The Hierarchy of Needs (The Portland Rebels #2) (5 page)

It always reminded her of being left behind.

Something had pulled her home though, her feet sunk deep within the sands of Portland, the undertow dragging her back here like gravity. Not that she’d had another choice once competitive swimming was ruled out.

Midway through college, it became clear she’d reached her highest potential. No matter how brutal her training schedule—mandatory two-and-a-half-hour practices every weekday evening, additional ones at dawn three days a week—she couldn’t earn a place in her NCAA division championships. Her speed had maxed out, her open turns on flat walls as good as they were going to get. And no matter how disciplined she tried to be, she couldn’t keep up with the high-protein, low-carb diet of a professional swimmer. Having to watch what she ate was a Herculean task, especially when French fries beckoned a lot more than veggies, lean meat and fruit.

Her stomach grumbled in agreement. The lunch of roughage and tomatoes hadn’t exactly satisfied her.

Jamie hurried to her car and checked the time. Dean was going to either say yes or no, and rushing over there wasn’t going to change his answer. She had time to grab a bite.

Procrastination worked almost as well as dodging people.

She put her car in drive, blasting the radio as loud as she could. It did make sense for her to take the job her boss had offered, even if it meant accepting that coaching was going to be her full-time gig. She could love fashion all she wanted, but that world wasn’t for her. It was intense and cutthroat and impossible to break in to. She didn’t have the training, or the confidence. Not after those rejections had shown up at her door.

Jamie pulled into a drive-thru and waited, letting her head fall back against the seat. The career still beckoned. She longed to travel to places like New York, London, Milan and Paris. To spend her time around organza and tulle instead of spandex and terrycloth.

Fashion was the polar opposite of swimming, and maybe that had always been its appeal. There was so much freedom in the expression of creativity, and clothing held the power to elevate. One change of wardrobe, and you could go from being ordinary into a fairy-tale princess. From demure to provocative. Sweet to fearless.

Jamie wanted to do that—to create the kinds of clothes that made women feel strong and beautiful.

She knew she could’ve tried harder to get to New York. She could’ve applied to an unpaid internship and worked round the clock until she’d climbed her way up to being someone’s assistant, but those jobs required writing and communication skills she didn’t have. It also would’ve meant telling her parents what she wanted to do.

The idea of even mentioning it to them made her start to hyperventilate.

Designing clothes seemed kind of silly in a house full of doctors. Saying it was her dream would make her sound even more like the flighty person they thought she was. The one who never grew up, who was never serious about anything.

She’d gotten serious again, once. Enough to look up local programs and see if there was anything she could do. The Maine College of Art had a new program—a B.F.A. in textile and fashion design. A lot of it focused more on fabrics than drawing though, and Jamie had never gotten along with a needle and thread. Every project she’d made in Family and Consumer Science class had been a disaster and a half, and she’d practically cut her finger off the last time she used a sewing machine.

Besides, going back to school required money, and asking her parents to support her was not happening. Sure, they’d put the boys through medical school, but that was different. They were following in their father’s footsteps, and success in their field was nearly a sure thing. There was no guarantee Jamie would ever make it big. She could take out student loans instead, but what were the odds she’d ever be able to repay them? She’d be in debt forever, while her brothers were making money hand over fist and chuckling over their crazy kid sister during their golf games.

All that aside, the possibility of getting rejected again was enough to ward her off from looking into the application. It had been a hard blow to her ego the first time. She didn’t feel like getting crushed by it again.

She didn’t want to think about that anymore. What she
did
have to think about was Dean, and how she was going to handle this whole situation.

The key was in acting like nothing had happened. To pass it off the way she had back in high school, even though she’d wanted nothing more last night than to close her eyes and put herself in his hands, letting him play her body until her release became as inevitable as the tide.

Jamie shuddered. God, even the recollection of his touch lit her up like a torch. Maybe that was why, no matter how many guys she’d thrown between herself and that night, she couldn’t shake Dean off.

It was hard to forget the best she’d ever had.

