Motorhead Page 4

  “Oooh, shit,” I say, squinting sympathetically.

  “Yeah. Trying to race an old, piece-of-shit Lincoln Towncar! Jesus. Anyway, we couldn’t get it out of the ditch. My brother, who was living in DC by then, happened to be in town visiting. So I called him instead of my dad. Rob brought a friend who had a truck with a winch, and they pulled it out. Thank God I never got going fast enough to do any damage!”

  “Did your brother give you hell about it?”

  “Oh, yeah. But he didn’t rat me out to my dad, so it was all good in the end.”

  His voice and expression are so sheepish, I have to laugh. He laughs along with me but he actually looks a bit embarrassed!

  My God! He’s ridiculously sweet. A warm and comfy feeling towards him grows in my chest.

  “Alright, that’s a good one. I’ll give you a similar one.” My legs are falling asleep, so I uncurl them and stretch them out in front of me. “Back in the day, my brother Hamish built a couple dune buggies for us younger kids to fool around with. He…well, all my brothers had use of my dad’s garage and tools at my parents’ place. They own a farm property with a barn and a big garage as well as the house in town here. We all spent a lot of our time there. So anyway, when I was about twelve, I…um, I stole one of the buggies and took Jennifer for a joy ride.”

  I purse my lips and look at him from under my eyelashes.

  “Tsk tsk,” he says, solemnly. But his eyes are sparkling.

  “See, Hamish taught me and Tommy to drive when we were about ten. We were only allowed to drive on the property, mind you, but it made me quite confident behind the wheel. I merely…lacked permission, that one time.” I give him a guilty look, to which he responds with a chuckle. “Jennifer and I both knew how much trouble we’d be in if we got caught. She said she didn’t know what’d be worse, dying in a crash or getting in shit with my dad! Hah!”

  “So what happened? What’d your dad do to you?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t get caught. Because, I was a good driver and didn’t ditch it in ten seconds,” I tease, giving him a big, cheesy smile.

  He sits back, raises his brows and grins. “Ohhhh, zing! You’re two-for-two so far.” His warm eyes reflect the liquid orange glow from the fire.

  “Just sayin’,” I giggle. “But rest assured, my luck ran out. I tried it again the next week and encountered my father just as I was driving it out of the garage. I didn’t know he’d come home from work early that day. So…yeah. Grounded for the summer…don’t say a word or it’ll go worse for ya.”

  “Ouch. You deserved it, naughty girl. Stealing your brother’s buggy, tsk tsk.” With his long legs stretched out in front of him, he reaches over with his foot and gives my ankle a gentle, affectionate nudge with the toe of his shoe.

  As he does it, the way he looks into my eyes makes a shiver go straight through my being.

  We talk for a while about how much we both love driving. Turns out, Mark’s first attempt to race his dad’s beater was only the beginning of his own love affair with speed. Like many boys in rural areas––and some girls like myself, too––as soon as he could drive, he indulged in racing on the dirt roads outside of town.

  And, like many rural kids, he had an assortment of mopeds, ATVs, dirt bikes and other motor vehicles, and grew up riding those around the countryside, building make-shift tracks in farmer’s fields and rural properties, raising hell and having fun with his friends.

  From what he’s saying, it’s becoming apparent that Mark is a pretty skilled driver himself.

  “So…” he says, leaning back with a sigh. Again, he moves his foot closer to mine, leaving it so close it’s almost touching. “You still taking the buggies for a spin these days?”

  “No,” I reply, moving my own foot so that it’s resting against his denim-clad ankle. I look into his sparkling eyes. “Hamish sold them years ago. I miss them though. Even though they were nothing but two seats and four wheels in a frame, we had so much fun with those things!”

  I press my foot more firmly against his leg, wanting to keep the contact going.

  For a moment, we just regard each other, blinking solemnly.

  “You know what?” he says, quietly.

  “What?” I say, matching his tone.

  “I’m sure glad Brenda had a girl’s night tonight so I could meet you.”

