After Hours (InterMix)(82)

“I’m Kelly. Nice to meet you.” They shook, Amber’s hand gulped by Kelly’s giant paw.

“And that’s my nephew Jack,” I said, nodding across the room to where his huge eyes blinked at the stranger.

Kelly waved. “Nice truck. Mine’s blue, too.”

“This is my boo truck,” Jack said, then went back to playing, apparently satisfied by Kelly’s vehicular credentials.

“Awful nice of you to come out and fix my sister’s car.” Amber was doing that other thing that annoyed me, developing a mild Southern accent, the auditory equivalent of parasol twirling. Unseen, I rolled my eyes.

“You thirsty?”

Kelly shook his head.

“Need anything?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

“Well alrighty,” Southern Amber said, sounding disappointed. “I’ll let you get to work, then. Come in and get cleaned up when you’re done.”

Back outside, Kelly opened my hood and we dicked around for at least twenty minutes, with no luck.

“I can’t fix this. Not without getting underneath it, and a jack’s not going to cut it.”

“Shit.”

“But I brought a bar. I can tow you. Your hair looks nice, by the way.”

I suppressed a reflexive urge to preen. “Thanks. Can you recommend a garage near work?”

“Not really. But give me ’til tomorrow or Friday and I can probably fix you up.”

My stomach sank. I didn’t want to be beholden to Kelly for this. Having to call him in the first place was disempowering enough. Dependent enough.

“You don’t have to. Maybe there’s a cheap place in Darren that could do it.”

“Just let me,” Kelly said, leveling me with his stare.

“Okay, fine. But not for free or anything.”

“For the cost of parts, if you need any.”

“And labor.”

Kelly wiped his hands on a rag, real slow and thorough, with his eyes narrowed. “Pay me in some other way, if you want.”

My inner fuse lit in an instant, and it was a short one. It always became shorter when I was near Amber. Like whatever impulsive chemicals we’d inherited from Mom surged when we got close. It must have shown on my face, as Kelly spoke before I could berate him for basically inviting me to prostitute myself for automotive favors.

“Whoa now, crazy-eyes. Chill. I’m only trying to flirt. Not subjugate some vulnerable woman who can’t pay her f*cking mechanic.”

It pinched the flame off, right before I exploded. My shoulders slumped and I abandoned my outrage. “I’m paying you in money.”

“Fine.”

“Including labor.”

“I said fine.”

Why was I acting like such a douche about it, when Kelly was probably just trying to be chivalrous?

Because he was behaving like a boyfriend about the situation, I realized. And I couldn’t start thinking about him that way. I couldn’t let things start feeling that way, because . . .

Because why not?

“Hop inside and put it in neutral. You steer and I’ll push. We gotta move you down to the road so I can get at your front bumper.”

It took a while, but we managed to get the car onto the edge of the street, and Kelly backed his truck in front of it.

He started pulling tools out of his bed. I watched his arms flex in the waning daylight, all covered in bruises and scars and black grease. Did I like him, like him? Probably. Was being with him, romantically, really such a terrible idea . . . ?

I didn’t have the first f*cking clue.

He was a good guy, but he put me on edge all the time. Made it so I couldn’t relax, always monitoring myself to make sure I was sticking to my guns, retaining my independence.

But the sex was f*cking insane.

But, he needed way too much control, and so did I. If we wound up in a relationship, it’d be an endless power struggle.

But the sex was f*cking insane.

I shook my head. What a dumb thing to even be debating. For all I knew, Kelly had absolutely no interest in me, outside of some f*ck-buddy arrangement. Which was possible. Probable.

Did f*ck buddies drive two hours roundtrip to tow their lays’ cars? Seemed a bit beyond the call of duty—

Then I heard a noise that pulled me straight out of my internal argument and dropped my heart into my gut. The distant thump of car-stereo bass. And a glance confirmed my worst fears—a shiny red truck turning the corner, with Marco’s stupid meaty forearm flopped out the driver’s side window.