The Perfect Stroke (3 page)

“My name is CC,” I tell him as I slide back into his hold.

“CC?”

“Yeah. In case, you know, you want to scream it out a lot tonight.”

His grin widens. “I’ll definitely make sure to do that.
Often
.”

Goodbye dry spell… and good riddance.

“Did you enjoy your weekend off?” Jackson asks.

Jackson is my main man at the garage. The two of us do everything. We could use someone else working with us, but there never seems to be enough money to stretch. I pay Jackson really good though—probably double what anyone else would cost me. He’s worth it, though. He’s the best there is… next to me. Banger told me that, and it is something I always remember with pride. Banger always taught me that if you were going to do anything, you had to give a hundred and fifty percent. Him saying I was the best at something means I did something to make him proud. Jackson has a similar code to Banger, and that reason alone makes him worth the money.

I think back over my wicked weekend with Grayson and can’t stop the grin that blooms on my face nor the way my body heats up with the memory.

“I’d say that was a yes,” Jackson says.

“Bite me,” I tell him. Shit, I’m still grinning.

“I am hungry,” Jackson says, “but you’re way too salty for my tastes. Speaking of which, what are we doing for lunch?”

“Well, I need to drop the oil pan off that baby there,” I tell him, pointing to the old Ford that’s in bay number one.

“That means I’m going to be delivery boy today?” Jackson asks.

“Like every other day. You know you only do it so you can go flirt with Mary Ann at the diner.”

“That woman can bake a mighty fine apple pie,” he says, already walking towards the door.

I drop down on the creeper. “I doubt it’s the pie you’re interested in.”

“Being around us men your whole life has destroyed you.”

“Whatever. It’s Monday, so make sure you bring me back the meatloaf platter.”

“Got it. Be back shortly,” he calls, but I can barely hear him over the loud roar of the air compressor and impact wrench in my hand.

Another day, another dollar.

“Will you give it a rest, Seth? I told you I’m here. I’ll play nice. I’ll even put up with Cammie.”

“You need Riverton Metals on board for this tour, Grayson—especially since Raver Athletics pulled out.”

“They’re idiots.”

“No, they’re a multimillion-dollar company that can’t afford to have their name linked with a golf pro who is more famous for his hard drive into a tour official’s daughter than driving the ball into the hole.”

“Whatever. They’d be crazy to keep me out of the tour over that shit and you know it. My name brings in the fans.”

“So do others. You’re cutting your own throat here, Gray.”

“Driving into Rachelle’s hole was more fun.”

“Her name was Michelle.”

“Close enough.” Honestly, I barely remember the girl. I was drunk as a skunk and the only brain working at the time was the one in my dick—a dick that got the workout of its dreams this past weekend, a dick that misses a certain redhead today. It was a damn good weekend, and if CC hadn’t been gone when I woke up Sunday morning, I would have tried my best to make it last for another couple of days. Cammie Riverton and her father could wait for all I care. I get that Seth is trying to help me out here, but I could give a damn. I might need Riverton's name to get me back on the good side of the officials, but unlike other sports, as a member of the league, I'm an independent contractor. I decide what matches I want to do and where I will appear. I oversee my own damn self. And that would be great, except being blackballed by the higher-ups means they push my entry into tournaments below everyone else, which in short results in filled-up courses and me out in the cold. So I'm trying here when what I really want to do is tell everyone to kiss my ass. I've never been good at towing the line; my mother could more than attest for that.

“My advice is to play nice and get this contract with Riverton and his support under our belts. Without it, you’re not going to get half the publicity as the other pros on tour and you want that green jacket, even if you do try to deny it.”

“Who gets that jacket has more to do with—”

“You and I both know that you can be the best player out there, but if you don’t get the publicity, the powers that be will make it hard on you in every way they can.”

I sigh. “Whatever. I said I’m doing it. I’m in this small Kentucky town now. Have no idea what time I’ll get to Riverton’s, though.”

“Can’t you just punch it in—?”

“Hell, some of these roads aren’t even showing up on my GPS. I swear, Seth, earlier I came through a town called Pussy Holler.”

“Sounds like you should live there.”

“You got jokes.
Fuck!
”

“What’s wrong?”

“Something’s wrong with my car.”

“Wrong? What happened? I told you to fly out there.”

“I don’t know. It just died. No warning or anything,” I tell him, coasting to the side of the road. “The dash lights and things are on, but it won’t hit a lick. Maybe a starter or something. I told you I’m not flying into a place where they only accept tinker-toy planes. That’s not happening.”

“I’m no mechanic, but since you already had it started and driving when it died, that doesn’t sound like it,” Seth says sarcastically.

“Fine, then. Alternator or something. I don’t know,” I grumble. I look out the windshield and can see a garage about twenty feet in front of me. That, at least, is a stroke of luck.

“You need me to locate a tow service?” Seth asks.