She had to, though. Her head was on board with the whole “just friends” thing, so her body would eventually fall in line too. For now she needed to focus on coming through for her family. It would be nice if she could do something to save the day for once, instead of being perceived as the single Matthews child who was silly and useless.

Jamie rolled ahead in line and ordered something greasy, telling herself she’d work it off in the pool on Monday. She munched on her food in the parking lot and geared herself up, rehearsing her practiced façade. She’d forced her way past awkwardness like this with Dean before.

She could do it again.

Chapter Five

Dean climbed into his truck and rummaged through the glove box for his external phone battery charger. The shiny device was this year’s impersonal birthday present from his mother, but a useful one at that, considering how often he ran his phone down to nothing. It had taken him fifteen minutes to find it this morning, dead in the back pocket of his waterlogged jeans.

He let it charge and started up the engine, idling for a few minutes as he stared out at the harbor.

Ice-blue water hugged the land, the last few boats of the season remaining stubborn in their slips. October had just begun, and already the midday light had changed to something more orange than gold. The abundant green of Maine’s oaks and maples was giving way to the fiery colors of autumn, little pops of color peeking out where leaves met the halo of blue overhead.

It was exactly the kind of day he would’ve gone out to photograph, back when he did that kind of useless shit.

The charger quickly powered up his phone, and Dean thumbed through his messages. He was almost glad the stupid thing had no juice all night long, because it was blowing up with texts now. One from the girl he met at the bar by Southern Maine Community College on Wednesday, asking what he was doing tonight. Another from the chick who’d sold him his coffee at the joint on the corner last week, her name and number scrawled on the side of the cup. Two more he couldn’t differentiate between because they had the same damn name. Connor asking if he’d be checking out the cars at the county fair with him today. His father asking where the hell he was.

Dean rubbed his eyes and sighed. He’d slept in later than he planned, thanks to last night’s fantastic decision making. It had been a frequent habit lately. He often liked to say that slacking on the weekends was one of the perks of working for his father. The truth was, he dreaded going there.

But it was past noon now. Time to get back to the grind.

Ignoring the other texts, he replied to Connor that he wasn’t going to make it and kicked his truck into gear. Disappointment had him obeying the speed limit for once, driving more slowly than he should have, considering the time.

The car show at the local harvest festival was like being at the Bunny Ranch, with so much beauty everywhere Dean never knew what to look at first. Car enthusiasts came from miles around, showing off the kinds of 1960s muscle cars that had always been his favorite. Their sleek lines and pure machine strength embodied a feeling of danger and rebellion unmatched by any other vehicle. Finding the source of that power was what captivated him the first time his dad popped a hood and showed him all the metal, tubes and wires inside.

Dean always hoped he’d have a car to bring there, one to sit proudly next to with a beer in his hand, but that future was getting more and more dim every day. He couldn’t even afford to get his own ride up to snuff. His ’71 Chevy C10 pick-up worked well enough, but it wasn’t anywhere near show condition. The bumpers needed some serious chrome, his engine wasn’t pretty and the truck box he’d needed to mount to the bed in order to lug supplies around for the business had scuffed the hell out of the railings. It was an A-to-B vehicle, not a trophy piece.

Skipping the fair was just as well.

He decided against his usual coffee, half because of how late he was and half to avoid an uncomfortable conversation with the chick he’d met there. One date and she already wanted more than he was willing to give, calling him baby, stroking his tattoos and asking where she could get one like it.

The ink was where it always started. Women were drawn to the bad boy image that being covered with tattoos symbolized. It was part of the reason he kept going under the needle for more.

The other part—well, they didn’t need to know about that.

His tats were personal reminders drawn into his skin, but Dean had woven a web of fiction around them, the kind of stories women liked to hear. Ones about power, strength and independence.

They’d follow him home like he was the Pied fucking Piper.

He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t do it for the sex. His craving for it was easily proved by the rotation of women in and out of his bed. But reading them right was what turned his crank. He loved puzzling out what made them blush, what got their pupils to dilate or their nipples pebbling underneath their shirts. Finding their quirks, then doing whatever it took to make them explode.

