4
QUINN
“Love Can Go to Hell” by Brandy Clark
- -
Stupid. Clink.
Infuriating. Whack.
Good-for-nothing. Ping.
“You keep beating the shit out of that undercarriage and there ain’t gonna be shit we can do to put that old beast back together again,” Barrett, one of my lead mechanics, jokes gruffly.
“Yeah, well I don’t even want to put this old beast back together again anyhow,” I snap, pulling myself out from under the truck and standing, stretching out my aching back muscles. I throw my wrench over to the toolbox I had wheeled closer to the side of the truck I was working on, having dragged it over from the other bay in my private section of Davis Auto Works.
“Oh, QD, what did this neglected beauty ever do to you?” Barrett’s shoulders shake, a deep rumble of hilarity vibrating from his chest.
Ignoring him, I narrow my eyes and watch him walk around the old Ford, analyzing it with a critical eye.
“What’s the problem, QD? I’ve never seen you this fired up.”
I roll my shoulders and measure my words carefully. Barrett doesn’t need me to give him a handful of girl problems. He’s got enough of that at home with his middle-school-age daughters.
“Just got a lot on my mind, Ret. I knew this project was coming, but I figured I had some time before I had to deal with it. Last thing I expected was the damn thing showin’ up a few days after I got wind about it.” Indeed, only several days after I hung up on Tate and wished him good-bye, his paw’s damn truck landed in my bay, courtesy of Tank and Ret. Trying to separate the personal from the professional clearly wasn’t working for me whatsoever.
“This old man Ford’s truck?”
Forgetting my annoyance, I gape at him in shock. “Do you know any other F1’s in or around Pine Oak that look like this, Ret? Jesus Jones, everyone and their uncle’s brother has been itching to get their hands on this beast for years, but Fisher never wanted anyone to touch it.”
“Fisher Ford was always a cranky old geezer,” he grumbles. “Knew it was his, just got sick of watchin’ you throw your sass around all day. Whatever’s got your panties all twisted up, figure it out and stop bringin’ down team morale.”
“Team morale? Janet making you listen to those self-help tapes again?” I laugh.
“That woman’s gonna drive me insane, God love her.”
“I’m thinkin’, Ret, you might already be there.” I duck when he tosses a dirty shop rag at my head, laughing again when he starts pouting.
“You keepin’ the old flathead in there?”
I shake my head, walking over to look at the old F1’s original engine. “The outside of this beast needs love—lots of love—and Fisher might have tried keepin’ this baby rollin’, but I reckon time got away from him. It’s comin’ out. I’m pullin’ the 329 flathead V-8 outta Bertha instead.”
Barrett grunts, the noise a mix of shock and agreement, I’m sure. “Hear what you’re sayin’, QD, but be a damn shame to see you pull out something you’ve been workin’ your tail off to restore for a solid year now.”
“Yeah, well.” I sigh, already fed up with the day and mad that it’s not even noon yet. “Owner’s paying top dollar to fix this up and he said money is no limit, right?”
Barrett nods.
“Well, that’s good, because I just so happen to know that the owner of Bertha is askin’ well over market value.”
Barrett’s eyes widen and his big beer belly shakes with hilarity. “Whatever Fisher Ford’s grandson did to you must have been terrible.”
“What makes you think he did anything to me?” I hedge.
“No woman I know lets that little piece of the devil that lives inside of her out for any other reason, darlin’. You’ve got it written all over your pretty little face. Just tell me, what did he do to deserve your wrath?”
I roll my eyes. “I swear, you gossip more than Marybeth Perkins after bingo night. You’re the one that told him we could start on it right away when I know I told you I wasn’t startin’ this shit until I was good and ready, so maybe I should be takin’ this out on you? You want to continue this blabbermouth session or you wanna help me pull this heap of shit out?”
Barrett’s eyes ping from me to the old flathead engine, back and forth, a few times before he gives me a nod. I wait, knowing he’s about to open his big mouth again. Two minutes later, he puts his tools down and turns to me, but I just lift my greasy hand and snap out a loud and emphatic no.
We work.
- -
Six long-as-hell hours later, Davis Auto Works is locked up tight and I’m in my baby headed to the ranch. Well, one of my babies. I’m a truck snob, it’s true, but I can’t seem to part with any of the beauties I bring back to life long after they’ve been abandoned. My old shrink used to tell me that I was trying to make up for my own issues with abandonment by hunting out these forgotten gems, latching onto them, and pouring all of my love and care into them. I left her practice when she hinted that maybe my “unhealthy” hobbies were doing me more harm than good.
I don’t deny I have issues, but I would be hard-pressed to find a single soul in the whole big-ass world who doesn’t. I’ve come a long damn way in working past those dang issues, too; then all it takes is one gusty blast from the past to kick up dust as a harsh reminder that you can polish the past until the wood shines, but the grime always settles back in.
The gates to the Davis ranch hit my vision at the same time a deep rush of air escapes my lips, the discontent I feel echoing around the silent cab. I see Clay’s truck parked in his normal spot and pull Harriett, my 1969 Chevrolet C10, in next to his brand-new, offensively shiny, Chevy Silverado . . . that he won’t let me touch.
“Didn’t expect you home this early,” Clay rumbles from his perch on one of the porch’s old rocking chairs.
“Cramps,” I mumble, shutting Harriett’s door just a little harder than normal and reminding myself not to stomp as I turn to climb up the porch steps.
“Just because you think I get grossed out by all things menstrual, sugar, I’m not lettin’ this drag on anymore. You had ‘cramps’ two weeks ago when I was doin’ payroll at D.A.W. and I might have a dick between my legs, not knowin’ much about that shit, but I’m pretty sure they don’t last this long.”
