One Wild Night (Hollywood Chronicles #1)(64)
***
Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I grab my car keys and jump into my aging Jeep Wrangler. I spent the better portion of two years after Frankie left restoring this thing. It was the perfect distraction and the only way to take out my frustration. I spent days and nights, for weeks and months, burying thoughts of Frankie while I restored it. She's now pristine.
I drive down to the old auto shop, Ryan Auto Works, the garage my dad opened when I was a little boy. It's no longer the shop we use, but I keep tools and personal vehicles I'm working on here. I couldn't bear selling this building after Pops died. This was the first building I ever held a wrench in and where I learned how to change a tire. This shop was part of me, just like Frankie.
The battered brick building has seen better days, the once vibrant red brick now faded from years of sun and weather. I lift the large metal garage door and it slides open, exposing the old Harley Davidson and the Ford Mustang I've recently purchased. When Pops died five years ago, I took over his auto shop business but also expanded to restoring vehicles—a hobby of mine.
Three guys run the auto maintenance side, and my buddy Carter and I do the custom refurbishing. It's a long and tedious process to restore a vehicle back to like-new condition, one that can take years. In fact, I have a wait list up to two years to take on new projects. In the last couple of years, I've made connections through recommendations with a couple A-list actors in Hollywood. Their projects will take us the better half of the next two years to complete, with the other guys taking on the bulk of the other auto repair work. A custom job can run upward of a quarter of a million dollars, and we have no shortage of people willing to pay. Our wait list is insane, and while the lure of big money sits on that list, I pride myself on quality, not rushing through a job.
We were fortunate enough to be able to build a new, modern garage on the other side of Main Street. In the last couple of years, Crescent Ridge has actually seen growth in development. We used to only have a diner, a local grocer, Pop's auto shop, a gas station, and small drug store. We've recently added a coffee shop, a dance studio, a bakery, and a library that serves as a community center. A small credit union is slated to open later this year, and I'm reinvesting in Crescent Ridge by building a small bar and grill that will cater to the evening crowd.
Progress is good, and it's been great for the economy here, but it’s even better to finally see hard working people not struggle to find the jobs they so desperately need.
"Ryan!" I hear from behind me and I turn around to see Carter wiping his hands on a dirty towel.
"What's up, man?" I holler over my shoulder at him.
"How's Ms. Callaway?" He strides up next to me, using the towel to wipe grease off his fingernails.
I stare ahead at the motorcycle, making mental notes of everything I need to order to restore it. Distraction, it's what I'm good at.
"Fine," I mumble, walking closer to the bike.
"What's got you in a pissy mood? Shelley not putting out for you?" He laughs obnoxiously, following me into the garage.
I ignore his comment and him, kneeling down to twist a foot peg, hoping to loosen it. Damn thing is rusted on.
"Hello," he says, waving his arms around to get my attention. Attention that is focused only on the girl who still owns my heart. "Earth to—"
"Frankie's back," I tell him quietly, running my hand over the cracked leather seat of the Harley. Seeing the condition of this bike physically hurts me. I've always treated vehicles and motorcycles like small children—very carefully, delicately, and with utmost protection.
"Holy shit." I hear him mumble. "She came back?" He's as surprised as I was to see her back in Crescent Ridge.
I nod and use the handle bar to help pull myself back up. I prop my hands on my hips and turn to look at Carter. "She did."
His eyes widen as he waits for me to tell him more, only there's nothing else to tell. "And?" He tosses the dirty towel onto a pile of other dirty towels that need to be washed.
"And what?” I retort. “She's back. Her mom is sick. End of story."
"Have you talked to her?"
I puff air loudly through my nose and smirk. "I hardly think Frankie will be up for catching up. What happened in the past stays there. We've both moved on," I lie to him. I'll never move on from her, but he doesn't need to know that.
Carter has been my best friend since elementary school. Actually, Frankie was my best friend. Carter was next in line, but he fell right into first place when I hurt Frankie and she left.
"You haven't moved on, man." He slaps my shoulder and squints his dark brown eyes at me. "You're lying to yourself if that's what you believe. She may have moved on, but you, my friend…you have not moved on."
"Fuck off," I grumble, raking my hands over my face in frustration.
Clearing his throat, he toes a crack in the garage floor with his work boot. "Maybe you should come clean. Tell her the truth. Get that shit off your conscience." He raises his eyes at me, and I shoot him a dirty look.
Come clean? That's the last thing I'll be doing. I scoff, "Let it go, man. Some things are best left in the past."
He groans in frustration. "Why did you let her believe you were with Whitney?"
I see his feet retreat a few feet back, probably afraid of what my response will be. I take a deep breath and look up at him. "Because I needed her to go, Carter. She would’ve thrown her life, her career, her education away for me." My voice breaks, and I clear my throat to shove down my emotions.