Page 2 of Grease & Grips
“It’s the shit end, Mack, I know,” Gary says, trailing me into the office. “But hey… make the most of it. I used to love the tows. Turn on some good music, get outta the shop. Kinda peaceful if you ask me.”
I scoff. “Sounds like hell with better radio.”
He chuckles like I’m kidding. “Situations are what you make of ’em. Circumstances might not be perfect, but you hang on too tight to how it’s supposed to look, you’ll miss how good it could be.”
Right. Easy to say when you’ve got better circumstances than everyone else.
“It is what it is, Gare,” I mutter, snatching the tow truck keys off the hook.
“I appreciate this, man,” he says, on my heels as I cut through the shop toward the gravel lot. “You should come in late tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Headley’s dropping off her Buick at 8:30. I’m not gonna leave her hangin’.”
He winces. “Right. Forgot. Well…what about the next day? Take a little time for yourself.”
“I don’t need it. This is my job.”
“Don’t you want time to yourself?”
“Didn’t you say the tow’s the best alone time in the world? Peace. Music. Real soul-healing shit, right?”
He exhales, cornered. “Text me when you make it back safe, alright?”
Once I’m settled in the truck I fire it up. Plug in the aux and crank the volume until the cab rattles with the sound of Tim McGraw telling me what he likes, what he loves, what he wants some more of.
Good for him.
I want some more of not doing this. Some more of not being everyone’s backup plan. Some more of not getting called in cause no one else had the time.
One last nod to Gary then I pull out. Tires crunch gravel as I set off for the ass end of Griffin Road. I’ve got the next forty minutes of hauling ass toward some dumbass with a luxury vehicle and a death wish over nothing but cracked asphalt and washboard dirt.
I’ll be lucky if the tow pays for gas.
Hell, maybe he’ll at least be nice to look at. That’s about all I’m asking these days.
A line of flares flickers out in both directions converging on a BMW that’s parked off the shoulder with the headlights on and hazards blinking.
Okay… so the guy’s not a complete idiot. At least he knew enough not to get himself killed out here in pitch-black backwoods nowhere.
But there’s some idiot to him. As I pass I notice he’s still sitting in a car that’s barely a few feet from tipping nose-first into the ditch that separates this sad excuse for a road from the tree line.
After lining the tow up right, I kill the engine, pop the door, and step out. Every motion feels heavier than it should. That’s whenhisdoor opens and goddamnit it takes everything in me to remember how to breathe.
I’d said he better be nice to look at. Bare minimum. But this is a full-on act of divine intervention.
He’s my height. All olive skin and dark features like the kind of man who knows what cologne to wear without being told. Wavy black hair, probably styled earlier, now pushed around from his fingers. Stress-tugged, judging by the state of it.
All I can think in this moment is the different ways I could tug it myself.
He’s got on navy slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled just enough to show off the kind of forearms that make you believe in God or at least a good romance novel. Top few buttons undone, and underneath, a white tank clings to his chest like it was made for my viewing pleasure.
Hotness like this is effortless, but so damn intentional.
I’d wreck my whole night on him.
Who the hell is this fancy-ass man and what is he doing out here in the boonies?
Better question… how the hell do I survive this without embarrassing myself?
