Anger at myself rivals the anger I feel toward Atlas right now, and hell hath no fury like a mother scorned.
As I sit here and wait, I think of my boys' faces.
My Liam, with his father's dark hair and eyes, but with my smile, telling me that he's happy for me.
My sweet baby Noah, my little artist, with his father’s brown eyes and my ginger hair, giggling and telling me that he loves me.
I think of them, and I feel unstoppable.
My heart rate spikes when I finally hear the unmistakable sound of Atlas' truck barreling down our street, coming closer and closer.
I sit there as I hear him park in the garage, his heavy andfrantic boot steps stomping in the garage, up the short steps, and through the door.
"Wendy!"
His roar echoes in the house, bouncing off all of the walls and reverberating right into my soul, but I don't make a sound. I just wait. He stomps past the living room, stops, before circling back.
"Baby," he growls, stopping short when he sees me and his eyes take me in from head to toe. Mine do the same to him.
His eyes are wild, his hair is a mess, he's still in his oil stained overalls, and the papers are clutched and wrinkled in his hand. He lifts them up,"What is this?!"
I stare at him for a long moment, letting the moment grow heavy and charged, watching him practically vibrate in his spot.
"Guess I finally have your attention," I gesture to the chair across from me, and I meet Atlas' dark, blazing eyes.
Ihateconfrontation, but I need to do this.
I know my own eyes are pure ice right now, and through gritted teeth, I snarl:
"Sit. I have a lot to say, Atlas, and you're going to listen."
Chapter Twelve
Atlas
November
I've just finished with my last client.
It was just an oil change, a rather menial job for my level of experience. Definitely a job that I should have passed off to one of my newer techs, but the familiar rhythm keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet. Right now that matters more than my new techs gaining experience.
It's my least favorite time of the day—time to start closing up shop. The November sky is already dark, and my employees are finishing their last jobs and cleaning their stations, eager to get home to whatever awaits them on the other side of these bay doors.
Most are younger, fresh out of tech school, so they don't have families yet. Since it's Friday, they're probably going to go out to the bar with friends, maybe catch the fight, maybe find someone to hook up with.
I don't know, because I make a point not to know. I keep a healthy distance between them and me, not wanting them to know anything personal about me. Because that opens the door for questions I don't want to—and honestly, can't—answer.
My employees know what they need to know—that I'm their boss and that I'm the owner's son. And they know I work just as hard, if not harder, than they do.
If I speak to them, I keep it professional, clipped, and neutral, only about work. I'm sure that's why this location is the most successful of all. Why my dad never has to come here,and can put all of his effort in the newer locations.
I usually do the end-of-day paperwork and the deposit around 5:30. I could easily delegate it to an assistant manager, but it keeps my hands occupied and gives me another excuse not to go home too early.
I've just opened my laptop when I see Aubree come to my office door.
She's young, probably just out of college, blonde and peppy, and good with clients. She has a genuine knack for putting people at ease and guiding them through the sometimes-overwhelming diagnostics of their cars and the financial logistics of the cost.
She's been taught that if someone is a loyal customer and we need to work out a payment plan, we do it, and she has a way of making it sound like something other than charity.
