Brainy and the Beast (2 page)

Speaking of which…I looked at my watch. It was almost three thirty. Where was ole Grant, anyway? Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Travis heading for the customer entrance.
Uh-oh.

I got inside in time to watch Rum and Coke jump all over my newest customer.
Shit.

“Mr. Shelton!”

You know, I’d heard my name called many, many times, although I do admit not too many people called me “mister.” It was usually,
Hey, Shelton, get your ass over here
, or something like that. But now? The way the doc shouted my name, oh man, I could tell he was pissed.

Puffing from dashing across the lot, I grabbed Rum and yanked his inquisitive nose away from the doc’s crotch. “Rum! Stop that!” The other stupid mutt was wrapped around one of Travis’s legs, humping away. I could feel my face burning, and it didn’t help that I spotted Jake snickering through the glass door to the shop.

“God, I am so sorry.” I had hoped Travis would be impressed by me and by my business. Fuck all, no way that was happening now. I reached down and grabbed Coke, crouching to hold the two quivering dogs.

“What kind of place are you running here?” Travis slapped at his pants in a vain effort to get rid of the black dog hair. Christ, my dogs could shed. And since I didn’t take them to the groomers very often, they
were
kind of shaggy.

Those Jaguar-blue eyes were burning now. I could feel the heat as I looked up at Henry Travis. Biting my lip, I stared helplessly.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything? I just got these trousers back from the cleaners.” The way he was leaning, I could see the sweet curve of his ass outlined in the khakis.
Mmm
. I jerked my eyes back to his face. It was pale, as if he didn’t go out in the sun very often, but his jaw was strong and his nose was long and straight.

I cleared my throat and tightened my arm around Rum. The little bugger was wily and could pull out of his collar in a snap. “Uh. Jeez. I’m sorry. These two don’t usually bother anybody.” Sheepishly, I made a face and shrugged. “Maybe your smell is kind of strong?” My voice cracked a little bit there at the end.

Travis made a strangled sound, giving his thigh one last swipe. “I beg your pardon?” He straightened sharply, glaring down at me.

Idiot
. “Oh. I just meant that, you know, some guys wear really expensive cologne or soap or something.” I was babbling. “Um. Well, Rum and Coke have very sensitive noses, and they like certain smells. Good smells.” Jesus, I was making it worse.

Travis was watching me now, and one silky eyebrow was arched. “Really.” His lips pushed out slightly as he tilted his head to one side. Wait. Was he taking a closer look? “And you think your…dogs…like my smell?”

I nodded.

“I see.” He shifted his feet, spreading them apart a bit.

What did he see? Oh, man, I’d forgotten to shave that morning. Was that it?

Realizing I was still crouching on the floor, all too close to the tempting package in front of me, I grabbed both mutts and stood up. Holding the wiggling bastards wasn’t easy, but I had a lot of upper-body strength. Even though I should have been using the damned Bowflex a hell of a lot more, I did have pretty good definition. Well, some.

“Let me put them in the back.” I scooted past him, walking behind the service counter. I bumped the billing office door open with my hip and dumped the dogs on the small leather sofa I had in there. Their blanket was at one end, and my two problem children snuggled in right away. Rolling my eyes, I sighed.

Pulling the door shut, I pasted on a grin as I stepped behind the counter. It was time for me to act like I actually ran this business. “Sorry about that.” I could feel Travis watching me, though, and it made me fumble a bit as I pulled the keyboard closer. I focused my attention on the monitor. “How long has the trouble with the 300 been going on?”

While Travis gave me the details, I kept my eyes on the screen. Straight guys seriously didn’t like it when I eyeballed them, and Henry Travis… Well, if he was gay, and I was thinking—hoping?—he was, I had the feeling he still wouldn’t like it if I stared at him with my tongue hanging out.

Why should this one be turning my crank? He was so like the professor type I had called him—tweed jacket, white button-down, and an honest-to-God bow tie. Normally, I liked the muscled suit-and-tie kind of studs, the young ones who went to the bars after work and hung around talking stocks and bonds and whatever. Not that I could figure out what the fuck they were talking about. I’d scope out a possible who played on my team, move in, and buy him a drink; then nine times out of ten, he’d blow me off for some other suit. Once in a while, though, I would get lucky. I think they liked hitting it with a working man, so maybe they could tell their suit friends about it.

