CHAPTER ONE
DIESEL
The squeal of metal against metal splits through the shop as I torque down the last bolt on Caleb Ridge's rusted-out Jeep. Another day, another vehicle barely held together with duct tape and prayer. My hands are black with grease. Satisfaction runs through me as the bolt gives one final protest before yielding to my strength.
"I'm telling you man, she's smoking hot. Total knockout." My apprentice Marcus leans against the workbench, blabbing about some woman he met at The Velvet Antler last night instead of finishing the oil change on the Chevy in bay three.
I grunt in response, sliding out from under the Jeep and fixing him with my patented glare. The one that makes even the Kane brothers think twice about testing me. "You know what else is hot? That transmission if you don't get the fuck back to work and finish the oil change before lunch."
Marcus rolls his eyes but pushes off the bench. "Yes, boss." He drags the word out like he's twelve instead of twenty-two, but he moves back to the Chevy, which is all I care about.
The garage is my domain. In here, I'm king. I built Grizzle & Grind from nothing after leaving the street racing scene in Vancouver with a pocket full of cash and a reputation I was trying to outrun. Five years of busting my ass seven days a week turned this abandoned building into the best garage in three provinces. I don't tolerate laziness, excuses, or shoddy work.
"Diesel!" Ricky calls from the front office. "Got a call from Roman. His Ducati's making that clicking sound again."
I wipe my hands on a shop rag, leaving dark smears across the already filthy cloth. "Tell him to bring it in tomorrow morning. I'll look at it myself."
The Kane brothers are good customers. Rich as sin from their daddy's enterprises and they don't blink at my prices. Plus, Roman knows his way around an engine. Unlike his brother Noah, who wouldn't know a carburetor from a catalytic converter.
The December air blasts through the bay door as it rattles up, carrying the scent of snow and pine. Winter in Crimson Hollow means business picks up. Tourists getting stuck in snowdrifts. Locals sliding into ditches. City folks with their fancy all-wheel drives discovering that technology can't outsmart black ice.
A sleek black pickup pulls up, and I recognize Jabari Cole climbing out. Quiet guy, makes furniture up on the mountain. He's been coming down more often since he started dating Sage from Bean & Bloom.
"Torres." He nods as he approaches, hands shoved in the pockets of his heavy canvas jacket.
"Cole." I match his brevity. "What can I do for you?"
"Need new snow tires before the big storm hits this weekend. The ones I've got are too worn for another season."
I nod. "Got a set that'll fit your truck. Can have them mounted by tomorrow afternoon."
"Works for me." He doesn't waste words, which I appreciate. Man after my own heart.
We're discussing the merits of studded versus non-studded when the sound of a struggling engine draws our attention to the road. The painful whine of a motor being pushed beyond its limits makes me wince. The source comes into view: a classic 1967 Mustang in cherry red, limping along like a wounded animal.
Beautiful car. Terrible condition.
The Mustang sputters to a stop at the entrance to my lot, coughing out a cloud of smoke before dying completely. The driver cranks the engine several times, each attempt weaker than the last.
"That doesn't sound good," Jabari observes.
"No shit." I'm already moving toward the car, my mechanic's brain cataloging the symptoms. Fuel pump, maybe. Or something worse.
The driver's door swings open, and a woman steps out. My step falters.
Fuck me.
She's gorgeous. Tall and curvy with deep brown skin and a mass of natural curls pulled back in a puff at the crown of her head. She's wearing a bright yellow peacoat that should look ridiculous in the dead of winter but somehow makes her glow like a fucking sunbeam against the gray December sky. Big round glasses frame eyes that flash with frustration as she kicks one of the Mustang's tires.
"Stupid piece of junk!" Her voice carries across the parking lot. "I told him you weren't worth the money."
I approach slowly, taking in the car's condition. Despite the glossy paint job, I can see the telltale signs of a rush restoration job. Pretty on the outside, disaster underneath.
"Problem with your car?" I ask, voice gruffer than I intended.
She whirls around, startled by my approach. Those eyes widen, taking me in from head to toe in one sweeping glance. I'm used to the reaction. The tattoos that cover both arms and peek out from my collar tend to make an impression. So does the blue streak in my black hair and the perpetual scowl I wear like armor.
"No, I just stopped by because I heard you give great customer service," she snaps, gesturing wildly at the smoking engine. "Of course there's a problem with my car!"
