Brainy and the Beast (3 page)

And how was it that a parent could inspire guilt with just a look? I gritted my teeth. “I know. I know. But the kid’s been here for almost two years. Shouldn’t he have adjusted by now?” Whatever the hell that meant. Who got to say what
adjusted
meant?

Dad shook his head, lifting one shoulder. “Nick, all I know is Grant is a good kid. Sure, he’s moody. What teenager isn’t? He’s doing pretty good in school—and he goes to class, unlike that Hanrahan boy who cuts school all the time. He’s smart. And he loves the cars you work on.”

“Yeah. He mentioned some academic thing today.” Wait. What? “What did you say?”

“Are you serious? You haven’t noticed how he raves about the classics?”

Was I in an alternate universe? “He has not said one freaking word to me about cars. All he does is bitch about the stupid phone I have, the fact that I make him do homework, and oh, let’s not forget, I’m not his dad.” I shoved away from the counter, pissed for some reason. Christ. “You know, if Lindsey were here right now, I’d slap the crap out of her. She always did whatever the hell she wanted, whenever the hell she wanted. The fact that she had a kid fourteen years ago didn’t change that a bit. And now she’s wherever the fuck, probably banging some new guy, while I’m stuck raising her kid.”

“Easy there, cowboy.” My dad had been calling me that since I was five and asked him for a pony. “You want to clean up the language a little bit?”

Ashamed of myself but still steaming, I snuck a look into the living room. Grant was playing a video game on the fifty-five-inch flat screen and couldn’t possibly have heard me with the volume blasting the way it was. “Sorry, Dad. I’m just sick of cleaning up her messes.”

Heaving a big sigh, my dad dropped down at the table by the backyard window. “I know, Nick. I know. Sometimes I wonder where your mom and I went wrong. How could she just leave her own son? But I can’t… I don’t—”

Hearing my dad beat up on himself just pissed me off even more. “You didn’t do anything wrong. My sister has never once taken responsibility for anything. A kid didn’t slow her down, so I’m damn sure nothing you could do would make a difference.”

Grant had become my responsibility when Lindsey took off two years ago. Like a weasel, she’d left a letter to me in his book bag. When Lindsey hadn’t shown up to get him after school one Friday, Grant had walked the three miles home. The kid had actually spent Friday and Saturday by himself before he finally phoned my old man. Then my dad had called me in a panic, spluttering over the phone about what Lindsey had done.

The kid had been in seventh grade, and The Bitch had just dumped him like he was garbage. There was a word that started with
C
that I liked to call my sister, but my dad was usually inclined to slap me if I said it in front of him.

Shaking his head, my dad sighed. “Well, how about if you try to play something on that Wii with him?”

Like the kid wanted to be around me. “All right, I guess.” Tugging at the waistband of my jeans, I headed into the living room. Grant ignored me when I sat down on the couch next to him.

Huh. The springs on this section were a little shot. I grimaced. I’d never had to worry about my furniture when it was only me living in the house. When my nephew moved in, I’d asked my dad to move in too, so that someone would always be around for the kid. Now I had to worry about whether we had the right furniture, make sure laundry got done, figure out what to eat every day. Christ. How did real parents do it?

“What’s the matter with you?” Grant waved his hand in front of my face.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at the couch for ten minutes. What’s your problem?”

It hit me just then that this kid really looked like me. Our eyes were the same hazel, our hair, even the shape of his face matched mine. I’d always hated that my jaw was a little big, and now Grant was cursed with it too.

“Uh. I thought that—well, want to play something on this?” I waved my hand vaguely at the Wii.

“You? Want to play with me?” He pointed a finger at his chest.

Did he have to sound so surprised? “Uh, yeah. What do you like to play on here?” We’d gotten the Wii a month ago, after the school counselor had suggested it.

“You even know how to play any of these games?”

Did the kid have to make it sound like I was a no-talent loser? “Maybe not, but I can still kick your butt.” I’d been on the football team in high school. How hard could this stupid thing be?

I swear Grant was trying to keep from laughing at me. “Uh-huh, Uncle Nick. Right.” He still tossed one of the remotes my way.

