Page 37 of Lemon Crush

There went my appetite. “No.”

“Want to try that again?” he invited in a deceptively mild tone.

I blew out an aggravated breath. “Okay. That doesn’t sound like the usual Kingston Haywood topic, buddy. What makes old dudes roleplaying in cars sound interesting to you?”

“That’s better. For future reference, you should actually listen to an idea before you shoot it down like a domineering dickhead. Didn’t you read the link I sent you?”

“Yes, and fuck you very much for that.” It had taken me to a group of threads with the titleAm I the Asshole?He’d made his point, but I might never forgive him for it. How were there that many people masochistic enough to post their petty, and occasionally disgusting, personal problems online for the entire world to see and discuss?

Some of us knew how to keep shit to ourselves. I didn’t bother my friends or perfect strangers with my conflicted, fucked-up emotions. I kept them locked up in a fireproof box, buried in a mile-deep hole and protected by explosives. Like a normal person.

Keeping things to yourself got you here, dumbass.

Herewas close enough to see August through a window, or through an open doorway every day as she thanked me for taking out the garbage. Close enough to give me half a dozen opportunities for conversation I’d managed to waste, while suffering with nightly hard-ons on a bed made for Lilliputians. If my fails with August were anything to go by, I was more than rusty at chatting up women.

You could try to be less subtle.

Sure. I could take off more of my clothes or tell her flat out that I was interested, but I’d kept my distance for so long, I thought she might need some convincing first. Which was why the first part of my plan had revolved around rekindling our neighborly friendship. Moving past the last few years of silence and regaining her trust by making myself useful. Giving her time to get to know me again.

It was decent, as far as plans made up on the fly went, and then yesterday happened. I’d stuck my foot in it so deep, I wasn’t sure I could get it out again.

“I told you about my problem so I’d have someone to bitch to,” I groused. “Not to give you ideas.”

“And yet I still have them, because I’m a creative genius.” He was typing in the background as he talked. “I’m sick of my usual topics. There’s too much shit in this world, and I’m tired of giving both it and all the pompous pricks who demand more suffering that kind of oxygen. This, on the other hand, has the potential for dramedy gold.”

“Dramedy?”

“A burnt-out mechanic who wants to quit the only interesting thing he ever does. The only thing that gets him out of his small, backwoods neighborhood and boring-as-hell little life. All so he has more time to potentially date. Not that I’m against that last part. I told you last week I’d set you up with my neighbor. But you had to be particular.”

I shook my head. “Burnt out. Backwoods. Boring as hell. I see your time living spitting distance from the UN headquarters has really fine-tuned your diplomacy skills. And it isn’tonlyto date. I was thinking I could learn to cook. Build a deck by hand. Maybe play some golf.” Anything that wasn’t related to cars or racing them.

I’d volunteered to work on one vehicle, for one race, five years ago to celebrate Gene’s successful treatment and remission.To raise money for the group that helped him get through it, because I’m a good friend and I hate fucking cancer as much as everybody else. And yeah, the race and those idiots’ antics were always a good time.

But it had been going on for so many years that it felt more like a job than a hobby at this point. I spent my days fixing cars for a living and most of my free time doing the same. The thrill, and the challenge, was gone.

“Golf?” Kingston asked in disbelief. “Fine. So potentially your last race forgolfingreasons. The team’s fifth anniversary. A new car and driver, both of which have emotional resonance for everyone on the team, including the grouchy mechanic who wants to hit that complicated hotness.”

I didn’t deny it. “It isn’t a given that she’s getting behind the wheel yet.”

Mostly because of you.

“Gene started the team to celebrate surviving cancer. August obviously wants to do it to honor her mother. There’s a symmetry there that a blind man—or, say, someone that wasn’t an asshole—could see.”

He was going to keep pouring salt in those wounds. I shouldn’t have told him anything, but I’d needed to talk to someone. My other best friend was on a cruise halfway across the world and shewasn’tthe right person to be sharing this with. My niece was aware of my living situation, but since I’d changed her diapers and held her while she puked up her baby formula, that didn’t feel right either. Lucy and Rick were out of the question. They’d laugh in my face, and then try to reach Gene overseas to share the joke. Kingston was my only option. And he didn’t “do relationships.”

“That, my friend, is hope and humor in the face of grief. It’s taking risks and healing wounds along the way. That’s a filmmaker’s dream and I’m going to capture it.”

“That’s me regretting covering for you when you took twodates to the prom,” I returned sarcastically. “Gene might not give the go-ahead to film this.”

“Think about who you’re talking about.”

Getting to race a car he wanted while cameras recorded him for posterity? “Damn it. He’ll say yes.”

“But you wouldn’t?”

“I told you I was worried she might regret it later.”

“Are you more worried about her regrets or the car?”

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