CHAPTER NINE
MASON
Coming down to the shop in the morning, my hair is dripping wet from the third cold shower I’ve taken since Jeanie’s thoughtless little peck on the cheek.
Just channel it into work. It’s not like you don’t have enough of it on your hands.
Content as I am to leave behind my old life of high-stress trials, paychecks fat with the guilt of compromised morals, and shallow, soulless hookups, there are definitely some aspects I wouldn’t mind revisiting. Namely, the part where I wasn’t in a constant state of sexual frustration.
Damn it, Selena was right.
I need to focus on getting the GTO fixed up. Once Jeanie is out of the shop and not tempting me with those snug little outfits and loose, sangria red curls that I just want to bury my face in until I’m drunk on the smell and feel of her… Well, maybe then I’ll stop feeling like a horny teenager.
“Morning Mason,” she says, sauntering into the shop like nothing happened.
Well, nothing did happen… unfortunately.
“Jeanie,” I nod in acknowledgement, mostly because I don’t have more words than that.
I can feel the arousal in my body, straining, hungry for her in what’s become her standard uniform of skinny jeans, white tank top, and, in the crisp morning air only, a snug leather jacket.
She started off dressing up in button-up tops and day dresses but she’s slowly gotten more casual. I’m enjoying the laid-back, relaxed look on her.
Jeanie’s in the shop now. I hear her music come on the speakers. My classic rock selection of Led Zeppelin, CCR, and Rolling Stones has been amended by the addition of her George Strait and Pistol Annies.
I scrub my face with my hands, trying to focus. I’ve got a couple of hours before my first appointment, which means I’ve got some time to work on the GTO, perfect since the torque converter I need for the transmission rebuild finally arrived.
An hour or so in, I’ve drained all the fluids that were left over, disconnected all the battery cables, and discovered a few rust spots that will need to be addressed, but not today. I’ve got the GTO up on the hydraulic lift. I duck to the underbody to crank on the supporting nuts and brackets.
Things start shifting. Before I realize what’s happening, one of the brackets that has rusted to hell snaps, dropping part of the starter against me. With my left arm I’m supporting the starter, but it’s still connected along the right side and if I let go it could put weight on the transmission, which is still attached to the engine block.
Shit.
I can almost hear Pop laughing his deep belly chuckle behind me as I sit here sweating over what to do.
Blindly, I try to loosen the bolts on the right. I find the first two with little trouble, but when I feel the next, somehow the wrench is too small.
I can see my wrenches on the bench, but there is no way I can reach them from here. There’s no other choice. I need help.
“Jeanie! Can you come out here?” I shout, hoping she can hear me over the music.
“What’s going on?”
I can’t see her face, but I hear the alarm in her voice.
“I need you to grab something for me,” I call.
“Okay, what do you need?”
“Go over to my bench. Do you see the red metal case there that’s open?”
She skirts around the car over to the bench, giving me a view of her sweet little ass as she leans over the box.
Damn it, not now!
“Okay… what next?”
“Lift up the tray. Underneath you’ll see a bunch of wrenches. I need… hell, I don’t know,” I grope the bolt and guess, “17mm.”
I hear metal clanking around for a moment before she ducks under the car and comes over to me. “Found it.”
I reach up and test it. It fits perfectly. “Sweet.”
I crank on the remaining bolt and the starter drops free.
“What’s that?” I realize Jeanie is still there.
“It’s the starter. I’m taking out the transmission.”
Her face looks puzzled as I walk past her and place the starter on the bench.
“Take it out? Are you replacing the whole thing?”
“No, but I’ve got to rebuild it and replace a few parts of it.”
Not wanting to take another stupid chance, I grab a jack and crank it up to support the block. I turn around to see her watching me with something close to fascination.
I’m a touch surprised she hasn’t scuttled away to safety, the way she usually does when we are near each other too long, like she can sense my hard-on or something.
Hell, if she’s enjoying the view, no harm in letting her.