Jamie had gone off like a nuclear bomb.

Dean groaned, his dick already responding to the faintest hint of the memory. Hers was the first reaction he’d gotten hooked on. The first sights, sounds and smells of a woman’s pleasure that had turned him into a junkie for it.

The kink had served him well.

The problem was that each woman he brought home woke up the next morning wanting an all-access, unlimited pass to his apartment and a promise of commitment, which ended with him doing his best to let them down gently. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just knew the whole kids, dog and white picket fence thing wasn’t for him, so it was better to end things before they got attached.

Another reminder to get these thoughts about Jamie the hell out of his head.

Ten minutes later he arrived at the rundown building that housed Trescott Auto Body. Dean grimaced as he pulled into the lot. The whole exterior needed a paint job, and don’t even get him started on the roof. Fixing it wasn’t essential yet, and they had to cut as many corners as they could. It had been hard to stay afloat ever since the big chain stores moved in. Dean guessed that was why his dad had filled up the warehouse with so much crap—he wouldn’t let go of a single piece of junk in case it became useful someday.

None of it ever did.

They’d done better since Connor built them a website a few years back, but it still felt like a sinking ship, even when they could boast of employing some of the best mechanics in the area. Customers were more interested in saving a buck than going to experts who actually loved cars.

Then again, loving cars wasn’t part of Dean’s job. He oversaw the labor, made sure the right parts got delivered and kept everyone in line.

Assistant managers and future owners didn’t have the luxury of loving things.

He pushed through the employees-only entrance and made his way across the floor to the door with a shiny gold sticker, the word “Management” stamped out in black. Chuck Trescott looked up from his desk when Dean stepped inside.

“Look who finally showed,” he said.

With deep creases around his eyes and what was left of his hair gone almost completely silver, Chuck was a preview of what Dean could expect to look like in twenty years, except worse and probably with a different set of worries packed onto his shoulders.

“Sorry.” Dean flopped onto a chair that had seen better days and glanced at the pile of bills on his father’s desk. “What’s on tap for today?”

“Got some work orders for you to write up. A few inspections on a couple of wrecks too. Give me the lowest estimate you can.”

Dean stifled a frustrated sigh. It didn’t matter how much they low-balled the numbers. The insurance companies were the ones telling the clients where to go.

“You know we can’t compete that way, Dad,” he said quietly.

The comment went without an answer.

“Taking out the claims adjusters will bring in more customers,” he added. “A lunch once a month, or even sending a basket of chocolates, and we’ll be on the reps’ preferred lists.”

A gray eyebrow of warning was raised in Dean’s direction. “We didn’t have to wine and dine anyone to get work in your grandfather’s day, and we’re not doing it now.”

No reply was necessary. Dean had tried to fight this battle before.

He escaped his father’s glare and studied the photo of his grandfather on the wall. Sepia, faded at the edges, in an old wooden frame. He was standing in front of the building they were sitting in, back when it was new.

He looked happier than Dean had ever been here.

Fifty years ago, his grandfather had founded the shop on the idea of dealing fairly and honestly with their customers. Of creating real person-to-person connections, building relationships that lasted. It was why Dad refused to play the game with the insurance companies, insisting it was unethical to cut costs in exchange for steady work. But without the claims reps sending clients to their door, they had nothing setting them apart, other than the family name. They were barely even computerized.

“Hey, did you look into that virtual assistant bookkeeper I found?” Dean asked. “She was pretty reasonable. Ten bucks an hour.”

“I didn’t have time.”

The “time” line was bullshit Dean had heard before. Dad was resistant to new technology, from search engine optimization on the website to software that would help with tasks and organization. Even convincing his old man to move the management system from a list he kept in his head to a whiteboard on the shop floor had taken a shitload of effort.

The entire situation was getting exhausting.

“We did get a possible new customer,” his father said. “A guy called about a ’71 Plymouth Barracuda he’s acquired. The front end needs a rebuild but he wants vintage parts.”

A small flare of excitement pitched in Dean’s belly.

“We offering classic car restoration now?”