“You want to compare cycles?” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Don’t start that man-period shit, Quinny. Come tell me what’s got you runnin’ around like you’ve got a burr stuck in your ass. You’ve been avoidin’ me.”
I don’t move. My spine straightens and I lock my knees, defiance written all over my face.
Clay narrows his gaze. “Didn’t work when you were seven and wanted a cookie, damn sure ain’t gonna work when you’re twenty-seven and want to act like a sulkin’ brat. I know you ain’t talkin’ to Leigh, because I asked. She said you’ve been actin’ fine around her. I know you don’t want to talk to Maverick because you’re still worried he’s gonna disappear again if he feels any kind of discord here, which sugar, that’s some shit. You know he’s settin’ down roots God himself couldn’t rip up. You got me, babe, and last I checked, I wasn’t the worst option.”
I deflate instantly, something Clay picks up on, because he drops the legs he had resting on the porch rail, his boots slapping against the wood with a loud bang that makes me jump. He stands to his full height and erases the distance between us, towering over me as always, wrapping me in his comforting arms.
He’s been my hero since I was a baby. He stepped up when it became clear the Davis siblings could only count on each other and made sure I was protected, loved, and sheltered. In many ways, he’s more of a father to me than my own ever was, and even if I had tried to build that gap with our late father before his death, this special connection would only ever be with Clay.
“I’m a mess, Clay,” I whisper softly against his flannel shirt. His arms spasm around me, but he doesn’t release his hold.
“Nah, you’re not a mess, sugar, just a little dusty.”
I smile into his shirt, breathe in the familiar scent of earth and leather, before stepping back to gesture to the row of rocking chairs. “Might as well get cozy for this.”
Clay’s eyes flicker, but other than that he doesn’t give me a clue to what he’s thinking.
“Remember Tate Montgomery? Fisher and Emilie Ford’s grandson?” I ask after we both settle into our seats. The slow rolling of the wooden rocker gliding against the porch floor dances through the air around us, making me aware of the silence emanating from my big brother.
“Yup,” he finally answers, low and menacing.
“He’s . . . resurfacin’,” I continue, figuring that’s a damn good way of explaining his return.
“Meaning? He’s comin’ to settle out some things his paw left or something a little more . . . indefinite?”
“I would say the former.”
Clay hisses a breath through his teeth, the sound harsh and sharp. “That what has you actin’ like a lost pup?”
How do I explain to him how I feel? Men don’t get this sort of stuff, or at least that’s what my experience has taught me. Leigh does, and even though I know she would drop everything for me in an instant, she’s got so much going on with her upcoming wedding that the last thing she needs is my bullshit. Which is why I’ve done my best to put on a good front with her since I called Tate in her office two weeks ago.
“I’m not really sure. I feel like I did back when I realized he really had disappeared without a word. You know we got close that last summer. The same hurt I felt then when I would call his number only to find it disconnected is back. I think about how he always said nothin’ would keep us from our future—together—only to have him torpedo our relationship himself, and I feel rage. I’m sad that I’ve lived my whole adult life measurin’ every man showin’ interest in me against Tate and what he did. Now he’s comin’ back and the biggest thing I feel is fear because he still has such a powerful hold on me.” I take in a gulp of air, feeling oddly close to tears. “I heard his voice on the phone, Clay, and the years just washed away. I have to stay angry. If I don’t, I’m terrified I’ll give him whatever he wants just to feel the happiness I had with him. That fear turns into an all-consumin’ panic when I think, what if he casts his line, gets his hook back in me, then decides I’m not a catch worth keepin’ and tosses me back again?”
I glance over at Clay when he stops rocking. His expression is stony, but not angry. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it almost looks as if he’s peaceful yet determined.
“What, Clay?”
“Just waiting for you to realize what you just said.”
I think back, replaying my words, and then it hits me. The air stalls in my chest and my eyes widen.
“Just because it’s been years, sweetheart, doesn’t mean feelin’s are just gonna vanish. You two always did burn hotter than hell when you were together. Even before I made you sit down and tell me why you were takin’ him leavin’ so hard, I knew there was somethin’ there. Mighta been young, but you were never stupid. What’s your gut tellin’ you? Think hard, Quinny. Push back that hurt and fear. Really think about what it’s tellin’ you.”
“To run,” I whisper.
“Run where?”
“Straight to him.”
Clay nods his head slowly, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “Then I guess you need to cowgirl up.”
I feel some of the heaviness lift when Clay utters the saying we use between us when we’re facing something challenging. Cowgirl up, or cowboy up, is as good as a dare in our book.
“Easier said than done, big guy.”
“It’s only as hard as you build it up to be in your mind, Hell-raiser,” he stresses, his voice sure and true. “Take it one day at a time. Don’t think I haven’t heard about him gettin’ his paw’s old truck into your hands. He sure did move mountains in order to get that done all the way from wherever he is. When he gets back in Pine Oak, sit down and figure out what happened between y’all. After you have all the facts, then I reckon your gut’s gonna be talkin’ a lot louder.”
“For someone dead set on remainin’ a bachelor, you sure do know a lot about this kinda stuff.” I laugh, pushing through the renewed burst of fear his words settled on me at the thought of sitting down for a chat with Tate.
Clay chuckles. “Blame the Hallmark Channel.”
My jaw drops for the barest of seconds before I’m laughing so hard I have to clap my hand over my mouth and calm down to keep from peeing myself. Leave it to Clay, as always, to take the mountain of dread that’s been building inside me and level it to the ground.
Maybe he’s right, which shouldn’t be surprising, since he knows more about how close Tate and I were than anyone else—even Leighton.
All I know is, I can’t continue to feel this massive discord inside me. I might not have ever thought this day would come, but it has, and like it or not, it’s time for me to pull up my big-girl britches and get back in the saddle of my life.