  “Me, too.”

  A lull follows, the silence comfortable yet full of anticipation.

  I ask him how the Star Wars movie was, and he falls into an excited, animated description of the movie, telling me about the characters and where it fits into the Star Wars franchise. Hot, sweet and geeky. Shit, man. I could really fall for this guy.

  “But I won’t tell you how it ends,” he says. “I don’t want to spoil it for you. And maybe…maybe we can watch it together sometime.”

  “I’d love that.”

  We grin at each other, then we fall into another comfortable silence, watching the fire getting lower and just feeling each other’s presence.

  The neighborhood is growing more tranquil. Most everyone is gone to sleep now. There’s only the sound of flames crackling in the little fire, crickets, and occasional car sounds or a dog barking in the distance.

  I let out a huge yawn. He looks over at me.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s time to call it a night,” he says. “Hey, before I go, you wanna help me with something?”

  “Um, okay? What?”

  He stands up. “Come to the garage with me.”

  In Rob’s garage, Mark flicks on a strong overhead light. “Obviously, it’s too late to start it up right now,” he says, pulling a lawn mower under the light. “But earlier, Rob showed me how it’s stalling out after running for a few minutes. You wanna help me check it out?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Did it start okay?”

  “No. Needs a few pulls, then it runs rough.”

  “Hmm. Maybe it’s water in the gas line, or… bad gas mixture, or bad spark plug.”

  “Heh. My thoughts as well.” He pulls a small socket wrench out of his pocket and hands it to me, then stands back, making it obvious that he wants to see if I know what to do with it.

  “Oh, testing the chick with the muscle car to see if she can take a spark plug out, huh?”

  He smiles.

  Smiling myself, I use the tool to remove the spark plug, which I hold up to the light.

  “Look at that electrode,” I say. “Bad gas mixture.”

  Mark’s eyes are alight.

  “I concur with your diagnosis, Ms. Sinclair.” He reaches for the plug. I hold it out to him, but instead of taking it, he delicately wraps his hand around mine and caresses my thumb with his own.

  Electricity races through me, stopping my breath and making my heart leap like a gazelle.

  Our eyes meet over our clasped hands. He squeezes my fingers ever so gently and then takes the spark plug from my hand.

  Speaking quietly, he says, “I have to go. Tomorrow’s a regular work day for me and I need to get some sleep.”

  “Yes, okay. I…it was very nice meeting you. And talking to you. Have a good night,” I say, my pounding heart making it hard to speak.

  I step back and half-turn towards the door.

  “Marie?” A grin plays across his lips and those blue eyes gleam with mirth. “Um, if I promise to never spam you, can I get your phone number before you go?”

  Chapter Five

  Marie

  Dad started Sinclair’s Auto back in the late seventies when he was only twenty-two. The company then was a single-bay, Mom-and-Pop, “We fix ‘em all!” kind of auto repair shop.

  It’s vastly evolved over the years. Now primarily focused on auto parts supply, the company has three locations, each boasting thousands of square feet of warehouse space. Each location is filled with rack upon rack of auto parts in a bewildering variety, served from a gleaming storefront. A fully-stocked delivery van goes out on the road eve
ry morning from each location at eight o’clock sharp, servicing a territory that covers a vast chunk of central Ohio.

  The auto repair side of Sinclair’s these days is exclusive to select clients who drive high-end, classic, antique or specialty cars that we customize and maintain for such wealthy automobile aficionados. This work is carried out in a special service facility located at head office.

  Limiting our repair side to custom, high-end work leaves plenty of room for new or smaller repair shops like Mark’s to take root and make a living.

  And, of course, these businesses buy their parts from us.

  Like my dad says, it’s a win-win situation.

  However, the supply side is the company’s bread and butter, having grown from a single line of parts to a nearly infinite array of products.

  Sinclair’s parts business enjoys a basic monopoly in our neck of the woods and that’s where my Dad and my two older brothers, Callum and Hamish, spend most of their energy doing the sourcing and purchasing and making deals for new lines.

