Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

Janis Joplin’s strong, bluesy voice echoed through the small Brooklyn auto shop. Closing his eyes, Jack let her raw power pound through him. Her music, as it always did, loosened the tight coil of emotions he normally didn’t allow himself to feel.

Through the pulsing sound, he heard the chime that indicated the door to the shop’s reception area was being opened. “Break another little bit of my heart, now darling, yeah,” Jack sang along under his breath as he pulled his head from beneath the hood of a car and wiped some of the grease from his fingers.

The service bell on the counter dinged several times in rapid succession. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Jack called, turning off the music. He pulled open the door that separated the garage from the reception area and entered the space.

Ronan Grant stood in front of the counter, his finger poised over the bell. The song lyrics echoed in Jack’s head, his cock hardening without his permission as he stared at the handsome man in front of him.

Though Jack normally preferred Ronan in the black knit tops and black jeans he usually wore at Drew’s Pub, the low key gay bar where they both hung out most weekends, he had to admit the guy cleaned up pretty good. That morning he was dressed in an elegant suit, cufflinks gleaming against his snowy-white shirt. His soulful eyes glittered beneath strong brows, his dark, wavy hair brushed straight back. Something in his penetrating gaze always made Jack feel as if the guy could see right into his secrets, and the feeling was disconcerting.

When they’d first met a year or so ago, Jack had tested the waters, not averse to the idea of taking the guy home and fucking him senseless. But Ronan had made it pretty clear he didn’t consider Jack to be in his league. As hot as he was, the guy was arrogant, and anyway, Jack wasn’t interested in some pretty boy who had probably never done an honest day’s work in his life.

Seeing him reminded Jack with an unpleasant jolt that he’d forgotten to call him. Hopefully Ronan would understand, since it involved Ryan Kennedy, a fellow pub mate, and Ronan had always had a hard-on for the guy, or so it had seemed to Jack.

“Oh, shit,” he said aloud. “You’re here for the tires.”

Ronan lifted a brow. “Oh, shit?” he echoed. “Does that mean there’s a problem?”

“Yeah, uh, about that. I meant to call you. I’m really sorry—it totally slipped my mind. Ryan Kennedy had an emergency yesterday. Some prick slashed the tires on his 911 Turbo S and he was desperate. I had your P Zeros here, and when he called”—Jack shrugged—“it just made sense to help him out, you know?”

Ronan frowned, and Jack rushed on. “I’ll have a new set for you by tomorrow. Wednesday at the latest. I’m really sorry you made the trip for nothing.”

 “Nice of you to help out a friend in need, I’m sure,” Ronan said dryly. ”But I require the tires today.” He sat down on one of the plastic molded chairs in the waiting area. “Not Tuesday. Not Wednesday. Today. I suggest you get on the phone and call whomever you have to call to make that happen.” Ronan looked at the gold watch on his wrist and back at Jack. “I have an hour. I’ll wait.”

This is business, Jack reminded himself. Stay cool. “Look, I’d love to get your tires today, but the tire dealer that I get the P Zeros from is closed on Mondays and—”

“Then I suggest you call another dealer,” Ronan cut in. He looked Jack slowly up and down, his lips lifting with the arrogant trace of a smile. Jack was wearing his usual uniform of a black T-shirt and denim work shirt over ancient jeans, scuffed black work boots on his feet, but he suddenly felt naked as Ronan’s eyes raked insolently over him.

Jack’s fingers curled of their own accord into fists. A good right hook delivered to that smooth jaw would wipe the smug, superior look off Ronan’s perfect face. It would feel so fucking good…

The door swung open, and Carlos came in, a box of donuts in his hands. “Hey, Jack. Sorry I’m late. My kid’s got the flu.”

“No problem,” Jack replied, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “Look, this customer here”—Jack jerked his head toward Ronan—“needs some Pirelli P Zeros for his 911 Carrera S. See what you can do about getting a set muy rapido, okay? Do whatever it takes.”

Without waiting for a reply, Jack shouldered through the door back into the garage. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his phone, starting up the music again, cranking the volume as loud as it would go.

All the words Jack had bitten back while talking to Ronan gushed through his brain like hot blood. Who the hell did that entitled asshole think he was? Fuck him, his good looks and his money, the condescending bastard.

Didn’t he get the concept of helping out a friend in need? Didn’t he understand that sometimes people got busy and forgot to make a phone call? And where did he come off, standing there in his fancy suit, giving Jack the once-over like he was something the cat dragged in?

Rage ricocheted through Jack’s body, filling him with a dark, dangerous energy. The anger felt good. It was hot and filling and gave him something to cling to. It hurt when he smashed his fist against the concrete wall, but at the same time it felt good. So good.