I stared at the buttons on it. I’d played my share of Nintendo, but that had been when I was a teenager. This remote didn’t look like what I remembered.

“You have any idea how to use that?”

I could not have been this mouthy when I was Grant’s age, could I? I shot a glare at my father, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway. He’d obviously gotten past our short discussion, since he was standing there with a smirk on his face. I turned the controller over in my hands.

“Here. Let me show you how to use it.” Grant’s long-suffering tone raised my blood pressure a couple of points. I hated to feel dumb about anything.

Trouble was, that happened a lot.

The next morning, I headed to the garage a little early. Because of my hours and the demands of the shop, Dad was in charge of making sure the kid had breakfast and that all homework was in the book bag. I’d had to talk my old man into it when he’d moved into my house, but he’d eventually agreed to work fewer hours at the garage. That way, he could be home when Grant got back from school.

It was kind of Ozzie and Harriet, in a weird, guys-only way.

Most days I was out of the house by seven since we opened at eight. My house was about twenty minutes from the shop, and I usually stopped for a big cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee on the way. Today, though, I wanted to spend a little more time on Henry Travis’s car. The 300 model was so sweet. Kind of like its owner.

I pushed the liftgate button, and Rum and Coke jumped out of the back of the Volvo wagon. “Wait for me!” Those two mutts loved to run around the lot and inspect everything. They were always absolutely positive we’d been invaded while they were away from the shop.

I’d found the Volvo at an auction a month after Grant and my dad moved in. I had been driving a two-seater before that, a hot little MG, but this
family
car had replaced that. I did have a Jeep four-by-four for serious winter driving, but it was still in the big garage until the heavy snows came.

My dad had his own car—a ’65 Lincoln Continental that he’d restored. Jesus, now that thing was a beast. The suicide doors on it, though, they were sweet.

We were technically on the edge of the city of Lake Forest, a pretty hoity-toity area. Lots and
lots
of money around. The good news was, that meant lots and lots of cars, especially the expensive kind. Anyway, the city had made us install a wrought-iron fence two years ago, and we’d been required to hire a landscape architect to design screening from the street. My dad had given them a fight because he’d been worried passing drivers wouldn’t see us. The city had compromised by letting us put in a new sign. Like a lot of affluent areas, Lake Forest restricted the height of the sign, but we’d taken the opportunity to update ours, and now our name was pretty visible. Plus, the fence mostly kept the mutts from running to the neighboring shop. They could sneak around the gates to the street, except I usually was able to keep them from getting that far. The design company ladies next door didn’t like it too much when Coke tried to follow customers through their door. I’d been on the receiving end of more than a few lectures before we’d put up the iron. Those chicks liked to bust my chops.

Because I’d done a little triage under the Mercedes’s hood last night, it took just a half hour to figure out what was wrong with Henry’s car. The transmission assembly needed a new clutch, and the power steering belt was also shot. I put in a call to one of my parts suppliers for what I was missing, and they assured me I’d have it by Friday morning at the latest.

Cool. I could now call Henry and give him the good news.

Sunlight flashed on Jake’s car as it pulled in to the side lot. He and Wilmer carpooled, since both of them lived over near Round Lake. The blue-collar lake community was about half an hour west of us. Jose came on the Metra train from North Chicago, on the Wisconsin border, and Jake picked him up on the way to the shop.

I waved as the three of them walked inside.

“Boss, you want the doors open today? Supposed to be in the sixties.” Wilmer strolled to the lockers I kept for the mechanics. He began changing into his uniform work shirt.

The garage was still a little cold from the temperature drop overnight. “Not just yet, Will. Let it warm up in here a bit.”

Wilmer snickered. “Okay, old man. You want a sweater?” The guys loved to poke fun at the fact that I was easily chilled.

“Bite me.”

Jake shook his head as he moved to his workbench. “He’s delicate, Will; you know that.”

Jose, who was quiet most of the time anyway, didn’t join in, but I saw a grin on his face as he turned on the Open sign. He held the door as my third mechanic, Lee, walked in.

