CHAPTER THREE
MASON
“So basically, I want to soup ‘er up, get the max horsepower I can. I’m thinking up the compression ratio. Do you know what that is?”
I take a deep breath and remind myself I’ve got a business to establish and holding my tongue is going to be part of that. Cutting words and insults come so easily courtesy of my many years in legal practice, but it’s going to get me nowhere in a small town like this where everyone knows everyone. Piss on the wrong person’s parade and this little experiment might just fail before it even gets on its feet.
But really, who goes into a mechanic and asks if they know what engine compression ratio is?
“Yeah, just so happens it’s my job to know what that is,” I say in place of the set-down my old self wants to deliver.
“Okay, cool, man. I just don’t want anyone fucking up my baby. I want to be able to put her into overboost mode and really make the boys shit themselves next month at the rally.”
It’s my first week open and a few clients have trickled in with minor repairs, tune-ups, simple stuff, but this is my first labor-heavy job to come through. Unfortunately, something about him, the condescension in his voice and the wide berth his ego demands, is rubbing me wrong.
Guy can’t be more than twenty-one or two, classic small-town jock with his gel-spiked hair, chin strap, and high-school jersey even though it’s clear he is well past graduation.
We’re standing beside his lifted Ford F-250 parked in the driveway in front of the shop. It’s a cheesy picture of jacked-up overcompensation with its ten-inch lift, mudflap girl decals, and faux testicles dangling off the back of his hitch.
Yes, his truck has literal balls.
I nod as I squat down to look at the undercarriage. “I’ll need to order bigger pistons to take her out of static compression and get the performance you’re looking for,” I tell him, snapping pictures with my phone.
“How much?” he asks.
“Ball park? Two to maybe three-and-half grand depending on who has the parts. That doable for you?”
“Yeah, that should work. My old man is payin’ for it, anyway,” he says, pulling out his phone as it chirps. “Well, alriiiight Jessica, lookin’ good. You’ve earned yourself a peek at the jewels.”
“Sorry, what’s that?” I ask.
“Oh, nothin’. Hey, man, can I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s through the door and down the hall on your left,” I say, directing him back into the shop where I’m betting he’s about to take a series of highly unimpressive dick pics.
I walk into the open doors of the garage, over to the shiny new red workbench. It’s fairly clean still. I rifle through crisp product catalogs.
Led Zeppelin plays through the overhead-mounted speakers and clean, country air streams through the doors. I finally have a space of my own, untainted by the expectations and assumptions that haunt the Beckett name.
I have to admit, it feels fucking good.
It’s a chance to start fresh, to let go of who I was and close the door on all the dark things weighing on my conscience.
Lost in thought, I’m scribbling down part numbers when I finally hear a throat clearing behind me. I missed the bells jingling from the storefront. The customer must have wandered back here.
“Excuse me, are you the owner?” I hear a feminine voice asking.
Robert Plant starts crooning Whole Lotta Love as I swivel around on the cushioned stool. I’m looking down as two sandal-clad, pink-toenail-painted feet come into view. I feel my heart rate jump as my gaze travels up to two long, tanned legs gloriously on display in a pair of dark jean cutoff shorts, and the bold curve of perfectly sculpted, perky breasts barely hidden beneath a blousy cotton tank top.
Mr. Plant’s right, I need cooling.
I reach her face and there is no breath left in me. Her hair is a dark auburn riot of curls falling over her tanned shoulders and framing delicate features. Almond-shaped emerald eyes stare at me expectantly, confusion on her face.
Snap out of it, Mason. “Hi, hello, yes, this is my shop. I’m Mason,” I say, reaching out with my hand, smiling smoothly and flashing her the dimple that’s bagged me a good share of female company.
She takes it happily, her face breaking out into a wide grin, “Nice to meet you and welcome to Silver Springs. I’m Jeanie.”
Jeanie… Makes sense. She looks like someone I could easily have dreamed of.
“I don’t recall rubbing any magic lamps,” I joke.
She gives me a laughing eye roll. “Yeah, my mom was a big Barbara Eden fan.”