  One of my middle brothers, Gavin, splits his time between the three locations, managing day-to-day operations on a tight schedule.

  My twin Tommy and I work at headquarters. Tommy does all the high-end custom repairs in the spacious repair shop here. As for me, I have a cubicle stuffed into the back of Tommy’s office, off of the service area. It’s tiny and cramped, but at least it’s private. I can get work done without people looking over my shoulder.

  Today, it’s Friday of what must be the longest work week of my life. For a few weeks now, I’ve been working closely with Tommy on a special project to inventory and audit every part, tool and cost of the repair shop. All of that information is going into a unique database, for this business unit only, that I’m setting up from scratch.

  The work is a long-overdue, in-depth profit/loss-analysis of the repair side of the business. And the project is even more of a pain because only Tommy knows this specific aspect of the business anymore. So he has to help me count inventory and populate the database while he simultaneously attends to the rich and picky clients.

  Unlike myself, Tommy’s not a very good multi-tasker.

  We’re only about half-way through, but he’s getting grumpier by the day. And of course, he’s not shy about showing his impatience.

  I can’t blame him. It’s an endless task. There’s just…so…much….stuff! If I think about it too much, my courage fails me. It’s been a slow, tedious project and we’re so ready for it to be over.

  Making this past week even draggier is how distracted I’ve been. I can’t concentrate on anything except Mark. My thoughts keep returning to the way he looks…and the way he looks at me.

  And…the way I feel around him. The way he touched my foot with his, by the fire. The way he touched my hand in Rob’s garage. Jesus! I can still feel the shock of the electricity we shared!

  And of course, I can’t stop all the horny imaginings of…various things. How certain of his, ah, body parts… might look…or feel.

  Damn!

  Yeah. I’m crushing on Mark pretty hard.

  When I got in to work Monday morning, I found myself taking a peek at his account in the system, just to see what it says. Turns out, not much, since he’s still a new customer. He buys the usual stuff, pays his bills on time and that’s about all there is to see.

  Of course, I’ve haunted his social media too, even though we’re not official friends anywhere yet. It doesn’t look like he posts very much, so there probably won’t be much to creep on.

  Not that I usually creep on people ––much––but I can’t help but be curious about Mark.

  Monday night, Mark texted me, just to say ‘hi’. We had a quick chat by text and he said he’d be in touch later in the week.

  Sure enough, Wednesday night he texts me, and asks if he can call. We end up talking for almost two hours, flirting and chatting about inconsequential things.

  He wants to see me the next night, the Thursday. I have to say no, explaining that I’m planning to practice for the upcoming charity race.

  Of course, he’s heard the rumors and buzz around town about the race, but he doesn’t have the inside scoop like I do.

  I give him the gist, including the winner’s purse for first place in the main event.

  “Fifty grand? Interesting!” he says. “How do you know all these details?”

  “My dad’s on the Maple Mills Motor Sports board of directors.”

  “Ah. I’d definitely like to hear more about this later. But right now, I still want to book you for a date. I even have a back-up plan, because I’m a Boy Scout like that. How about Friday?”

  “Friday…okay, Friday’s good. What do you have in mind?”

  “It’s a secret. I want to surprise you. Would you let me do that?”

  “I…sure, I guess so.”

  “Good. Now, let me ask you this: Can you swim?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Okay. There’s swimming involved, which you need to know so you can bring a swim suit. Oh, and a change of clothes, too. Also…do you mind having a double-date with some friends of mine? They’re very nice people. What I have in mind kind of requires it.”

  “No, I don’t mind.” Pause. “What on earth are you planning? Synchronized swimming?”

  He laughs. “Can’t tell ya, it’s a surprise. Swimming’s only a part of it.”

  “Okay. But…I…are we wearing a swimsuit for the other part, too?”

  “No, no! But you don’t need to dress up. It’s not fancy. Listen, I want to leave right after work. What time do you get off ?”