“Wise guys.” I growled at them as I moved behind the desk in my office. I’d set up my own space in the shop so I could easily track the work going on there and more readily deal with the guys’ questions. In one corner at the back of the garage, I’d built a platform and enclosed about a ten-foot-square space. It was enough for a desk and computer, plus a credenza for all my supplier info. The large fixed-light windows in the two partition walls allowed me to see almost the entire shop area.

My chair squeaked as I dropped into it. I brought up Henry’s work ticket on the computer. Some guys I knew still used paper billing, but that was one of the first things I’d changed when I took over running the garage.

My dad had done it the old-fashioned way and hadn’t been interested in updating, but I’d known we had to get a handle on our information. Hiring Sarita and going to the new system had ended up being two of the best decisions I’d made. The collections for the garage had gone up almost immediately, and my dad had to acknowledge that I’d made the right moves.

I was thankful now when a couple of clicks got me Henry’s cell number. As I listened to the phone ring, I could picture the man. I imagined him in a white lab coat, moving around a room that looked something like my high school chemistry class. I inhaled slowly as I visualized him stretching to write on the blackboard, coat pulling tightly across his ass.

“Travis.”

I could no more stop the thrill that raced up my spine than I could keep Rum from digging in the hamper for my dirty socks.

“Hello?”

“Uh, sorry. This is Nick Shelton, from Shelton Motors. We’ve got your 300 over here.”

Travis’s voice was slightly dry. “Yes, I know.”

I closed my eyes in frustration. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Well, anyway, I took a look at the 300. She’s a sweet ride, by the way. Have you had her long?”

It took a few seconds for Travis to answer. “I bought the car just under two years ago.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” Guy sure didn’t say much, did he? “I think you mentioned that yesterday.” With a mental sigh, I gave up. “Okay, Doc. Here’s what I found.” I outlined the problem for him, going into detail. “…and that clutch looks like it’s been there awhile. With the amount of mileage you’ve got on her, I’m not surprised it’s shot. Lucky you brought her in when you did, so that your tranny didn’t get damaged.”

“Tranny?”

I could just picture the not quite sure look on his face. Ah, maybe he
was
gay and thought I was making a slur? “The transmission. Sorry, mechanic shorthand. Also, that noise you were hearing was from a slight bend in one of the fan blades. I don’t know, maybe you picked up a rock somewhere? Anyway, we straightened it out. I think it will hold, but we can watch it. No sense buying a new fan assembly if we don’t have to.”

“Well, I certainly do appreciate that.” His voice warmed a bit. “I must say, you’ve surprised me.”

I leaned back in my chair. “How so?”

He laughed softly, and my ear tingled. “First of all, you fulfilled your promise to look at it right away. I really didn’t expect to hear from you today. And secondly, you’re not trying to buffalo me into buying more parts than I need.”

“Hey, I take pride in spending my customers’ dollars as best I can.” I made a noise in my throat. “Fact is, the boys here call me the bloodhound because I’ll literally go digging through parts graveyards to find what we need. Sometimes it’s hard to find things for these old beauties.”

“You’re telling me.” It was the first time Henry sounded like a regular guy.

“The Internet has made a big difference, though. I can search around the planet in just a few minutes. That comes in handy with some of these old German and British cars.”

“In my work as well. I can easily keep up with research being done in Switzerland.”

“Oh, yeah? What kind of work do you do?” I had a stupid smile on my face, I just knew it.

“Robotics.”

Whoa. Smart-guy alert
. “Yeah, I figured you were into something brainy.” Why, oh why did the smart guys turn my crank?

“Really. What made you think that?” Henry sounded honestly curious. I could again picture him, the Jaguar-blue eyes, that thick, straight hair, even the pale skin that was a draw for some reason.

“Well, Doc, your car is the first giveaway. Even in a town full of Mercedes, yours stands out, since it’s, um, a little…well, old-fashioned. Most of the guys who work at Renton Technologies are buying new cars, not used.” I shrugged, hoping I wasn’t burying myself. “They’re out to show their status at the top of the food chain.”

“How did you know I worked at Renton?”

I frowned. “You had your ID badge on when you came here.” I remembered what else marked Henry as a brain. “Oh, and your bow tie is the kicker.”

“My tie?” Did he sound a little offended?