I’m still shaking her hand. I’ve probably gone on too long, but it’s so smooth and finely boned, fitting neatly in my own. I realize I’ve seen her around town a few times, but never up close and never with her hair down like this. I feel trapped in her gaze.
“Well, well, Jeanie-doll, I didn’t expect to see something as pretty as you in a place like this,” says my new client, coming out from the back hallway.
Jeanie looks away, clearly irritated. “Hey, Clint.”
Clint strolls up, giving her an intentionally obvious once-over and nodding in approval. “You see my baby out front? When you finally gonna let me take you out for a ride in Big Mama again, sweet cheeks?” he asks, licking his lips and looking at her rack.
Please shoot this juvenile dumbass down.
“Hmm, I’m thinking never would be a good time for me. That work for you?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, blocking his gaze.
Sounds like a good plan to me.
He looks irritated. “You know you’re gonna regret this, right? You got any idea how many girls would kill to be offered a ride in my baby? How much premium ass I could have without a second thought?”
Jeanie lowers her voice, clearly embarrassed. “The only thing I regret, Clint, is ever giving you reason to think I was one of those girls. Now, please just leave me alone.”
His face is flushing red. I’ve seen and heard enough of his hassling. There is clearly history here. I’m not interested in having it relived in my shop.
I clear my throat and step between them, looking down at Clint. “All right then, looks like I’ve got all the parts written down I’ll need to order. I’ll call you when I hear back from my vendors and can nail down a day for you to bring her in for the work. Here’s a quick estimate for you,” I say, handing him a carbon copy.
When he doesn’t take it, I put it to his chest, and add, a little forcefully, “Take it, man.”
Clint hesitates for a moment then snatches it out of my hand. “Fine. Whatever.”
He storms out the front door, the string of bells slamming against the glass behind him. The growl from his exhaust echoes in the shop as he speeds off.
I turn back to Jeanie. “You alright?”
She nods, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Sorry about that. He’s just…ugh, I don’t even know where to start.”
“Don’t worry about it. So, what can I do for you today?”
Her cheeks look a touch flushed. I notice the rosy blush spread to the delicate curves of her neck and chest.
“Right, yes, I came in to talk to you about fixing up a classic car for my uncle—well, great uncle, actually. He’s got a birthday coming up and I’d really love to surprise him with it.”
I look out the large front window at the street. “Is it out front somewhere?”
She bites her lip. “Actually, it doesn’t run. It’s been parked in the garage for at least the last seven years.”
“That’s a long time for it to sit. Can Is ask what was wrong with it when it stopped working?”
God, she looks hotter the more I stare at her. “I wish I could tell you, but I don’t really know at this point. I know Jerry had talked about the transmission? But before you go thinking I’m a total airhead, I snapped a few pictures of it on my phone.”
Her arms, exposed in the tank, are lean. Her skin seems to glow in the filtered May sunlight as she moves to pull the bright pink phone from her bag.
“I know you can’t tell a lot from the pictures, but I thought it might give you an idea. We’ve kept her dry and covered, and I know Jerry took some precautions with the fluids to prevent sediment buildup.”
Looking at the screen, swiping through the pictures, I can’t help but whistle at the baby blue 1967 Pontiac GTO. “Your Uncle Jerry has great taste. She could use some love to get her looking cherry—new vinyl for sure. Looks like a high-output 389 engine and a three-speed Turbo-Hydramatic tranny… I bet she was a hell of a ride in her prime,” I say, mostly to myself as I study the pictures.
After a few moments of silence, she asks, hope in her voice. “What do you think?”
I think you’re fucking perfect. I swallow the thought away. “Well, you said you wanted this before his birthday, right? When’s that?”
“End of July. Is that too soon?” She’s chewing on her bottom lip and I’m having real trouble looking away.
Get with it, brother. “So, two months. No, that shouldn’t be a problem. Classic car parts can sometimes be hard to find, but this particular series sold like hot cakes and have retained their popularity, so I don’t think that’ll be an issue. However, one thing you do need to know: with classic parts and the time required to take apart these old beauties, the cost can climb pretty quickly.”
She’s wincing as she asks, “Just how high are we talking?”