“No. I see a garage up the street here. Claude’s Garage. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, call the cops.”

“Oh, will you stop? It’s not like I sent you to the town where Deliverance was filmed.”

“If I hear dueling banjos, just know I’m coming back to haunt your ass Seth.”

“Yeah, yeah, check in in an hour and try to keep your pants zipped up. I know it will be hard for you.”

“You said hard,” I joke, breathing a little easier when I walk towards the garage. It
looks
normal. Hopefully I won’t die at the hands of some Norman-Bates-wanna-be-grease-monkey.

“Fuck off,” Seth says before disconnecting the call. I click off my phone, stow it in my pocket, and walk the rest of the way to the garage. Blue would have a freaking ball laughing at me right now. Suddenly all those times I made fun of him for taking mechanic class instead of co-ed PE seem less amusing. Then I think of how grumpy Blue seems to be all the time and immediately nix the idea. Hell, if mom hadn’t caught him with Sara Jane in the barn loft when we were kids, I’d think the man was still a virgin. I should have brought the Caddy, but honestly my Tahoe reminds me of home and I’d never admit it to my brothers or my meddlesome mother, but I miss Texas.

When no one comes out, I go through the open bay doors looking for
Claude
. The smell of oil and gas is strong. My nose curls in distaste. There’s a reason I’d never pay attention to Blue. The interior is dimly lit. There are florescent lights humming above, the light is stark and shines mainly over the cars that are inside. An old truck is on one side, jacked up and on ramps. Coming out from under it are two oil-soaked legs in thick mechanic coveralls and steel-toed boots. Claude, I guess.

“Hello? I’m looking for the owner? Claude?”

I know that voice.
I know the deep baritone that sends shivers down my back and tingles of need through my body. I’ve been thinking about that voice since Sunday morning when I left him lying in bed, sound asleep
. I know that voice and that voice is here inside my garage.
The shock of that causes the wrench I’m using to remove the plug from the pan to slip. The plug does indeed come out, but at an angle and before I’m ready. Oil spurts out onto my face and pours down my chin and neck. I quickly divert it to the draining pan, but the damage is done.

“
Motherfucker,
” I gripe. It’s not very ladylike, but cut me some slack. I was raised by a guy named Banger; most of my vocabulary isn’t ladylike.

“Excuse me?” Gray asks.

I know it’s him. I don’t need to see his face. My problem is, I don’t know why he’s here. Surely he’s not here to find me? How would he have done that? He doesn’t even know my name. I mean, he called me CC, but I sure didn’t tell him my name was Claude. And I know for a fact that I never once mentioned where I live. That’s something I would never do, especially with a random hookup. Not that I’ve had those that often, or really much at all. If I did, my dry spell wouldn’t have lasted so damned long. Still, I’m not stupid, and you never give out your personal info. Somewhere in my head, I hear Banger growl at me about sleeping with strangers.
Crap!

“Shut up, Banger. You knew my bitch of a mom and you still slept with her. That didn’t work out so well for you either, did it?” I whisper to the voice in my head. Yes, I realize that’s a stupid thing to do, but I’m in a panic, and it seems better than having to talk to the man standing out there in my garage waiting for me to roll out from under this car.
Shit!

“Listen, I need my car looked at. It quit out front and I have a meeting. Is Claude around?”

A meeting? His car quit here? Is he telling the truth?

Am I cursed?

I push out from under the car with a sigh. I’m not one to hide, even if the urge is strong. I grab a clean shop rag out of the box to my right, hoping to at least get most of the oil off, then I get up. I’m still wiping up the mess that is me when I look at him. I don’t think he recognizes me, at least not right away. Then again, I look completely different from the way I did this past weekend. There is nothing sexy about shop clothes, oil, and gas, or the skull cap I keep on my hair while at work. It’s hot at times and some may think it’s weird, but then I figure those people have never had to wash oil and gunk out of thick, curly hair, so it’s just simpler.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask him, my voice sounding as miserable and uncomfortable as I’m feeling right now.

“I’m not sure. I was just driving down the road and it quit. It won’t even crank. It’s not the battery though, because the radio and lights come on.”

Yep. He doesn’t recognize me. I don’t know whether to be relieved or upset. He’s sexy as hell though, even if the mint green oxford is uncomfortably preppy and a far cry from the jeans and black t-shirt he wore over the weekend.

“I’ll have a look. Where’s it at?” I tell him, walking towards the door.

“No offense, but I’m in a hurry. Is the owner around? Maybe he could—”

“I am the owner,” I tell him with a sigh, starting to regret my weekend with him even more.

“You’re
Claude?
” he asks, and I ignore it. “It’s just down the road there,” he tells me, pointing up the street. I go to the tow truck, Gray following along behind me. “You’re taking your truck? It’s just right there,” he says again.

I sigh. “If it won’t start, I can’t very well push it here, now can I?” I ask him with exaggerated impatience.