Don't... (6 page)

Getting the parts didn’t take as long as expected, and I was back at the garage by eight thirty. Mr. Matthews was in the waiting area, on his second coffee, and Sam had pulled his Range Rover in and taken care of a few of the basics. Steve was right, Sam looked like shit, and it had nothing to do with any internal illness I knew of. His left eye sported a nasty bruise, bottom lip was split and doing this unnatural pout thing, I swore there was a tooth missing too. “You okay?” I said, after saying morning to Mr. Matthews and pulling Sam aside.

“Yeah,” said Sam a little sheepishly, but he didn’t look fine to me.

“Just what the hell did you get up to after I left you at the B and B last night?”

Sam did his characteristic scratch of the head, could have sworn it was a mock-up of a salute. “My best mate’s missus.”

“Ouch,” I said with a wince. “Don’t play these games by half, do you, kid?”

“He’ll get over it. Besides, he brought it on himself, him going out with a girl called Chelsea and all.”

I choked a chuckle. “You know that’s bordering on obsession right about now?”

“Nah. Obsession would be getting her to wear a Chelsea shirt and shout ‘Goal’ on orgasm as she rode me.” He winced. “Not that I’d ever ask her to. In public.”

“Too much detail, kid.” I hit his shoulder and instantly regretted it seeing him jerk away. His clothes seemed to hide a pretty bad beating. “Just try not to scare the customers today, huh? I don’t exactly want to give the impression I beat you guys into getting some work done.”

Sam’s eyes lit up for a moment and I levelled a finger on him. “Don’t. One word past those lips, and I swear I’ll—”

“Don’t, boss, not again,” he said a little loud for my discomfort as he mock-cowered with a hand protecting his face, “I’ll get you that coffee, just don’t hit me.”

I growled a quiet obscenity seeing Mr. Mathews look over.

“Sorry,” Sam mouthed, although he didn’t look it. “Coffee, boss?”

Coffee sounded real good, so did broiling Sam for a few hours in the pot, but I settled for the first one. The day’s work settled into a good routine despite having to adjust the pull on my groin every now and then. I’d finished Mr. Matthews by eleven, the catalytic on the exhaust by twelve, and settled in with Steve to help him with the second MOT that also needed some welding. I’d just started on the second join, still worrying over images of Co2 sparks, cock rings, and welding together parts that would then never come off, when Steve tapped my shoulder.

“We’ve had a breakdown come in, Jack.”

I pushed up my visor, wiped away the sweat, then looked at Steve. “Huh?”
Stop doing a Sam.
“What did you say?”

“Breakdown,” shouted Steve. “He’s just booked in and Sue’s given the nod that he wants to talk to the boss.”

I hated breakdowns, not because of any lack of skill, but more because I had an appointment book for a reason. Breakdowns always thought they had priority over clients who had booked days, sometimes weeks in advance. Not usually a problem if I knew them and they’d been a client of mine before, but the random Joe off the street? “Right.” Downing tools, visor, and gloves, I headed for the reception. Sue was in mid-flow conversation, and I got a nod before she turned her attention back to what I assumed was my breakdown. “Can I—” I started, giving my hands a quick run under the antibacterial cleanser by the door, but what Breakdown said stopped me in my tracks.

“Don’t want to be ripped off.”

The guy in the suit was lucky he had his back to me. Everyone always assumed that a garage was there to rip you off. Granted, most people didn’t have the bollocks to say anything to your face, so I begrudged Breakdown a pair of balls in that department, but my days of screwing people over were long gone. “Problem?”

Breakdown first glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening a touch, sized me up with soft brown eyes, then turned around and offered me this smile. I’d have taken more notice of his tousled, just got-out-of-bed good looks, but he was mid-flow trying to piss all over my property.

“Yeah, hmm.” He held a hand out to me. “Jameson’s, they offered to look at her, but last time I had my brakes checked by them I ended up coming away with a new exhaust.”

“Exhausts break down much like any other part.” I didn’t take his hand, and he let it fall back to his side, no offence seemingly taken as he tucked it into his pocket. He was slim, not breakable slim, more supple, slender, the likes of an Olympic swimmer, only no tight trunks were needed to help sell the package. Soft brown, wind-swept hair captured the same colour and turbulent look to his eyes. Yeah, Breakdown seemed apt.

“Not when I’d had it replaced a few days earlier and then was given a bill by Jameson’s saying it was rusty and needed an upgrade.”

