Page 14
“Nah, you know she wants you, Dom,” I say, kicking the wheel of the creeper hard enough to roll him a few inches further under the chassis.
“Hey, hey, hey, watch the merchandise.” He kicks back, his boot catching the side of my shin. “I will not be held responsible for what I do to a man who scratches the paint on this car.”
“You’d cry,” I say, walking over to the Bronco I’ve got open on the other lift. “Like actually cry. I’ve seen you cry over less.”
“One time. I cried one time.”
“You cried when Walker died.”
“Every man with a soul cried when Walker died.” The creeper rolls out from under the Charger, and Dominic sits up, a smear of black grease running from his cheekbone down to his jaw. He grabs the rag hanging out of his back pocket and wipes his hands. “Anyway. Don’t change the subject. Tell me you didn’t bone Miss Franklin in the bathroom.”
“I have not, and will not, ever bone Miss Franklin in any location, bathroom or otherwise.” I lean over the open hood of the Bronco and trace the fuel hose with my fingers, looking for the crack the owner swears is there. “I have standards.”
“Standards? Hmm…” He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Like Annie! Sweet little ol’ Annie with a throat like a black hole.”
Annie Wheeler is the girl I’ve been hooking up with for the past two years. She was getting over her high school sweetheart who died overseas, and I was still getting over a girl I thought was my world. We use each other for comfort, nothing more.
I clear my throat. “I never confirmed or denied that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Dominic tosses the rag onto his workbench and crosses his arms, leaning against the Charger. “I saw your shit-eating grin at the kickback last Saturday.”
“Dom, you said we have an open relationship,” I tease, looking over to see him flipping me off.
“You wish, asshole.” He kicks the creeper aside and walks toward the parts cabinet, pulling out a wrench and tossing it from one hand to the other. “But you know, you and Annie have been at it for the last two years. You could make an honest woman out of her, or whatever you country boys do.”
“Country boys fuck just the same way city boys do, Dom,” I say, looking up from the fuel line and throwing him a wink. “I’ve just heard we’re better at it.”
“Fuck off, Gray. You know New York boys are the boys your country girls dream of.”
“Yeah?” I duck back under the hood. “Then how come you’ve been in Maine for three years and the only girl you’ve taken home is the bartender at Murphy’s, who, last I checked, has a husband?”
“Allegedly has a husband,” he calls back. “Nobody’s ever met the guy.”
I’m still laughing when my phone goes off in my back pocket. I pull it out. The screen lights up against my greasy palm.
MAGGIE.
My stomach drops. Maggie, my stepmother, doesn’t call me. She sends daily health texts, or silly photos, and this morning included something about dad feeling uncomfortable as he pees, which is normal. The guy is seventy with dementia, and everything feels uncomfortable. She shouldn’t be calling me.
“Gray,” Dominic says, watching me. The wrench has stopped flipping in his hand. “You good?”
“It’s Maggie,” I say.
His grin drops off his face so fast you’d think I punched him. He sets the wrench down on the bench, hard, and crosses his arms over his chest, eyes locked on mine.
“You want me to step out?” he asks, his voice lulling into an almost aggressive level of concern.
“Nah, I’ll be right back,” I say, swiping to answer, and turning to walk out of the back into the break room.
“Hey, Mags.”
“Gray, hon, hi.” Her voice is a sweet, yet shaky coo, and I feel my chest tightening as I slip inside the small break room. “Sorry to call. I know you’re at the shop.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, dropping onto the lumpy brown couch against the far wall. The thing creaks under my weight, one of those damned busted items Bud bought off a church liquidation sale fifteen years ago because he is congenitally incapable of spending a real dollar on shop furniture.
“Your father has a UTI,” she says.
“A UTI,” I echo flatly.
