J

 

My father owns Z’s Service, a mechanic and body shop sitting on the outskirts of town. We fix pretty much all makes and models of cars, trucks, heavy machinery, and motorcycles. Pop loves when a classic comes rolling in. They’re still his favorite to work on. Taking something rusted or gutted and making it shine like it did thirty years ago is a feeling of achievement for him.

 

I have worked here since I was about fourteen, but have been coming to this place my entire life. As soon as I could walk, I learned about engines, carburetors, oil filters, and brakes. I have always been treated like one of the guys. Never babied, never talked down to. Pop made sure they all knew I wasn’t the girly type, and I sure as hell pulled my own weight around this place. Pop treats me like the son he always wanted.

 

My mom died from cancer when I was almost three. I don’t remember her, but Pop talks about her all the time. How long her hair was, how she sang softly to herself while doing the daily chores, how she was the great love of his life. They met when her father brought his Mustang to the shop where Pop worked. She stepped out of the car, made eye contact with him, and smiled. That was it. He was head over heels from that point on. They married five years before I was conceived. They wanted to have a big family, but after I was born, they found out she had stage four breast cancer.

 

Pop and Uncle Kevin, who was really just Pop’s best friend, bought this place right after she died. Uncle Kevin is the silent partner. He doesn’t know the first thing about being a mechanic. He owns a fancy restaurant in town. When Pop was looking to buy, he needed cash. Uncle Kevin gave him the start-up with the promise of being a very silent partner. So, after all these years, it’s been Pop, the garage, and me. It’s all I know.

 

When I walk in the bay door, I see some guy leaning back against my toolbox. You never mess with a mechanic’s toolbox. You don’t touch it, open it, or borrow anything from it without asking. It is an unwritten rule in any garage. Apparently, this guy didn’t get the message.

 

When I walk up and stop in front of him, he stops talking to Todd, looking at me with an eyebrow raised. I pretend I don’t notice how handsome he is. The dark hair that is just long enough in the back to touch his collar, the tattoos covering his arm, the biceps flexing as they cross over his chest. His shirt stretches tightly, jeans sitting low on his hips, a chain hanging from his pocket.

 

“Can I help you?” he asks.

 

“Yeah. You can get your ass off my shit.” I hear Todd laugh behind me, so I look over my shoulder and narrow my eyes at him.

 

“Your shit?”

 

“Yes, my shit. That toolbox you’re leaning on belongs to me.”

 

He takes a step forward, a confused look on his face. “Your toolbox?”

 

I spin around, pinning Todd with my stare. “Is he slow or something?”

 

Todd laughs harder, walking up to stand next to me. “Not that I know of. J, meet Cole, the new heavy machinery mechanic your dad hired. He starts tomorrow. He was just taking a look around, dropping off his toolbox.” He points to the black double-stacked Snap-on toolbox sitting in Todd’s bay. Turning to Cole, he says, “This is Darren’s daughter, JJ…or just J.”

 

“This is JJ? When Darren said I’d be working with his kid, I assumed it was a guy.”

 

I make a Vanna White move with my hand. “Well, I’m not.” I’m wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and my black steel-toe boots. It’s nothing fancy, but with all the hours I spend in the gym doing squats to make my ass look amazing in these jeans, I know there is no mistaking my gender.

 

His eyes travel down, then back up my body. “I can see that. Sorry for the mix up.” He holds his hand out to me.

 

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble, shaking his hand. “I got work to do.”

 

I walk away, heading for the office to grab my button-down work shirt with Z’s logo on it. I hear Cole ask Todd if I actually fix cars or just answer phones. I slam the door, cutting off Todd’s response. Ass. Just because I have a vagina, I can’t be a mechanic? I told him he was leaning on my tools. Did he not get the hint? Every time someone new starts, I get the questions and the looks. Yes, I am the owner’s daughter, but I can go to any shop in town and get a job. I know this, but it takes a while for the newbies to learn it.

 

“Is that you, J?”

 

“Yeah, Pop.”

 

I walk toward Nancy’s desk. She’s the receptionist/bookkeeper, the one who keeps our asses in line. She’s been here almost from the beginning. Nancy is in her early fifties and runs this office with an iron fist. She may be old enough to be someone’s grandma, but she doesn’t look it. When you hear someone say “a biker’s old lady”, she fits the bill. She likes wearing jeans and heeled boots, her Z’s shirt cut low enough to show her ample cleavage. I personally think she’s been in love with Pop for as long as I can remember. They never show any kind of emotion toward each other, but I see the look in her eyes when she looks at him. There is definitely something there. She’s tough as nails and has no problem busting your ass if you don’t turn in your slips after completing a job, but I’ve seen how she softens for Pop. I love this woman with all my heart.

 

“Morning, Nan.”

 

She looks up from the mess of paperwork in front of her. “Morning, J. How’s Mr. Pierce’s truck coming?”

 

“Almost done. As long as the part comes in today’s delivery, we’ll be good to go.”

 

“Thanks,” she says, turning back to her paperwork.

 

Pop’s office is behind Nancy, a wall separating the two. Sticking my head through the door, I see him on the phone. He has lived a hard life, and it shows. He’ll be fifty-six, but he works like he’s still in his thirties, which takes a toll on him. His long, mostly gray hair is always pulled back into a ponytail that runs halfway down his back, holders every few inches. Pop has a bandana wrapped around the top of his forehead and pulled low. He’s sporting a black one today, which matches his sleeveless Z’s Service shirt. I walk toward his desk and sit in the chair across from him, waiting.

 

He hangs up and turns to me, stroking his long, grey goatee. “Did you see the new guy on your way in? He starts next week.”

 

I roll my eyes and sigh. “Yeah, I saw him.”

 

“J, I know you hate new people, but we need the help. I scored that big contract with the city, so I need everybody I can get. We will get all their vehicles, from the daily pickup trucks to the big salt trucks. This could mean big money for us.”

 

“Pop, I get it. It’s not that I hate new people. I hate the attitudes I have to deal with.”

 

“Cole is a good guy. Just give him a chance.” When I start to stand, Pop points at me. “I mean it, J. Don’t fuck this up with your attitude. Keep that shit in check.”

 

“I got shit to do, Pop. We done?”

 

He looks at me for a long minute. “Yeah, we’re done. Remember what I said.”

 

Before saying something that would piss him off, I walk out of his office, heading to the bay. Stopping at the bathroom to put my shirt on, I look in the mirror. Biting my tongue has never been my strong suit. If it’s in my head, it comes out of my mouth…usually with the word fuck thrown in somewhere. I grew up with a bunch of tough guy monkey men. I learned the word fuck by the time I was three. Most women don’t understand me. They think I’m trash or a lesbian because of what I do for a living, how I talk, how I dress. Pop thinks it’s because I didn’t have a mom around growing up. I am my father’s daughter. Whether she was here or not, it was inevitable.