.” Nina grinned. “But hey, I let my dear husband have that girlie calendar in his office at home, so we’re even.”

“You mean his Grannies for Nannies, calendar? The one my mom was in to promote her side babysitting business?”

“Hey, they’re women. They count.”

Cyn laughed. “That’s just mean.”

“And funny. But it’s all good. Matt’s friends with Liam and his guys. Del too. They’re actually a nice bunch of people. And they buy a lot from us. Don’t make enemies,” Nina warned.

Too late. In the month she’d been working in the shop, Cyn had only ever encountered Del and Liam. A good thing, because she had issues with men she was still trying to get over. But a lifetime of disappointments made it a long process.

She now felt a little bad about her behavior in the garage. It was Sanders’s misfortune that she’d talked with one of her chauvinistic ex-business partners prior to dealing with the car situation. Dan Fawkes was such a dick. The word
scruples
had never entered his pretty little head. The oily bastard. If he thought he could cheat her out of her entitled shareholder distributions, he could think again. She never let anyone screw her over when it came to business.