Normally they only fixed up modern vehicles after collisions. Taking on jobs like this—real high-end customization on the kinds of cars he loved—was part of what Dean had hoped for when he signed his life over to his father.

“Don’t count on it. I’m only taking this job if we can make a profit.” He handed Dean a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of everything we need. Get the best price you can. There’s a wrecking service in New Hampshire that might have it all, if you don’t have any luck locally.”

Anticipation that Dean never should’ve felt in the first place sputtered out of him like a fizzling spark plug. This wasn’t about the two of them, or loving cars at all. This was Dean being sent on a mission to hunt down the lowest price.

Resentment pressed at his sternum, a fire that wouldn’t take much air to feed. Dean gritted his teeth and stared at the floor, words he wanted to say like a tornado in his head.

I don’t want to keep doing this.

There’s got to be a better way.

He kept his mouth shut. They’d been down this road before: Dean made suggestions, his father ignored them. And he knew his place here. He might’ve been third generation Trescott, but he was a grunt man, a cog in a wheel, trying to follow through with the vision his grandfather had.

It was fine. The salvage yard wasn’t far from a seasonal antique car show he’d always wanted to hit. Maybe he could get Connor to go with him. Make a road trip out of it.

He took the list from his father’s hand. “Anything else?”

“That doesn’t sound like enough for half a day’s work?”

“It is. Just want to make sure I’ve got it all covered. I’ll get started.”

Dean launched himself out of the chair. Two steps later, he had his hand on the knob and was out the door. It didn’t matter that his father never listened. That was the status quo, and he needed to focus on work, to get jobs done and bring in more cash. He had no marketable skills other than this, so if the garage went down the tubes, he was going to be well and truly fucked.

Out on the floor, Dean paged through the work orders and tried to lose himself in the sounds and smells of the garage. The hum of the air compressor, the sharp grind of the sander and snap of the paint gun. The tangy mix of gear oil, leather cleaner and sawdust. He’d grown up around them and could identify each one with his eyes closed.

They made up his past, as well as his entire future.

Dean shook his head and exhaled heavily. He didn’t know what he was complaining about. He had everything he needed in life. A roof over his head. Food on the table. Wheels to get around. Sex when he wanted it. Friends. Family. If he could only ignore this nagging part inside him that said he wanted
more
, that would be great.

The bell at the front desk rang out with a high-pitched ding. Dean glanced over through the Plexiglas window.

Jamie.

Oxygen was suddenly hard to come by. Shit, last night must’ve really upset her, otherwise why would she be here?

Dread settled like a dead weight in his stomach as he crossed to the door and opened it warily.

“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”

Jamie heaved a dramatic sigh and parked her elbows on the desk. “I came to say goodbye. I’m pulling up stakes and heading out of town for good.”

Dean’s heartbeat stuttered. He blinked. Several times. “You are?”

“Gotchya.” Her face broke out into her signature grin. “It was a joke, dumbass.”

He huffed out a laugh, the sudden relief palpable. “Nice.”

She stood up and slipped her hands in the pockets of a puffy vest. She looked good. Adorable actually, but it didn’t seem like she’d dressed up for him, those crazy curls of hers wound up in a bun on top of her head. Nothing about her said upset at all. She was playing jokes, smiling, acting the same way she always did.

It was a good thing. He knew that. But something about her easy demeanor nagged at him, buzzing around his head like a mosquito in August.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need your help with something.”

Definitely not here about last night then. “Okay, shoot.”

“The photographer for Sean’s wedding got into a car accident. He’s on his way to surgery and there’s no backup, so we’re totally screwed. I know you said taking pictures wasn’t your thing anymore, but I don’t suppose there’s any way you could fill in?”

“Aw, Jamie, I don’t know.”

He wasn’t sure if it was her request or the fact that she was acting so
normal
that was bothering him.

“Please,” she said, barreling through his reluctance. “If you don’t come, the only photos we’ll have will be whatever the guests take on their phones.” She paused, adding, “We’d pay you for your time and everything.”

“I can’t take money from you.”