“Ah.” Yeah, rip-off it was. You could tell a man’s life by his hands, and Breakdown had spent some of his time at a manicurist. Nails were even, no bruises lined the knuckles, and no calloused pads displayed a life away from manual labour. Yes, his suit was a major giveaway, but any monkey could wear a suit. From his supple physique, sharp wit and sharper eyes, no monkey could model quite this well without screwing it up somehow. He didn’t quite belong on a catwalk, but he had that easy smile and intelligent look that put him on par with some model off the cover of a high-flying business magazine.

“They’re not a garage I would recommend,” I said, conscious that I hadn’t shaken his hand and explained the rejection.

“...you would.”

Huh? He’d been talking, and I’d been staring. “Sorry?”

Breakdown frowned a little, it looked good on him; then he ran a hand through his hair. A few strands of fringe fell defiantly over his brown eyes, and I had to resist the urge to sweep the strands away. They were sexy eyes, look-good-waking-up-next-to-you eyes. They didn’t need to stay hidden.

“James Matheson, he’s a customer of mine. He’d recommended you a while back. He also said that he didn’t think you would, y’know.” Breakdown smiled again. “Recommend them.”

Say something, dumbass. He’s finished talking, take the hint and get with the conversational turn-taking. He customer, you garage owner. Show him those customer-boss dynamics. “So. What’s the problem?” Sue was looking at me a little strangely and I gave her a
pay you to work
look.

“Jag,” came Breakdown’s reply as I ignored Sue’s grin. I’d dock wages later. All I needed was my caged dick to join the party and the whole situation would be fucking hysterical.

Land Rovers. 110s, coil springs. How the hell did they go together again?

“Outside, yeah?” Where else would the car be? Resisting an eye roll, I held the door for Breakdown, trying my best not to look at his ass. His fault. Wearing a crisp, tucked-in shirt, no jacket, his ass just begged for a viewing. And there it was. A swimmer’s ass. And damn if the cut to his trousers didn’t tailor the shape perfectly. Couldn’t picture him having the time to swim, so it was probably treadmill-trained on some hamster wheel, tucked in some gym, or corner of his office. But, hell, he got a perfect ten for overall presentation on my card.

“It’s a tax-exempt classic.”

I nearly choked, but he meant the Jag we’d stopped by.
Obviously
. “Mm, yeah.” I cleared my throat. What the fuck had happened to professionalism? Sam. It had to be down to being around him. What model was this again?

Jaguar 3.8 S-Type. Then even Breakdown seemed to fade away.

1965 vintage in Carmen-red, black leather interior, he (a car that looked as fuckable as this had to be a “he”) was all original bodywork, sleek: a wild-card like its owner. Original walnut dashboard too, chrome wire and, damn, even the carpets were in perfect condition.

After slipping on some work gloves, I flicked the bonnet and had to suppress a wolf whistle. “You upgraded from the 3.4 automatic to the 3.8 manual,” I said, this time glad I’d brought a clean rag homed in my back pocket just to make sure none of my dirt got on the paintwork. “New pistons, timing chain, gearbox overhaul,” I clucked. “He’s been through a serious strip and rebuild.”

“Yeah. About four months ago.”

Breakdown was leaning in from the side, and I frowned at him. “Why not take him back to your rebuild source?” I got a wince, then a slight shrug.

“We kind of fell out.” His turn to frown. “And you call all your cars a ‘he?’”

I tapped the distributor cap, taken with the engine again. “Looks like the mech who worked this was one to keep close.”
Get your head out of the car, focus on the dude.
“And no,” I said, offering a smile. “Not all are ‘hes,’ just a looker like this.”

Breakdown mouthed an
oh
. “I kept him too close,” he muttered with a blush, and I gave him a raised brow. Did he mean his mechanic? My gaydar was as shit as ever. Hell, I hated the fucking word, so it was probably playing up out of spite.

Breakdown coughed awkwardly, his gaydar seemingly on the blink too, almost looking like he regretted letting that slip. “So, well, she crashed on me. Well, not literally crashed, cut out. I had to get her towed here. I’m running late for a meeting now.”

“I can give you a ride.” Breakdown looked a little startled. Again, it looked good on him, one of those cute reactions that left him younger, less experienced. “We have a courtesy car.” Good recovery. “I can arrange for one of my employees to drive you to work,” I said, keeping everything as calm as it should be. “I’ll get my secretary to give you a call when your car’s ready.”

