Mason rolled himself out from underneath the Ford Focus, simultaneously wiping the sweat from his forehead and smearing his face with engine grease. He’d finally traced the source of the problem — the alternator.

He hoisted himself up from the car creeper. As he stretched straight, his back made its usual loud cracking sound, echoing throughout the empty walls of the garage.

“My goodness, are you okay?”

Mason turned around to face Adrienne Irwin, the local elementary school principal sitting waiting on his couch. She was one of several customers Mason hadn’t been able to fit in on Sunday, and now she only had her lunch break to get her car fixed.

“Oh yeah, repetitive strain injury. Sounds a lot worse than it is,” Mason assured her as he popped the hood of her Ford Focus, disconnecting her battery leads. “Your alternator needs a quick clean. Should be done within twenty minutes,” he explained to her.

Principal Irwin had joined Hidden Creek Elementary long after Mason had left. She was a tall African-American lady, and Mason got the impression she was as strict as she was intelligent. Just at that moment her cell rang. She answered her phone, strolling outside to have her conversation in private.

As Mason marked the electrical leads to make sure they all went back the same place they came, his mind wandered to the events of the last forty-eight hours. After redecorating the outside, he and Rhys had designed pamphlets to put in other local businesses. A stack in Lift to start with, as well as some at the LGBT center.

That had led to the most frantic Sunday in living memory for Mason. Weekends were often busier than weekdays, but never to that degree. He had ordered in an extra-large pizza from Rocket for lunch, as neither he nor Tristan could spare the time to leave the shop and grab something, no matter how much Tristan insisted otherwise.

They had ended up sharing the pizza between the three of them and still had leftovers in the fridge upstairs. The slices were the same length as Mason’s forearm, and even he had struggled to finish his last portion. Mr. Shapiro from the bank had even stopped by, for once not reminding Mason about his repayment. Instead, he was merely impressed by the redesign.

As frantic as it had been, Mason had also enjoyed spending most of the day with Rhys. He felt oddly touched he would go to such length to redesign his shop, and even now he was out hanging out more pamphlets for the business. He knew it was Rhys’s early Christmas present, in return for staying on Mason’s couch. But when he thought about how much work he’d put in, more than Tristan ever had combined, it made his stomach squirm once more.

Principal Irwin closed her call, walking back over to Mason.

“One of our students got their head stuck in a playground bench. Again,” she said, sliding her cell back into one of her pantsuit pockets. “Used school Jell-O to help slide it in there. The fire department is already on the way.”

“I’m nearly done here, so the timing works out perfectly.” Mason took out the alternator, taking the back off to check the bearings. One of them was worn through, but Mason had lots of spares at hand. “Just need to replace this bearing, then put your car back together.”

Mason headed over to the biggest cabinet on the floor, which held all the common car parts they needed. He pulled out his keys to unlock it, only to see the padlock dangling open.

“Tristan,” Mason practically growled under his breath, opening the cabinet door. His employee was out on a call, and had mentioned taking some bearings with him. After rummaging around the cabinet for a solid three minutes, Mason discovered that Tristan had taken all of the bearings with him. Not just a handful that he would need for the callout. The entire box.

Every single last bearing was gone.

It would be literally impossible for Mason to complete Principal Irwin’s car without them.

Mason let loose a slew of colorful cuss words as he pulled out his cell, speed-dialing Tristan.

“Yo! What up?” Tristan answered obnoxiously.

“I’m rebuilding Mrs. Irwin’s alternator, and you took all the bearings with you,” Mason explained.

“Oh, that’s a nice way to start a conversation,” Tristan retorted.

“Excuse me?” Mason was stunned.

“Just start off busting my balls, not even a ‘how you do’ — real nice.” Once again Tristan was far more concerned with his feelings than his behavior.

“How you’re doing —you left with all the bearings, which I need to complete this job.” Mason was through with Tristan’s rotten attitude. “Now when are you getting back here?”

“Five, ten minutes tops,” Tristan snapped back.

“See you then.” Mason hung up, his knuckles white from gripping his phone so hard. Tristan had gone a step too far. Now he was messing with the customer experience.

He made himself calm down before he walked back over to Principal Irwin, who was patiently sitting on the customer couch.

“My colleague has the bearings we need. He’ll be back in five to ten minutes,” Mason sheepishly explained.

“You don’t have any spares?” Mrs. Irwin seemed unsatisfied with his explanation.

“In my colleague’s haste to get the callout, he accidentally took the whole box with him.” It was the most positive spin Mason could put on the circumstances.

“I see,” she curtly replied. Mason would expect no less from an academic with such high standards.

“Let me grab you a coffee while we wait.” Mason rushed over to the stairs at the end, heading up to his place. He unlocked the apartment to find Socket sitting at her favorite spot on the kitchen island. He flicked on his espresso machine and grabbed two mugs from the cupboard, Socket watching his every move. He checked the clock on his way out, exactly one o’clock.

Three minutes later he was back downstairs with two steaming cups of coffee. He made a mental note to see if he could afford an espresso machine for the customers down here. He’d thought to put up the Wi-Fi password before Rhys’s redesign, meaning customers could surf the web as they waited.

After five minutes, Mason had finished his coffee and was anxiously staring at his open garage door. The sun shifted, glaring off a parked car on the opposite side of the street, meaning Mason had to give up looking out the big open doors.

