Chapter 2

And Melissa recommends this place?

“Listen up, son,” Terrence says, his already deep voice dropping a notch or two. A big guy like him can sound positively intimidating on the phone. “I need my car serviced, and my secretary suggested your place. Can you take a look at it today?”

Gary groans. Literally, over the phone, he groans in Terrence’s ear. As if this car were the last thing he needed right now. Terrence is about to hang up and just call one of the name brand places, Jiffy Lube maybe, Meineke or Tuffy or even Walmart, anywhere other than this rinky-dink little shop called Gary’s.

But then Gary sighs. “My mechanic should be in around nine. I only got one guy working today, so I don’t know how long you’ll have to wait.”

“Fine.” Terrence thinks he’ll wait all damn day if he has to, if only to piss Gary off.

Through the phone, he hears Gary scrambling around for something, a pen maybe, or a piece of paper. He sounds as organized as Melissa. “What kind of car is it?”

With a certain measure of pride in his voice, Terrence tells him, “A Mercedes.”

Gary groans again.

Rich prick,that groan says. A dull anger rises in Terrence at the implied prejudice he thinks he hears in that groan, and part of him hopes this Gary idiot is at the shop when he arrives, because he plans on telling him exactlywhat he thinks of the guy’s customer service and phone etiquette. How is it someone half his age can make him feel so unworthy and unimportant with just a few unintelligent grunts? Terrence wants to know that. Melissa likesthis place? Did she actually say the people were friendly?

“Be here in a half hour,” Gary says, then hangs up. He doesn’t ask for Terrence’s number, the model of the car, his name, even.

Fuck.Terrence twists the key in the ignition so hard, the engine growls as if goosed. This time when he peels out of his driveway, he doesn’t give the car time to act up. It chugs to itself, once, then settles for a desultory knock every now and then to remind him it’s unhappy.

After a few feet, Terrence rolls down the window and a sweet spring breeze fills the car. A few beads of sweat have begun to trickle down the side of his face. He raises an arm, presses his jaw against his shoulder, and wipes the sweat away.

This is notgoing to be a fun day.

* * * *

Terrence arrives at the auto shop a good ten minutes early. There are two cars parked in the shop’s meager lot, both junkers that obviously have not moved in years—grass grows up between the tires of one vehicle, and the other is rusted so badly, Terrence can’t figure out the car’s original color. His Mercedes gleams beside them.

Exiting his car, Terrence stops to check his reflection in his tinted window. Thick neck, broad shoulders, face and hands blends into the darkened glass as the bright white shirt he wears seems to glow in the sunshine. He straightens his tie, which is a muted pink color most men wouldn’t be secure enough about their sexuality to pull off wearing. Then he steps back, hikes up his slacks an inch, and admires his own appearance. For an old guy, Terrence thinks he’s looking pretty damn fine.

Running a hand over the top of his head, as if the short, kinked curls there would ever get out of place, he heads for the front door of the auto shop. As he approaches, he can see through the glass door at the tiny waiting room—no one is inside. The counter is empty, and even the bay doors leading to the garage are closed. No one’s home.

Of course not. Why did he even think Gary would roll his lazy ass out of bed just to cater to his whims? Damn.

Bitterly, Terrence yanks open the door and surges into the shop. Above him a little bell jangles at his entrance. The waiting room is smaller than he thought; he feels as if he fills the entire area, his large body cramped and uncomfortable. The idea of sitting in one of the miniature chairs in front of the counter is a joke. With a glare on his face he sees reflected back at him in the mirrored wall behind the register, Terrence leans on the counter, pissed.

He’s alone. No other customers, no one at the till, no noisy sounds through the door behind the counter leading to the garage. In one corner of the waiting room, a small black and white television flickers through a blizzard of snow. The only other sound is the steady drip-drip-dripof coffee that smells too weak to be any good. There’s a bell on the counter, one of those shiny silver ones like they have in hotels, and Terrence taps it impatiently. “Hello?”

No answer, which doesn’t surprise him. He notices another door beside him, presumably leading out to the garage, and he hits it with his hand to push it open. With the bay doors closed, the garage is unbearably warm. Terrence tugs at his tie, loosening it, as sweat beads on his neck and temples. Each step he takes echoes off the concrete floor. “Hello?” he calls out a second time, though he already suspects no one will answer. If he ever catches up with that Gary fellow…

The sudden ping of metal on metal is loud in the closed garage. Terrence whirls around. There’s a blue Camaro behind him, parked in one of the far bays. As he heads in that direction, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks, he hears the shuffle of sneakers, a muffled curse. Closer, coming around the front of the car, he sees slim, denim-clad legs beneath the bumper, and one bare elbow sticks out from under the open hood. “Hello?”

He stops at the mirror on the passenger side and ducks his head to peer under the hood. He sees light brown hair the color of iced coffee, smooth as a curtain that hangs down to obscure the mechanic’s face. That hair is cinched loosely at the guy’s nape with what looks like a spare piece of rubber tubing, tied into place to keep it from his face, but the knot isn’t tight and the hair has slipped free to fall over slim, bare shoulders. Terrence isn’t one for long hair on guys, but he likes the way those feathery strands wisp over firm, pale skin, and his hands clench into unconscious fists in his pockets.