A voice echoes through the sprawling space. “Coming!”
RJ steps out of his office on the metal walkway spanning the shop’s entire top floor, the iron trembling under his weight.
“How’s it going, kids?” he calls out as he trips his way down the stairs.
He’s in his forties but looks at least a decade older.
“You put the Road Runner round the back?”
“Yup!” Don tosses him the key.
“How’re Lane and Adam?”
“Doing great. They say hi, by the way.”
RJ nods. “Tell Lane to give me a call sometime. I’ve thought of something for his Camaro.”
My gaze drifts over to the car lift. “Can I check something on the Dodge while we’re here?”
“Make yourself at home, Lewis.” RJ gestures at Don. “Let’s go see your leather.”
I head back out to pick up my car, and once I’ve lined it up onthe machine, I jack it up a few inches before lowering myself onto the creeper and disappearing underneath it.
I’m still lying on the ground, working away on the Dodge, when I hear the garage door slide open and footsteps stomping across the floor.
“Yo, RJ? Next time you send me to go collect money from some three-hundred-pound dude, maybe give me a heads-up?”
I turn just in time to see a pair of sneakers flash by. Sounds like a girl. And it sounds like she’s pissed.
The stairs squeak overhead as RJ picks his way down to the shop floor.
“Yeah, I bet you were real scared,” he drawls. “Don! Get your ass over here. I want to introduce you to somebody.”
“What’s that Dodge thing doing here?” Her voice suddenly sounds different.
I bristle.Dodge thing? Girl, please…
I shove myself to the side and roll out from under the car.Well, well, well… If it isn’t—
“Firebird!” Donovan yelps.
She flinches at the nickname, and I watch as her eyes slide over to me. She blinks hard, as if she can’t quite believe it.That makes two of us.
Don holds out a hand for me to grab, and I jump to my feet, wiping my fingers down on a rag. What were the chances I’d run into her again so soon? And what the hell is she doing here, anyway?
RJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “You guys know each other?”
“No, but Idoknow her car,” my friend explains. “1969 Pontiac Firebird.”
RJ laughs. “I should’ve guessed. Come on, Amy—remember your manners. Say hi to the nice man. We’re working on Donovan’s car this weekend.”
“Hi,” she says dully.
“Remember the assistant I told you about?” RJ pats her shoulder. “Amy here helps me out from time to time. You can trust her, I promise.”
She’s a mechanic?
She’s wearing a red grease suit to match her nails; the sleeves knotted around her waist. It pains me to admit it, but she looks damn good.
