Page 11 of Lemon Crush

I skimmed the rules, laughing more than once at each clever turn of phrase as well as the rules themselves. “No whining,” I snickered.

Then I went back to the main page and clicked the link that said in bold lettering:Become a Racer.

“Down the rabbit hole we go.”

3

WADE

“Dalton,could you take a look at Mrs. Kline’s Miata first thing? She needs it by this afternoon to take her mother to bingo.”

“You got it boss.”

The bearded and tatted twenty-two-year-old had come down ten minutes before the shop opened, washed all the cups in the break room sink and brewed a fresh pot of coffee before clocking in. He’d already proven himself to be a hard worker, but he was so grateful to be living in my old place upstairs that he practically tripped over himself to make my life easier.

Unlike my two older mechanics, who were ambling in the back door right before the garage officially opened, clutching their matching insulated cups like life preservers. Bob and Oscar were more likely to give me good-natured shit than free labor, which was fine since they worked their asses off while they were doing it.

I paused and ducked my head out from under the Silverado’s hood to observe as they stopped to lightly haze the young newbie for being a kiss-ass. When Dalton smiled and flipped them off, I nodded and went back to work.

Yeah, he was fitting in fine.

It was August Retta I was worried about.

I couldn’t sleep, so I’d been here before the sun came up, trying to figure out the billing program my niece had installed before giving that up and starting on this ticket. I needed to clear my head and think, and this was the only place I could do that.

August’s CRV was already repaired and parked behind the four-bay garage, waiting to be picked up, though I hadn’t made the call yet. The entire time I worked on it, her vulnerable expression at the airport invaded my thoughts. She’d been sad about her sister leaving, eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she stared at those departure doors. But it was more than that. I could almost feel her desire to run. To hop on a plane and leave her car and the rest of us behind. Since she still wasn’t talking to me, I’d had the entire drive back to her place to gnaw on that bone.

I still couldn’t get it out of my head.

“As promised, breakfast has arrived.”

I pushed off the engine when my old buddy Kingston strode into the garage in expensive jeans and a designer T-shirt, two large grease-spotted sacks in one hand and a drink carrier full of orange juice in the other. He handed one bag off to Dalton and was preparing to toss the other to me when I held up my grimy hands.

“Need to clean up first,” I told him.

I’d been in the middle of replacing a couple of broken exhaust manifold bolts, but the pickup obviously had an oil leak somewhere too because the whole engine was coated with dirty black gunk. I’d wash it out with degreaser and track down the leak later.

Walking over to the sink, I did a quick scrub, drying off with a couple of blue shop towels. The men were already eating where they stood, but I felt like getting some air so I jerked my head toward the back door and Kingston followed me out to our unofficial break area—a picnic table on a tiny patch of mostly deadgrass beneath a big old oak tree. It was still early enough to be almost cool out, though it promised to be another brutal day.

When we were settled at the table with two ice-filled juices and a small pile of sausage-and-cheese breakfast sandwiches between us, I gave him a look. “I thought you said you were bringing us egg white omelets with spinach and feta this morning.”

“I was weak,” he said unapologetically. “And finding healthy takeout isn’t as easy here as it is in New York.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

I didn’t know it firsthand since I’d never been, but Kingston had lived there for years. Tall, confident and sexually adventurous, the Black filmmaker no doubt fit right in there. He made documentaries on subjects like the plight of the homeless, or Big Ag and the evils of high fructose corn syrup. Now he was back to guest lecture at U of H for a few semesters in the land of all things fried and barbecued.

“Morgan’s in Italy by now.”

I nodded while I finished chewing.

“How’s she been doing with all that?”

I shrugged and took a swig of my juice. “You know her. She’s not big into sharing her feelings until she’s got them figured out. This trip should give her a chance to do that.”

She hadn’t wanted to talk about her mom at all after the memorial.

Kingston and I had been friends with Morgan for the same amount of time, since I’d known him from the first grade on, and he’d met the Rettas twenty-four hours after I did. He’d had it bad for her for about six months, but after she’d turned him down on the same day a cheerleader asked him out, he’d been fine settling for friendship instead. Besides Morgan, he’d always been my closest friend. Not that I ever had as many as he did.

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