Page 3 of Grease & Grips
I’m not much to look at. Strawberry blonde hair, broad shoulders, busted knuckles, and a beard I trim the same way I’ve trimmed it since high school. Not cause I’m tryin’ to make some kinda statement, cause it’s what works. Always has.
I got the kinda build that comes from hoisting engines, not dumbbells. Tank tops in the summer, thermal flannels in thewinter, jeans year-round no matter how hot it gets. I wear the same boots every day, and they’ve still got grease in the laces from two years ago. Skin’s full of freckles and usually sunburned, arms tanned, hands calloused to hell.
Seems like I’m mean to most people cause I don’t smile much. Truth is, smiling feels like too much effort. The few times I’ve done it, it hasn’t exactly gotten me anywhere good.
My eyes are this weird washed-out color like the inside of a beer bottle left in the sun. Folks around here say they look like they’re always squintin’ at something, like I’m suspicious, which to be fair… I usually am.
Only thing soft on me is my belly. Everything else got hardened up somewhere along the way.
I don’t advertise it, but I’m sure it’s there. In the way I walk or the way I love, and I don’t know how to carry that, but God help me… I wanna try. Cause here’s this man standing in front of me like the answer to a prayer I never had the guts to say out loud, and his eyes are on me and I don’t know what to do except want him so bad it hurts.
He steps toward me extending a hand. “Sorry to drag you out here.”
I take his hand and nod. Not a word. Nothing.
It’s rude, sure, but better rude than me opening my mouth and saying something like “Well ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” in full hillbilly drawl. Or worse, stuttering like I’ve never seen a hot man before.
Truth be told, I kinda haven’t. Not in person. Not this hot.
He’s standing there, sheepish smile and all, like I knew he would be, and I can’t be mad about it. Not with those navy slacks stretched tight across a perfect, round ass and him smelling like expensive soap and a skincare routine.
So yeah… all I can do is nod.
Better rude than sweaty-palmed and stupid.
“I wasn’t even supposed to take this road,” he says. “GPS rerouted me and I didn’t realize how rough it got until I was halfway down it and… well… here we are.”
To him it’s a cute little mistake, but his mistake has him chuckling and me actively trying to remember how basic social cues work.
“Yup,” I mutter heading over to check out the car.
I crouch down and assess the damage. The front driver side tire is toast. Shredded to hell, with little scraps still clinging to a rim that’s full bent into a curve where no curve should be. Must’ve hit a rock or something solid.
This ain’t a simple swap-the-wheel-and-go situation. He’s gonna need a shop. Probably a new rim. Maybe a reality check.
Something must be written on my face because he leans in and asks, “That bad?”
The grimace I offer in response should confirmation enough.
“Can you put the spare on for me?”
“Spare’s not gonna help if the rim’s shaped like a Pringle,” I cut in.
I stand and wipe my hands on my jeans, already turning toward the truck to lower the lift.
“I’ll tow you to the shop.”
My hands know what to do. The rest of me is completely malfunctioning.
“Is the shop nearby?” He asks, stepping a little closer. He’s far more open than he should be out here on the side of a pitch-black road surrounded by nothin’ but trees, raccoons, and the Holy Spirit.
“Nah.” My voice comes out rough as I kneel to check the tires, grateful for the excuse not to look at him cause meeting his gaze might be like inviting demons in. The kind my Meemaw used to warn me about.
He chuckles again. “Cool. I’ve never been through here. Sycamore, right? Is it big?”
“Nope,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. “Not much to see. You’ll be better off once you’re back on the highway.”
There’s a pause. I feel it. He’s probably blinking. Possibly reconsidering being nice to the feral mechanic who growled at him.