“So, how do you know what parts need to be replaced?” she queries.
I’m under the car again, loosening bolts and talking between cranks.
“Well, corrosion for one thing. All these bolts are stuck as hell, which tells me they need to be replaced and this whole piece here,” I say as she ducks under and looks.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the bellhousing. It covers the flywheel and torque converter, which is the other part I’m changing out. With classic cars, there are certain parts that are just more likely to corrode and break down over time. I start there and work outwards, looking at the surrounding parts.”
She’s watching me with increasing wonder. In the shadows of the underbody, it seems like some of her inhibitions are wearing down.
“Here, will you hold this for me?” I ask, handing her the 17mm and pulling out the smaller wrench again.
I find myself narrating the steps of what I’m doing, pausing to let her see what I’m talking about and she’s listening with rapt attention. It’s slowing me down a little but that’s not bothering me much.
It’s a little foreign and not at all unpleasant to have a woman who actually wants to listen and hear what I’m saying rather than engage in verbal sparring. Sure, that can be hot sometimes, but even lawyers just want to have a conversation instead of an argument on occasion.
Stop thinking of yourself as a lawyer first, Mason.
The damn mess with Buddy keeps dragging my mind back to my old life.
“It’s actually lucky that your uncle got the ’67,” I say, refocusing my attention.
“Why’s that?”
“Pontiac changed the transmission that year from the Super Turbine 300 to the M-40 Turbo 400 HydraMatic. It’s legendary for being extremely strong and durable. Which is why I don’t need to replace everything, just a few components. Aside from the engine, the transmission is just about the most expensive thing you could replace.”
She’s nodding. “You seem to know a lot about this. Have you been a mechanic a long time?”
I’ve been careful to avoid mentioning my history, not wanting to taint this new life with the darkness of my past.
“My grandpa had a few classic cars. In the summers, my brothers and I would go out to visit him.” More like were heaped onto his lap the minute school let out. “He taught me everything I know, got me interested in it.”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “I imagine he must be proud, given you have your own shop then?”
“He passed away, but I’d like to think he’d be pleased.” He sure as hell wasn’t when I fell in line with dad’s orders.
I’m at the driveshaft now. “Hey, you want to help me with this?”
“Sure,” she says.
I direct her to the bench to the strap wrench.
I show her how to wrap it around the driveshaft and tighten it. She’s got a good grip on it and I can’t help but thinking of other shafts I’d like her to handle.
Hello Gutter, meet Mind… Actually, we’re old friends.
“The shaft is going to turn when I loosen these bolts. I need you to hold this tight in place, or I won’t be able to get enough tension, got it?”
She nods and I start cranking on the bolts. They’re smaller than the others and stuck just as well. I have to put a little elbow grease into it.
The garage is starting to get warm with the heat of the approaching midday. I glance over my shoulder to Jeanie, her body inches from mine.
“You doing okay? This is the last one.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” she says, bracing herself, her skin a dewy from perspiration.
I crank it and it finally gives, but as soon as it does, I hear Jeanie let out a little yelp.
“Ow, ow, ow…” she says through clenched teeth.
Her grip slipped and the shaft spun a half revolution, pulling her hand into the space between the shaft and the body of the car.
“It’s okay, I got you,” I hear myself saying.
I pull out a box cutter from my pants pocket and slice the plastic strap. It breaks free and relieves the tension, but her hand is still caught. I shine my light at her hand from the other side of the shaft.
“You need to release your grip off the handle of the wrench, then I’m going to nudge the shaft just slightly and as soon as it moves, slide your hand out quick.”
“Kay,” she says, grimacing.
“One, two, three,” I grunt, nudging the shaft as minimally as I can with my shoulder.
It works. She gets her hand out, bringing up to her chest and biting her lip.
“Here, let me see,” I say, reaching for her.
“No, don’t,” she says, but her voice holds no conviction. “My hands are all dirty.”