“You do that for all of your customers?” That smile again. The bastard was flirting, even lowering his voice to a seductive purr. “Or am I the exception to the rule?”

I had a jolt, a not-so-kind reminder of the length restrictions on my dick. Seemed my cock wanted to measure the distance between us but kept getting cut off at the pass. “If you were the exception to any rule, you’d be going in my car.” Well. I had to cold-shower myself somehow. Breakdown pushed away, looked over at the reception, and then back at me. Giving a sniff, his business face fell into place.

“Okay. What’s wrong with her and how much will it cost?”

It shouldn’t have bothered me that he looked a little hurt, but it did. “Most likely water in the distributer or a faulty spark plug,” I said, closing the bonnet. “Shouldn’t take too long.” Using the cloth in my hand, I made sure no fingerprints stained the paint work. “You could wait, but if you’re already late for work.... We’ll keep him until you’re ready to pick him up. As I said, just give our driver a pick-up time.”

Breakdown moved around me and went over to the driver’s side. I went with him and waited as he fished in his glove box for something.

“Here,” he said, holding out a card. “That’s me.”

Jan. Breakdown had a name. Good name. Exotic, like him. Jan Richards, financial consultant. His number was just below that. Cute. “Thanks, I’ll pass it on to my secretary.”

Jan shrugged. “She has my work number. That one,” he tapped the card in my hand, “that’s for you.”

So his gaydar had kicked in after all. I smiled back. “Got a thing for mechanics, have we?”

Jan pulled his keys from his pocket and shrugged. “Just the fuckable ones,” he said—right at about the same time he dropped his keys. The come-on didn’t quite have the same effect hearing him curse and dance about trying to find them. Just how old was he? Early twenties? And yep, real cat-like, one that had just fallen in some water and clambered about saying “Still cool, still cool.”

“Here.” His keys were close to a drain, and I’d grabbed them off the floor before thinking too much about it. We were pretty close, and as Jan spun back, meaning to grab the keys, his hand tapped into my crotch. I winced more through the expectation of pain, but he jerked his hand away, his eyes flaring a little in surprise.

Colour flushed my cheeks as I quickly stuffed the keys in his hand and looked away. Jan was close enough his breath ghosted my cheek.

“Caged lover.” Jan’s breath was against my ear. “Intriguing.” A very discreet rub of the back of his hand down the cage shaft. Thank fuck we faced away from the main doors. I felt the cage shift under his touch, forcing me to a semi, making me cough and pull back for fear of ending up writhing in agony on the floor. “But damn, so fucking sexy.” Jan was breathing a little harder.

“
Boss. Mr. H.... Um, Harrison
.” We both pulled back hearing Sam shout, and I looked over my shoulder. “What?”

“Do you want me to arrange to get her pushed in?”

Jan smiled and placed the keys back in my hand. Right. I was meant to have these. Something about needing them to get in the thing and get it working. Sam came over carrying a plastic cover, and I chucked the keys to him. “After that, will you run Mr. Richards to work? Arrange a pick-up time with him too.”

“Sir,” said Sam, already scooting past Jan and laying the plastic cover over the driver’s seat before climbing in. Sam double-checked the engine, turned it over once, but was met with nothing. No kick to the starter motor, which confirmed a female clip had probably slipped off. Sam called a few guys over, and we stepped to one side and watched them roll the Jag into the furthest port. Looks like I’d been volunteered for the repair.

“Harrison?” said Jan, waiting until my staff was out of earshot. “That your name?”

“Surname,” I said curtly. Behind me it was stained into the reception glass doors, so that wasn’t too hard to guess at. I held out my hand. “Jack.” That wasn’t above the door
.

Jan took my hand and the strength in the grip was—alarming. I didn’t expect it from pencil pushers. “Good to meet you, Jack.” A sultry look that turned brown eyes to black almost,
almost
had me handing over wallet, car, mother’s best set of teeth, anything to get into the land of Jan. “Real good,” he said quietly.

Sam came bounding back over supporting a clean towel. “The car is this way, Mr. Richards.” He indicated a Corsa in amongst the row of parked cars ahead.

Jan’s look was a little long on mine; then he gave a nod in my direction. “Take care of her, Mr. Harrison.”

I said I would and watched them head off for the Corsa. Sam did a good job of opening the door for Jan. Then they were gone and the beeping of my mobile brought me back to reality.