I tally mentally. “From what I can see here, and if we need to rebuild the gearbox, I’d put it in the range of five- to seven-thousand dollars.”
The minute the numbers leave my lips I want to reach out and snatch them back. The devastation and surprise on her face tells me she wasn’t expecting it to be quite so high.
“Oh, I see,” she’s saying, her voice deflated. “Well, that’s a bit beyond my budget. Anyway, thanks so much for taking the time to talk to me and looking at the pictures.”
“Hang on a sec,” I hear myself saying, not sure what I’m doing. “What kind of budget were you working with?
She laughs humorlessly. “I feel silly now thinking I could fix up the car for so little, but I have about two-thousand, or just shy of it, actually.”
Not even half of the low end of the estimate. I could recommend getting credit, but the idea feels dirty and wrong in the face of such innocence. I can’t keep the shop open forever on goodwill, but my savings will see me through for a bit yet…
What are you doing, Mason? You need income. Just shake her pretty little hand and wish her luck.
“Anyway, nice to meet you, Mason,” she says, turning her back to me as she heads for the door.
Something about the sound of my name in her voice grabs me. Before I can think about it, I’m talking.
“Wait,” I say, catching up to her as she looks at me with surprise on her face.
“Maybe we could work something out… just between the two of us…”
“Excuse me?”
Shit, that came out wrong.
I can sense her hackles coming up as she backs away from me. “I’m not sure what gave you the impression that I am that kind of girl, but let me clarify, in no uncertain terms, that I am absolutely, unequivocally, not,” she blusters.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just mean you can put the money you have now as a down payment and make payments on the rest.”
She is still looking at me suspiciously, so I add. “I’m not propositioning you here, honestly. I don’t expect any kind of ‘favors’ if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Don’t lie, you sure as hell wouldn’t say no if she was so inclined.
“Then why did you say, ‘just between the two of us’? Sounds pretty hinky to me.”
‘Hinky.’ There’s a word I haven’t heard in a while.
“I just meant that I don’t want our arrangement to be public knowledge.” I tell her. “I’m just starting out and I’ve got a business to run. I don’t want everyone who comes in thinking I’ll work for free for a pretty face.”
Shit. Bad move.
She’s huffing out again. “Well don’t worry. This ‘pretty face’ doesn’t want any favors. For your information, and despite your assumptions, I work hard and earn what I have. If you want to stay in business here, take my advice—people here are hard-working, god-fearing, bootstrap-pulling folks. Pretty faces or not, I would suggest keeping any offers or deals that imply otherwise to yourself. Welcome to Silver Springs, Mr. Mason.”
“Beckett,” I add, compulsively, as if somehow that was the most necessary thing to clarify.
She whirls back around. “What?”
“Mason Beckett. I just thought you should know my name.” She narrows her eyes and takes off again, this time more determined.
Damn, she has a nice ass.
She’s stomping off down the sidewalk now and having already made our interaction awkward enough, it doesn’t seem wise to push it any further. But damn, I haven’t felt as alive and aware of a woman as I did when she was chewing me out just now in a hell of a long time, maybe ever.
For someone whose former career relied heavily on my ability to talk circles around people, I did a piss poor job with Jeanie. Something about her has set me off kilter; the tangy mixture of fire and innocence in her eyes, the way her mouth moved as she was cutting me down, and the way her generous chest heaved with indignation.
What are you doing, dumbass? You came here to uncomplicate your life. No piece of ass, no matter how shapely and firm, is worth undoing the work it’s taken to get here.
Try as I might to block her out, over the next couple hours I keep reliving our encounter, how I could have handled or phrased things differently.
Still, she’s probably right. These aren’t the kind of people I’m used to—the back-scratching and favor-lending elite New York circles I once moved in are a far cry from this place, geographically and philosophically.
My stomach rumbles. I realize it’s mid-afternoon and I’ve barely eaten. Maybe that’s the problem—I just need to refuel and get my head back in the game. I flip the sign on the door to closed and lock it along with the garage door, setting out down the quaint, flower basket-laden street, looking to drum up some quality, home-style cooking.