The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)(5)

When no one comes out, I go through the open bay doors looking for Claude. The smell of oil and gas is strong. My nose curls in distaste. There’s a reason I’d never pay attention to Blue. The interior is dimly lit. There are florescent lights humming above, the light is stark and shines mainly over the cars that are inside. An old truck is on one side, jacked up and on ramps. Coming out from under it are two oil-soaked legs in thick mechanic coveralls and steel-toed boots. Claude, I guess.

“Hello? I’m looking for the owner? Claude?”





I know that voice. I know the deep baritone that sends shivers down my back and tingles of need through my body. I’ve been thinking about that voice since Sunday morning when I left him lying in bed, sound asleep. I know that voice and that voice is here inside my garage. The shock of that causes the wrench I’m using to remove the plug from the pan to slip. The plug does indeed come out, but at an angle and before I’m ready. Oil spurts out onto my face and pours down my chin and neck. I quickly divert it to the draining pan, but the damage is done.

“Motherf*cker,” I gripe. It’s not very ladylike, but cut me some slack. I was raised by a guy named Banger; most of my vocabulary isn’t ladylike.

“Excuse me?” Gray asks.

I know it’s him. I don’t need to see his face. My problem is, I don’t know why he’s here. Surely he’s not here to find me? How would he have done that? He doesn’t even know my name. I mean, he called me CC, but I sure didn’t tell him my name was Claude. And I know for a fact that I never once mentioned where I live. That’s something I would never do, especially with a random hookup. Not that I’ve had those that often, or really much at all. If I did, my dry spell wouldn’t have lasted so damned long. Still, I’m not stupid, and you never give out your personal info. Somewhere in my head, I hear Banger growl at me about sleeping with strangers. Crap!

“Shut up, Banger. You knew my bitch of a mom and you still slept with her. That didn’t work out so well for you either, did it?” I whisper to the voice in my head. Yes, I realize that’s a stupid thing to do, but I’m in a panic, and it seems better than having to talk to the man standing out there in my garage waiting for me to roll out from under this car. Shit!

“Listen, I need my car looked at. It quit out front and I have a meeting. Is Claude around?”

A meeting? His car quit here? Is he telling the truth?

Am I cursed?

I push out from under the car with a sigh. I’m not one to hide, even if the urge is strong. I grab a clean shop rag out of the box to my right, hoping to at least get most of the oil off, then I get up. I’m still wiping up the mess that is me when I look at him. I don’t think he recognizes me, at least not right away. Then again, I look completely different from the way I did this past weekend. There is nothing sexy about shop clothes, oil, and gas, or the skull cap I keep on my hair while at work. It’s hot at times and some may think it’s weird, but then I figure those people have never had to wash oil and gunk out of thick, curly hair, so it’s just simpler.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask him, my voice sounding as miserable and uncomfortable as I’m feeling right now.

“I’m not sure. I was just driving down the road and it quit. It won’t even crank. It’s not the battery though, because the radio and lights come on.”

Yep. He doesn’t recognize me. I don’t know whether to be relieved or upset. He’s sexy as hell though, even if the mint green oxford is uncomfortably preppy and a far cry from the jeans and black t-shirt he wore over the weekend.

“I’ll have a look. Where’s it at?” I tell him, walking towards the door.

“No offense, but I’m in a hurry. Is the owner around? Maybe he could—”

“I am the owner,” I tell him with a sigh, starting to regret my weekend with him even more.

“You’re Claude?” he asks, and I ignore it. “It’s just down the road there,” he tells me, pointing up the street. I go to the tow truck, Gray following along behind me. “You’re taking your truck? It’s just right there,” he says again.

I sigh. “If it won’t start, I can’t very well push it here, now can I?” I ask him with exaggerated impatience.

“Oh. Right.” He climbs up into the passenger side of the tow truck just as I close the door. He looks around the old truck and I can literally see his nose curl in disgust. The old jewel ain’t much, but it’s not that bad. The seats are ripped and the black dash is now faded and cracked. The doors are squeaky and, okay, there’s dust and dirt everywhere, but it runs like a top. I take off towards the bronze-colored Tahoe and stop when I can park in front of it. I jump down and go to the Tahoe. I open the front door to his car as I hear Gray screech. “What are you doing??”

“Popping the hood,” I answer, staring at him like he’s crazy. I think he might be. Did he think I could tell what was wrong just from looking at it?

“But you’re filthy!”

Oh, good Lord in Heaven, is this really the same guy who went down on me for a freaking hour? I reach in and pull the lever for the hood, slam the door shut a little stronger than necessary, then look at him, daring him to say anything. His mouth tightens up like he’s dying to, but he restrains himself.