  “Five o’clock. But…”

  “Where should I pick you up?”

  “Um..at the office, I guess? Wait, Mark…should I do my hair? Brush my teeth? I mean, I try to brush my teeth once a week whether they need it or not, but I’ll do it extra for a special occasion.”

  Silence for two heart beats.

  Then, “Haha, you’re a riot,” he says. We both laugh.

  “Seriously though, what should I wear? Can you be more specific than ‘it’s not fancy’?”

  “Sure. It means, don’t dress up. In fact, dress down. We’re gonna be getting dirty.”

  And now I’m excitedly watching the clock as it winds towards quitting time.

  It took me nearly an hour last night to decide which bathing suit from my small collection to take. I settled on a nice bikini…not a skimpy one, but one that flatters my figure without showing too much.

  Today’s work attire consists of jeans and a navy golf shirt with Sinclair’s logo embroidered on the upper left breast. I figure that should be appropriate for whatever Mark has planned.

  I’m nervous about Mark picking me up here. I offered to meet him somewhere, wanting to erase any chances of him running into my dad or my brothers.

  He wouldn’t hear of it. “Nope. I like to pick up my dates. Just tell me where you’ll be.”

  So he’s coming to headquarters…thank God my dad left early to get to the Speedway, where we’re keeping the Wee Marie, the Camaro that I’ll be driving in the racing event.

  “Alright, here’s the last of the inventory count for the day. Fuck, I hate this shit!” Tommy drops a sheaf of papers on my desk and collapses into a nearby chair.

  I pick up the first paper in the pile and start keying the values into the computer system. It’s a mindless task I could do in my sleep. “Yeah, me too,” I reply, absently. I’m keeping a lid on it, but I’m getting more nervous and excited as my date with Mark approaches.

  “You wanna stop at Arnie’s on the way to the Speedway tonight? They have homemade chicken curry. Callum highly recommends it.”

  “Mmm-hmm, sure,” I mutter, fingers typing mechanically while my mind cycles through fantasy images of Mark doing various naughty things to my body.

  “I think you’ll like how the Wee Marie handles now,” Tommy says. “After you left last night, Da
d adjusted the timing and it seems to have made a significant improvement.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say, thinking about how sweet it is that Mark is such an unabashed Star Wars fan. God, how adorable!

  I love geeks! Especially when they’re so hot-looking and well…built.

  A sensation of heat in my cheeks —and in the valley between my thighs— slowly starts to grow.

  “When we get there, the first thing I’m gonna do is make that flywheel a bit tighter. We’ll see if that fixes that sluggishness in the upper revs.” Tommy’s voice in the background barely registers in my consciousness.

  “Right, okay,” I mutter. In my mind, Mark is simultaneously kissing me deeply while assuring me that I am the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his whole entire life.

  I smile, thinking how weird it is that I can fantasize about a guy kissing me while he’s talking at the same time, which is impossible. My body sure doesn’t care! I wriggle a bit in my seat.

  “Yeah. Once I’ve made a few adjustments, your car should be able to launch into outer space with all rocket engines firing, reaching orbit in sixty seconds or less.”

  “Uh-huh? Sounds good…” Now, my imaginary Mark is rolling both of my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers…ooooh….now he’s putting his hand between my legs…mmmm!

  “Or, alternatively, you could drive that car right off a cliff and perish at the bottom in a ball of fire!”

  I glance at my twin, nodding to assure him that I’m listening, and keep keying values while my fantasy-Mark is pulling my jeans down. Now he’s parting my thighs with his big, strong hands, exposing my naked…

  “Or, you could just forget the whole thing and go on an axe-murdering spree at City Hall. That’ll at least get your picture in the paper before the cops have to put you down like a dog.”

  “What?” I sit back, frowning, and focus on Tommy now. “Who had to put down their dog?”

  Tommy guffaws, shaking his head. “Where’s your mind been the last few minutes, ‘Ree?”

  “What do you mean? I…I’m working and listening to you blather about your clients.”