Travis gave me his address and phone numbers. “What breed of dog are they?” His voice was more relaxed now, and I could feel him watching me closely.

“Huh?” I followed his gaze, looking through the half-glass door. The two boys were already snoozing, bodies pressed together. “Oh, they’re cockers.”

“Excuse me?”

I couldn’t help but snort at Travis’s expression. “I know, right? Yeah, cocker spaniels. Originally a hunting breed, but now lapdogs, mostly.” I made sure to enter his home address in the correct field. Never know—might be I’d need it someday. “The Brits bred them, oh, maybe six, seven hundred years ago, to hunt woodcocks. Cockers are great at flushing the birds, then going after them when they’re down.”

Travis had a strange look on his face, like he didn’t quite understand me but he was trying hard to be polite.

“They’re good swimmers.” I shrugged, not quite knowing what else to say, and tapped my fingers restlessly over the keyboard. Now that the work ticket was filled in, I was feeling a little nervous. God knows why. Not like the first time I was talking to a guy I found attractive. Right?

“I see.” He seemed to like saying that.

Great. I’d completely killed any chance of having this guy take me seriously. At least, seriously enough to get laid. Jesus, when would I learn to keep my mouth shut? I blew out a breath. No hope for it—might as well get back to work. “Okay. I’m going to go back in the shop so that I can try to get to your car sometime today.”

He stared at me for a few moments, and I could feel my face heating up. He looked thoughtful for just a second before pulling out his phone again. “That’s a good idea. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

Pausing in the shop doorway, I glanced over my shoulder. The professor look was still a turn-on for me, but now I was just pissed at myself.
Fuck.

Maybe I could make a good second impression?
Uh, nope. Not putting lipstick on that pig.

A little after five o’clock, I heard the shop door open. Jake had left just after Henry Travis, and it had been quiet since Jose, my shop assistant, had taken off at four thirty. Sarita, my billing manager, worked mornings, and my dad had shorter hours, so I was used to being the only one around at the end of the day.

The outside temperature was beginning to drop quickly now in the late afternoon, and I had the overhead doors closed. My dad liked to remind me that was a good idea anyway when I was the only one working. Sometimes I’d get under a car and get involved in what I was doing, and the next thing I’d know, somebody would walk up behind me and scare the bejesus out of me.

This door opening did kind of worry me, though, since it was Grant walking in a couple of hours after he should have gotten here. I looked at my sister’s son. “Where’ve you been?” Today my dad had gone to a meeting at the chamber of commerce instead of going home. “You knew you were supposed to come straight here from school.”

The kid had a sullen look on his face. I’d seen that a few times lately, and it reminded me all too much of my sister, The Bitch, who could whine with the best of them. The fact that he mostly took after his old man was a break for the kid, in my opinion. Lindsey was attractive enough, I guess, but she was such a brat that I figured her son
had
to have his dad’s personality. Since I’d never met the guy, I couldn’t say for sure. But the fact that Grant was usually easygoing gave me hope.

At fourteen, Grant was already close to my height of an inch under six feet. Maybe his old man was an NBA player. My sister wouldn’t fess up and I could only guess, but since Lindsey got around, it could be anyone. Seriously.

“Nowhere.” Tossing his book bag on the floor, Grant sank down on the ’56 Oldsmobile backseat that was up front. We’d created a customer waiting area of sorts, and it included car parts as well as a table and real chairs.

I snorted. “Nowhere. Uh-huh. How is it you managed to go nowhere for two hours after school? You were supposed to be here by three thirty.” I opened the hood of the doc’s car. I’d just finished with my other jobs, and now I could finally get my hands on his ride.

With a shrug and a huffy breath, Grant dug his hands into his jacket pockets. He stared at his toes with a frown.

“Call Gramps and let him know you’re here. He’s probably worried about you and calling the school as we speak.” I tossed my cell phone to him.

The kid had good reflexes, I’d give him that. He grabbed the phone out of the air and flipped it around. “Dude, when are you going to get a real phone?” Grant stuck the old Motorola flip phone to his ear.

