Page 1 of Trouble
1
Maddox
“That’ll be $185 for parts and labor,” I told Ms. Woods.
She sucked her breath in through her teeth. “Really, Maddox? I thought you quoted one fifty. I’m on a teacher’s salary, you know.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. It took me longer than I thought to sort out the oil filter. You can’t rush these things, you know?” I flashed her a cheeky grin, as if trying to hint to her what else I wouldn’t rush.
In her mid-thirties, she was around ten years older than me and cougar-pretty. If I was interested in making a move on her, I’m sure it wouldn’t take me long to have my way. Although Angela Woods was a pre-school teacher, and I broke out in hives any time I got close to children. Still, if I gave her some hope, maybe she wouldn’t mind the extra cost.
A flush crept up the side of her neck, spreading to her cheeks as she reached into her purse.
Bingo!
“Is a card okay?” she asked.
“Perfect.”
Happily, I reached for the card machine and plugged in the information, before handing it to her. She keyed in her PIN, then passed it back over to me. I waited impatiently for the approval, wondering if the flaky Wi-Fi would hold out long enough for it to go through. Finding a new service provider was on a long list of jobs that needed doing when I had the time. After a couple of minutes, it finally went through and I ripped off the receipt, giving it back to her along with her card. I glanced up to the sky, saying a silent thank you to whatever was up there.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Woods.” The grin was back; I wanted her to think she’d got a bargain.
“Thanks, Maddox. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see you again soon.” She gave me a wry smile as I handed her the keys. Our fingers brushed and I think she lingered for just that little bit longer than was necessary.
“It would be a pleasure if I did. Although perhaps not for your bank account,” I added swiftly, not wanting to give her the wrong idea. Because Ms. Woods really didn’t do it for me.
After she left, I sat down at the messy desk, covered with invoices, notes and the odd car part, taking a moment between jobs. My stomach growled and I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was close to six, almost closing time. If I could finish soon, there would be time to head home to shower and change before meeting up with one of my best buddies at the diner.
Our family business had been passed down over the years, until the responsibility fell to me after the untimely death of my father a little over a year ago.
Devastated didn’t even begin to cover it.
We had been close.
Maybe closer than most father and sons because of the fact I never knew my mom. My aunt Penny had fulfilled the motherly role in my life after Mom had suffered complications during my birth and passed away a few days later. Dad had always shown me pictures of her—a beautiful woman with dark hair and dark eyes—and always spoke of her, making sure I learned about their relationship and how much she’d been looking forward to having me in her life.
Always the life and soul, he’d been struck down by a heart attack in his mid-fifties. Years and years of eating good food, coupled with enjoying several beers every Friday night and little exercise—except for the garage—brought about his tragic early demise.
After Dad died and I worked through my grief, I ended up doing the majority of work at the garage myself. After all Cali Cross wasn’t a sprawling metropolis. I’d found a couple of guys, one of whom was doing a vehicle maintenance course at the community college in nearby Cali Heights, to help out on a casual basis. It mostly worked well. On some occasions, I wished I had more help, but usually the work ticked on, a couple of jobs a day, mainly simple things. It kept operating costs down by not having more staff, and it meant that I had the money I needed to paint my newest acquisition without having to think about paying the bills. The beauty of owning and running a garage meant I could follow my passion with the profits.
I loved fixing up old cars.
My day job, repairing other people’s vehicles, paid for my hobby.
There were some advantages to being the only garage in Cali Cross.
Although, since I ended up making so much money from renovating the other cars, I couldn’t really call it a hobby.
Some cars I found, the really special or rare ones, I kept. They were an investment. After all the time and effort put into them, it was hard to let go. I had to keep explaining this to aunt Penny, who was getting sick and tired of all the space in her yard being taken up by ‘those damn toy cars’ as she called them. I pretended to be upset with her—deep down she may have been right about a few of them—but it was rapidly becoming our standing joke. I was grateful that Penny was so understanding. Her brother, my dad, had been a hoarder too. She could see the similarities between us.
I still kept a few of the cars which had been his, waiting for the right moment to let go of them.
I saved them for a rainy day, an emergency, as long as I possibly could.
I held on to them until something else came along that was rarer and more beautiful than the first.
My attitude towards my cars was comparable my dating history—they were both painfully similar. I found women I liked. I dated them. Then, I grew bored and traded them in for a newer model. A few of my exes told me I was cruel, but that’s what dating was like for me, finding the right fit. I was always honest though, never strung them along, never gave them any hope of a long-term future with the house and the white picket fence.