At ten past one, Mason dialed Tristan again, his phone ringing out before going to voicemail.

Quarter past the hour, both cups of coffee were finished.

Twenty past, Mason had called Tristan three times and left him five text messages. No response.

Eventually, at twenty-seven past one, the tow truck pulled into the shop. Tristan stormed out, burrito bag in hand.

“I’m on break,” Tristan told him before heading out the door.

If he didn’t have a customer waiting, Mason would have demanded an explanation then and there. Instead, he pulled the box of bearings out of the truck and began the speediest alternator rebuild of his entire life.

Half an hour later, Tristan returned from his lunch break, skulking back into the garage.

Mason had put the alternator back together as quickly as he could without compromising safety before reassembling the rest of Mrs. Irwin’s car. She’d ended up being forty minutes late back at her school. Mason had included a twenty percent discount with her bill, as well as a twenty percent discount voucher for her next visit.

Now he had to deal with the root of the problem.

Tristan threw his ass behind his desk as Mason closed the garage doors. Rhys was out exploring the town, and he didn’t want any customers walking in on their discussion.

Thanks to Rhys, Mason had finally realized he didn’t have to put up with this. He’d given more for free than his paid employee ever had.

“We need to talk,” Mason told Tristan.

“Too fucking right we do,” Tristan looked up at him, fury drawn across his face.

Mason had been thinking his options through while rebuilding Principal Irwin’s alternator. His business was worth more than the trouble Tristan was causing.

“That’s strike three,” Mason flat out told him as he approached his desk.

Tristan scoffed, leaning back in his chair as Mason loomed over him.

“That’s bullshit, man. You need me. You can’t run this place by yourself.” Tristan grinned up at Mason, clearly not accepting what Mason was telling him.

“You’ll get two weeks’ severance pay. And any references required for your next job.”

Tristan’s face fell as he looked Mason up and down.

“Come on, man! I made one mistake. You’re bluffing. This is ridiculous,” Tristan told him.

“I’ll need your keys, but effective immediately you—”

“No, wait. Hang on a minute! You can’t just fire me without a reason! I’ll sue the shit out of you.” Tristan finally stood up from his desk, still craning his neck to look up at Mason.

“You’ve been given three strikes. One verbal, the second written, and now your final last one. I’ll write up the paperwork later, and—” Once more Tristan interrupted Mason.

“Wait! I need this job, man! It’s just before Christmas. This is insane!” Tristan protested.

Mason almost felt sorry for the man before remembering his behavior over the past day. His entire employment. “If you needed this job that badly, you could have maybe tried showing up on time. Or putting in—”

“Your problem is you don’t know how to talk to people! Where’s my respect here!?” Tristan slammed his hands on his chest. Mason wondered if he was trying to intimidate him. It wasn’t working.

“If you feel you’ve been mistreated—”

“Too fucking right I’ve been mistreated!” Tristan shrieked at him.

“—that’s your problem. I’ve given you plenty of chances to shape up, and you haven’t risen to the task,” Mason calmly explained.

Tristan flung himself back into his chair, staring out into space with a glassy look in his eyes.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he lamented.

“Really?” Mason probed. He was beginning to lose his patience. “You thought you could turn up whenever you wanted. Mess around with bill payments. Do sloppy work. And now you make zero effort to right a wrong, even when that means a bad experience for the customer?”

Tristan pulled himself up from the office chair, snatching his laptop up from his desk.

“This is such absolute bullshit. Fuck you! You’re a fucking… a fucking fuck!” Tristan snipped at Mason, heading for the door.

“I need your keys,” Mason reminded him. Tristan unlocked the big metal door to the outside world before throwing his keys onto the floor. He glared at Mason and then spat on the keys, his aim perfect.

“Fuck you! And fuck this place!” Tristan snapped, storming out of Mason’s Body Shop. Mason hoped it was for the last time.

He walked over to the doors, the garage oddly quiet. Mainly because Tristan wasn’t watching YouTube on his laptop. Mason pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, picking up the wet keys. He’d have to clean them before putting them away as his spare set.

He wrapped them up as he strode over to the front of his shop. He pulled the metal doors all the way, opening the garage.

As he did, a neon orange convertible sped past his shop. It skidded to a halt, Tristan leaning out the open top.

“Fuck you! And your gay boy!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, his face vibrating with rage. He sped off from Mason’s Body Shop, the smell of burning rubber following him.

Mason shook his head, feeling a weight lifted from his shoulders. He would never have to plan his day around Tristan and his temper tantrums.

He walked back into the garage, throwing the spare keys into the sink as he passed, heading to his desk. The first thing he did was bring up the schedule.

They had been struggling to keep up with the boost of customers as it was. Mason was now operating at fifty percent. He would do what jobs he could, starting with the most urgent ones.

He began calling around customers, organizing reschedules. If he extended his hours to eight pm, he could fit most customers within the next few days. Also, an extra hour in the morning, so people could fit in minor fixes before heading into work.

Hopefully that would be enough to keep the bank and Mr. Shapiro off his back.

Until he could find a replacement, he would be working twelve-hour days, seven days a week.

It was odd, and it made his stomach squirm again, but all he wanted was another hug from Rhys.

But he knew he couldn’t burden him with his problems.

How the hell was he meant to do this all by himself?