He’d been bugging me to get a smartphone. Hah. You had to be smart to use a smartphone. That left me out.

His rusty-brown hair was a match for mine, and his had the same thick texture mine did. I felt kind of sorry for him, because I couldn’t get my hair to obey much. My barber kept it short to control it, but there was still a bastard wave or two up on top that just did whatever it wanted.

When Grant shoved a hank of the brown mess behind his ear, I winced in sympathy. Of course, it probably wouldn’t be so bad if he’d get it cut. But he and I had had a knock-down, drag-out about it just over a week ago. He kept spouting something along the lines of,
“You’re not my dad.”

No kidding. That wasn’t something I was planning. Ever.

“Gramps? Yeah. I’m over at the garage. Uh-huh. Yeah. I know. But I stayed after school to help organize the academic decathlon.”

Huh? Why couldn’t he tell
me
that when I asked him?

“Yeah. I know. Uh-huh. Yeah. He’s working on a sweet old car with those things that stick up on the back ends. You know, like wings.”

“They’re called fins.” I made a face as I reached into the engine. When I heard the phone click closed, I decided to practice having a real conversation. The school counselor had advised me to try it when Grant and I seemed to be able to do nothing but argue. The guy had also suggested some kind of regular activity for the kid; after talking it over with my dad, we’d signed Grant up for tae kwon do lessons. It made me feel good that Grant actually liked it, and I found the kid practicing his forms down in the basement sometimes at night.

“So, academic decathlon. What’ve you got going on there? I kind of knew you were smart.” I fiddled with the cables on the battery, checking for corrosion. I kept my head under the hood.

Grant cleared his throat. “Uh. Mrs. Peters asked me to help put together the list of the students who are going to compete.” The leather squeaked as Grant moved around on the couch. “We’re, uh… She’s gonna let me help put together the categories and questions and stuff.”

Resting one hand on the frame, I poked my head around the raised hood. “So, are you, uh, are you in this thing?”

The kid had a funny look on his face. He was also flicking his fingers on my phone and bumping his toes together instead of looking at me. “Nah. If I help with the prep, I can’t be in it.”

It was like pulling teeth with him. “Do you want to be? Have you qualified, or whatever it is you have to do?” I resumed cleaning the cables.

When he didn’t answer, I gave up. “Whatever. Do your homework, will you? I’ll be done here by six; then we can go home and get supper.” When I heard the zipper on Grant’s book bag, I sighed and got back to work.

* * * *

I put the last glass in the dishwasher, shoving the door closed before Coke could get his tongue around another fork in the silverware holder. I grunted at his pitiful look. “Try that with my old man. He’s the one who lets you get away with murder.”

“Hey. You were the one who had to bring those two freaking hairballs home. I told you to leave ’em with that goofy breeder.” My dad had a voice made for FM radio, so it was always funny when he talked like one of the guys in the garage.

“I’ve seen both of the boys on your lap when you’re watching Brenda Leigh.” Dad was a huge fan of
The Closer
. “And you were just as much a sucker for their sob story as I was.” The breeder was a guy I knew through my hunting buddies, and he’d been ready to put my two little guys down, just because they’d been born a little early and were really small. He didn’t want to hand-feed them. And, well, they
were
bald when they were born.

“Huh.” Ole Mike Shelton was never willing to admit to anything that he termed “do-gooder shit” or stuff that remotely smacked of “feelings.”

“So, what’s going on with the kid? He’s been looking a little down at the mouth lately.” I busied myself wiping down the counters.

“Why are you asking me?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him pouring more coffee into his mug.

“I know he talks to you.” I turned and rested my butt against the counter.

Facing me, likewise leaning against the cabinets, Dad took a sip as he eyed me. “You could talk to him.”

“I try,” I defended myself. “In fact, I tried again today. I get mostly grunts, and he avoids looking at me.” I tossed the sponge into the sink. “I tried
conversation
.” I know I sounded a little whiny, but I couldn’t help it. “That counselor—man, I’d like to smack the guy. I try doing what he says, and what do I get for it?”

The old man just raised one rusty-brown brow. Funny how his brows were still the same color as when he was young, but his hair was mostly gray now. I think maybe I was the cause of quite a few of those strands.