Scoundrel that I am, I gently pull her hand towards me anyway and look at it, feeling for breaks or swelling.
“Mine are too. Kind of goes with the gig,” I say, but I’m not looking at her hand anymore, though I’m still holding onto it.
She’s looking at me nervously, but she’s not pulling away, and for a moment I think about pulling her closer, feeling, exploring the rest of her body the same way I am her hand.
It’d be a mistake.
She bites her lip. Reflexively, I lick my own.
Then again, some mistakes are worth it.
The moment stretches just a little too long, and the opportunity I’m not sure I should seize dissolves in an instant as the telephone rings.
“I should get that,” she mutters, pulling her hand back and disappearing into the storefront.
*
Jeanie is gone for her shift at the diner and I’m alone in the shop, stewing in my own thoughts.
Buddy texted me today again. He’s still on me about taking the case, but at least he’s stopped harassing my friends and old coworkers. Part of me wonders how long I can stave him off… if it’s all futile.
There is no erasing the stains left on my soul. Buddy’s cajoling reminds me of that.
Even if I stick to my guns and don’t go back, how many more months of torture do I have to endure? Every day I see Jeanie, every time I catch a glimpse of her through the window, or smell her perfume in the shop after she’s gone, I can’t help but think about the smoothness of her skin, about touching her, and what it would feel like to have her in my arms.
I realize I’m throwing shit around now, too frustrated to focus, and it’s already well past 8pm. I lock up the garage and go to lock the front door of the store. I have to admit, Jeanie’s done a great job. The store looks far neater and more organized. She even hung a few of my photographs.
I look over at the counter, almost expecting to see her, instead seeing her phone in its bubblegum pink case.
I go to put it in the drawer and lock it but realize my stomach is growling. Impulsively, I decide to go down to the diner. I’ll just return the phone, grab something to eat and go home.
I find a booth in her section, give her the phone back, and order food, watching her from behind as she pours me an iced tea. The hostility has worn down. There’s an awareness between us now, building tension I can’t seem to shake.
“You sure must like that sweet tea,” Maggie says, winking knowingly as she passes.
I’m on my fifth glass and it’s not because their instant brew tea is anything special.
“Can’t seem to help myself,” I say, watching Jeanie chatting and laughing with the cook—little more than a boy. Despite my better sense, I feel a pang of jealousy, wishing she’d look at me with that kind of easy warmth.
She must sense my gaze, because she turns and looks at me, our eyes meeting with a sort of magnetic intensity.
“I knew there’d be hell to pay, but that crossed my mind a little too late…”
Apparently, the music in the diner understands my dilemma. I mentally remind myself to check out whoever this Dierks Bentley is.
The hours tick by and people come and go, all the while this need in me is rising. Maggie starts counting her tips at the counter. I look around and realize I’m the last person here.
Jeanie walks over to the booth and sits down opposite me, looking a little undone.
“Hey, sorry, but it’s after closing. Everyone’s heading on out, so unless you want to sit here in the dark, you gotta go.”
Her hair is falling out of its loose bun, the curls licking at the delicate skin of her neck and collar bone. For a moment, I’m spellbound, transfixed as I imagine the feel and the taste of her skin.
“Come get a drink with me,” I say, tired and a crazed from trying to ignore this attraction.
She looks nervous, her breathing changing. “I don’t drink.”
“Coffee then,” I persist.
She smiles shaking her head. “I’ve already drunk three days’ worth of coffee.”
“Then just come home with me,” I hear myself asking, my voice low, desire in my eyes.
She looks at me hesitantly, but I see her lip tremble slightly. She swallows hard. I know she’s battling as much as I am.
She glances around quickly. “You have to leave so I can lock up.”
But something in her voice and eyes tells me that’s not the end of it.
So I leave and walk across the street, waiting under a street light. Standing there watching as she moves quickly, wiping down tables and turning off lights. I’m restless with need, and wondering if she’s feeling the same.