For You (The 'Burg #1)(161)

However, when we hauled the boxes into his house and went out to check the garage, we found Colt wasn’t correct, mostly because Mom put all the shit from his second bedroom in the garage.

We stood staring at the stuff piled up in his garage, so much only a small amount of moving space was available.

“I’m not a big fan of scraping ice off my car,” I commented, staring at all the crap in his garage and I felt his eyes come to me.

“Feb, for two years, you parked under a tree.”

I was seeing that being a detective’s girlfriend might not be as cool as I’d thought it would be, considering to be a detective you kinda had to be pretty sharp and you definitely couldn’t let anyone pull anything over on you.

I looked up to him and replied, “Yeah, but I didn’t like it. You got a garage, we should use it. The truck won’t fit in here. My car will.”

“It doesn’t have an electric door opener.”

“We’ll put one in.”

“Baby, I just put in an alarm.”

Shit, he was saying he didn’t have the money.

Denny Lowe was such an assface.

“I’ll pay for it,” I declared.

He gave me a Man Look which communicated the fact that he wasn’t a big fan of me paying for shit, seeing as I had a vagina and br**sts. When we divvied up household responsibilities, his look foretold I’d get groceries, cleaning implements, clothing and linens with the odd knick knack or standing kitchen appliance thrown in. The garage was part of Man’s World, not to be touched by female hands or updated with the woman’s money.

Then he wisely decided to let that go and tried a different tactic. “The boat’s gotta stay where it is.”

I turned and looked out the little, high-up, square windows in his garage, which incidentally, seriously needed to be cleaned, to see the boat under the sided awning which would be a perfect fit for his truck so he didn’t have to clear snow or ice.

My eyes moved back to Colt. “How ‘bout we build a side thingie for the boat? You can park your truck where the boat is.”

“Maybe I didn’t mention that I got the full-on deluxe edition of an alarm,” Colt noted.

I braved another Man Look. “I’ll pay for the side thingie too.”

I didn’t get a Man Look because, instead, his brows snapped together before he asked, “You got that kinda cake?”

“I moved my belongings to your house in two trips, using two cars and a truck, Colt. I go to work in t-shirts. I got a low overhead,” I pointed out. “Each month I have three CDs that mature in three different banks across the US of A.”

“You cash in your CDs, you buy yourself a shitload of heels and a new car,” he said, or more like, decreed.

It was then I asked the question I should not have asked. Not only was it my experience it was a useless effort to discuss clothes with men and therefore should be avoided it was also my experience you should never discuss cars with men. First, they knew more about cars than women, or more to the point, women if that woman happened to me. There were many men who even made cars a lifelong study but I, personally, couldn’t care less. Second, because they knew more and knew they knew more, men usually acted annoyingly smug when any car discussion came up. That alone was reason to avoid car discussions. Third, they tended to be right, which was the biggest reason of all to avoid such discussions.

Even knowing all this, I asked, “What’s wrong with my car?”

“Nothin’, ‘cept it was built during the Carter Administration.”

Now he was pissing me off. I liked my car. Sure, it was old. Sure, it was small. Sure, it wasn’t all that attractive. But it got me from point A to point B, it had a kickass stereo and it started up every time.

Well, most every time. It might need some coaxing on the really cold days.

“It was not,” I defended my car.

“Does it have airbags?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

“Was it built in a time when there were airbags?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, getting more pissed.

“You get into a collision, baby, your compact will fold like an accordion and you’ll get stuck in that shit,” he said, looking back to the pile of stuff in his garage and the tone with which he said his next words meant he’d come to a decision. “You need a sedan.”

Visions of me in a staid sedan, which probably had a shit stereo, flooded my head. Then I realized Lorraine owned a sedan. So did Chris Renicki’s wife, Faith. So did Drew Mangold’s wife, Cindy.

And so had Melanie.

My neck started itching mainly because of the heat which was collecting there, which was mainly because I was moving from pissed to pissed off.

“We’ll talk about this later,” I said.

He nodded and threw an arm around my shoulders, guiding me out but he did so while saying, “Soon’s this shit’s over, we’ll go to Ricky’s, look at some four doors.”

I decided to completely ignore the words “four doors” which made my head get light and I suspected if I uttered those words my hair would turn instantly blue.

Instead I focused on Ricky.

Ricky Silvestri owned six different car dealerships in the county which meant Ricky had expanded the family business since when I was growing up, his Dad only owned four. Ricky was a born and bred car salesman and trained all of his employees in the art of sixty years of car salesmanship as passed down from father to son. If Colt and I walked into any one of his dealerships together, I would instantly become the invisible woman. If I walked in alone, they’d screw me three ways ‘til Tuesday.