CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The front door opened, the little bell jangling. "My truck ready yet?" demanded a reedy voice.
T turned, and Manda slipped behind the counter, a smile on her face. "Hi, you must be Mr Rieman. Yes, sir, your truck is ready and we have the invoice for you right here."
T closed his mouth and leaned back against the corner of the hallway, hands in the pockets of his coveralls, watching as the grouchy, retired farmer looked Manda up and down, and then reached up and tipped his Case Harvester baseball cap, and smiled. Whoa, the man's creased, weathered face didn't even crack.
Manda placed a pen on the invoice for him, and took his credit card. "Just sign right there, sir, and I'll get a receipt for you. Are you enjoying the dry roads?"
The old man chuckled. "Sure am. I'll enjoy 'em even more if my truck's running right." He slanted T a look that said it better be.
"Purrin' like a kitten," T said. "Changed the oil for you, too. See you back here in September?"
"I reckon."
Manda handed the man his receipt and another smile. "I'll make a note of that for you, Mr Rieman. Now you have a great day."
"Thank you, young lady," he told her. "Bout time these fellas got a pretty girl in here to brighten the place up."
T chuckled. "You're right about that."
He waited until the old farmer had walked stiffly out to his truck, and then moved over to lean on the end of the counter.
"Now that was fine customer service," he told Manda. "I tell you what, if Moke and me do ever buy this place from JJ, you're hired. Part time, anyways. Don't know if we could do a full-time position, but we sure as shit need someone like you in here. Didn't know that old guy could even smile, much less chit-chat."
She leaned over the counter from her side, batting her lashes at him. "Thank you. Prob'ly 'cause you never chit-chat with him."
"Now that," he said, "Just ain't true. Everyone knows me, knows I could chit-chat the fuck outta the devil himself."
And then he leaned that one more inch, and kissed her gently on those lips of hers. They were as soft and sweet and warm as he remembered. No, make that even more than he remembered. Just this little taste had his big brain in a fog, and his little brain perking up.
He barely noticed when the bell jangled again.
"Hey, handsome, do I get one of those with my oil change?" called a strident female voice.
Manda's eyes flew open, and she jerked away from T, her face turning pink. He took his time savoring the taste of her on his lips, 'cause it was hard to get his mind back out of where else he wanted to put his mouth on her.
"No, ma'am," he said, gaze still on Manda. "You get my hands on your oil filter, but my lips are only for my woman."
The newcomer, a short, stout, sixty-something woman with black hair streaked with silver, cackled delightedly, and Manda's face turned even pinker.
T straightened, grinning. "Manda, meet Ms Greta Meier. She drives that sweet cherry red Mustang out front. Ms Meier, this is Manda. She's new in town, but you can tell her all kindsa good stuff about us, and help me convince her to stay."
"Now why'd I want to do that?" the woman demanded, with a wink for Manda. "Then I'll never get you to take me out for a spin on that Harley of yours."
His neck reddening, T backed strategically toward the door into the shop. "Yeah, uh... I'll just go get busy on that oil change for ya."
Greta was a great old gal, but Cheezus, she loved to give him grief. He'd hate to see her at one of them male strip shows—she'd be in the front row, stuffin' twenties in man-thongs and trying to cop a feel.
"Go on then, handsome. Harold's picking me up for lunch, or I'd stay and get to know your gal."
Then she gave Manda a narrow-eyed look. “Honey, you look like you ran into a fist. You okay?”
T stiffened. Manda turned a deep pink, but she held her head up. “Uh, yes. I did, but I’m okay.”
“Whoever did it in jail?” the older woman asked, her gaze swinging to T. “Or better yet, in way worse shape than this?”
“Not yet,” T told her. “But he will be, you can bet on that.”
“Good.”
A late model pickup swung into the lot, the driver already laying on the horn. Greta Meier pushed out of the door with a friendly wave, and T looked to Manda. “Shit. Didn’t think she’d give you the third degree, or I wouldn’t have brought ya.”
“I’m okay,” she told him. “You better get back to work.”
T didn’t like to leave her, but another car was already pulling in, which meant he needed to get his ass to work, or he wouldn't be leaving for lunch anytime soon.
At twelve-thirty, T came in, washed up in the bathroom, combed his hair back with wet fingers and tied it at the back of his head. He surveyed himself in the mirror, saw a smudge on his cheekbone, and lifted the hem of his tee to wipe it off. Then he donned his cut, checked to make sure he had wallet and phone, and collected Manda, who was rubbing a tiny smudge off the front door.
"I'm confiscatin' your cleaning cloth before you start in on the floor," T told her, tossing her rag over the counter. "Time for you to get your hungry on."
"I already mopped the floor," she told him. "I used the broom and some of those big wet-cleaning cloths. That didn't work great, but it looks better."
He didn't give a fuck. He was busy looking at her.
She had her long sweater on over her jeans and tee, her little gold purse over her shoulder. He noted she’d applied some more makeup to her bruises, and combed her hair forward on that side as well. The Hangar wasn’t real brightly lit, so he hoped she’d feel comfortable there and not have to deal with any more looks or questions.
“You don’t look like the cleaning ladies I know,” he told her. “You look good enough to eat.”
This made her smile, which he liked. Maybe he could talk her into being his dessert, kinda like going to the drive-in and ordering an ice cream cone after eating a burger and fries. This hot fantasy meant he was grinning, but also adjusting his pants as he walked her out to his truck.