He hit it again, and again, and again…

 

“Jack. Jack! What the hell are you doing, amigo?”

Through the roar of blood pulsing in his head, Jack became aware of Carlos pulling at his shoulders, wresting him away from the wall, from the pain, from the darkness in his soul.

“Santa Maria, madre de dios,” Carlos said. “What the hell are you doing, man?” They both stared down at Jack’s hand. The knuckles were streaming with blood. The gray concrete wall was smeared with it.

“I—I don’t know.”

The blinding, biting rage ebbed away, replaced with a sort of numbness.

“I better call 9-1-1—”

“No. No, that’s okay, Carlos.” Jack grabbed the greasy rag from his back pocket and wrapped it awkwardly around his hand. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” He knew it should hurt, but he couldn’t feel a thing. The blood began to seep through the rag.

Carlos shook his head. “You gotta go to the emergency room, man. You could’ve broken something. You probably need stitches. What the hell were you doing?”

“I, uh…” Jack blew out a breath as he tried to clear his head. “I hit the wall a few times, I guess,” he said, stating the obvious. “Just blowing off some steam.”

Carlos shook his head. “That’s just blowing off steam? Jesus, I’d hate to see you when you’re really pissed off.”

“Look, do me a favor?” Jack said, his brain functioning again. “Call Gordon Flanders.” He pulled out his phone and opened his contacts, sharing the number with Carlos’ phone. “I just sent you the number. He’s a medic and a friend of mine. He doesn’t live that far from here, and I think he’s off today. Maybe he’ll agree to have a look at it. Will that make you happy?”

“Okay, boss,” Carlos said, clearly not convinced. “I guess it’ll do for a start.” He managed a smile, but Jack could see the worry in his eyes. Jack looked down at his hand again, which was finally starting to hurt. What the fuck was wrong with him? His hands were his living. He had built up a good reputation for his specialty work with Porsches. He needed to get control of his damn temper, no matter how obnoxious his customers might be.

Which reminded him. “Did you find tires?”

“Yeah. Dealer out in Queens. Cost nearly double what we usually pay. He’s gonna deliver, but not till this afternoon. I convinced Mr. Grant that he didn’t need to wait around. I told him we’d pick up the car and get it all taken care of.”

“Okay. Good. Thanks, Carlos. You’re the best.”

 

Jack was sitting in his auto shop reception area, his hand cradled in his lap, wrapped in a fresh rag that was already staining with blood when Gordon pushed through the front door, his medic bag in hand. “Jesus, Jack, what am I going to do with you?” he said in exasperation. He’d cleaned Jack up after more than one barroom brawl.

They went back into the private bathroom in case a customer came in, and Gordon cleaned and patched up the knuckles as best he could. “The butterfly bandages will keep the wounds closed, but you should probably get this checked out by a doctor.”

Jack stared down at his bandaged hand and looked back up at his friend. “Thanks, man. Looks like you’ve got it wrapped up pretty good. I’ll wait a couple of days and see how it’s healing. I bet I’ll be good as new in a week.”

Gordon grinned. “Knowing you, you probably will be. You’re made of steel. Just don’t use it for a few days, if you can avoid it. And no slamming any more walls.” He eyed Jack. “What the hell was that all about, anyway? Did the wall offend you in some way?”

Jack shrugged, embarrassed. “Ronan Grant was in the shop and—”

“Ah, Ronan Grant,” Gordon interrupted with a smirk. “That explains it. Every time the two of you get going at the pub, we just sit back and watch the fireworks.”

“Well, he’s annoying as hell. And who does he think he is—”

Gordon laughed, shaking his head. “Harris. You might as well just admit it. You are so into that guy it isn’t even funny.”

Jack frowned. He could feel his blood pressure rise, causing a sharp ache in his chest. He glared at Gordon. “Is that your idea of a joke? You couldn’t pay me to get involved with that prick. Shit, I wouldn’t fuck him with your dick.”

“Uh huh.” Gordon continued to grin, which irritated the crap out of Jack. “Whatever you say.” He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Listen, Jack. No more of this wall bashing shit, okay? You’re really lucky you didn’t break something.”

Jack grunted. “Yeah, okay.” He managed a smile. “Hey, I owe you one. Bring in your car next time you need work, or a tune-up or whatever.”

“Yeah, sure.” Gordon laughed. “When I win the lottery and buy my Porsche, I’ll let you know.”

“Nah, don’t let the specialty sign fool you. I always have time for my pals.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Gordon stood, hoisting his medical bag over his shoulder.  “And Jack? Not that it’s my business, but you might want to get some help—you know, find a better way to deal with your anger. You don’t get a handle on whatever it is that’s bugging you, and it’s going to kill you.”