Page 2 of Thief of my Heart

I wondered, though, if every guy in the shop got that rule tacked on to the list of dos and don’ts or if it was specially reserved for the ex-con charity case.

Not that it mattered. What was I gonna say? No?

“Got it,” I said shortly. “No problem.”

“Good.” Zola handed me a time card and a pen. “Fill this out, and go see Tony under the Chevy. He’ll get you a jumpsuit and give you your first assignment.”

I took the time card without argument. There was nothing left to say.

Tony, the senior mechanic, was an older man with a thick mustache groomed to perfection. He gave me a nod when I emerged from the bathroom dressed in a pair of grease-stained coveralls that had the name “Stan” embroidered in red over the left breast pocket.

I didn’t ask what happened to Stan.

“Take the green Plymouth out for a spin. I just redid the engine, but Mattias wants you to warm her up. After that, she needs a detail before going out to a wedding.” Tony smirked. “If you want, you can write ‘Just Married’ on the rear window.”

I caught the keys. When I didn’t say anything, Tony frowned.

“Don’t say much, do ya?”

I shrugged and fingered the keys. “Don’t have much to say.”

“Not even about a seventy-one Barracuda?”

What was he looking for here? Sure, I might have made a big deal out of the fact that sitting in front of me was one of the most hunted muscle cars of its time. I might have been shocked that someone rented it for their wedding instead of a standard Town Car or a Rolls. I might have been amazed at the excellent restoration work that I had a feeling was Tony’s.

I might have done…something. But I couldn’t.

So I shrugged again, not wanting to set him off. “It’s a great car.”

Tony seemed to accept it. But as I walked toward the door, I heard him mutter under his breath, “Fuckin’ ex-cons.”

Sometimes you really can’t win.

The ’Cuda was admittedly a beaut. Emerald green, with a bumper that gleamed like it was made of diamonds, even on a cloudy February day.

I slid into the driver’s seat, feeling the leather steering wheel under my hands. The last time I’d been in a car was the night before I’d been booked. The second I touched the wheel, I knew it was wrong. I had known, and I’d done it anyway.

Fear hammered through me, sudden and electric.

No. That’s not where I was. This was okay. I was okay. Fuck, I was more than okay with my hands on a piece like this, a job, the possibility for some kind of future offered right here. All I had to do was try. All I had to do was take it.

I tightened my grip and started the engine. The car roared to life, banishing my fears, and I backed it out of the garage slowly, trying to get a feel for the way it handled. The Barracuda was a classic car with a lot of power under the hood, big and heavy as it rolled over the concrete.

Inside, though, I felt a little bit lighter.

For the first time in two years, I almost felt like a free man.

* * *

By the end of the day, I was beat. Every part of my body was sore, unused to hours spent under the hood, the time on my feet, and the pure focus needed to make a car sing. The rhythm was familiar—I hadn’t forgotten how to do an oil change or test the brakes or any of the other mundane tasks that Tony kept me on all day. But the simple act of moving all day instead of spending hours in a cell had me aching top to bottom and dying for a bed by the time the shop closed at six.

When I clocked out, I was rewarded by Zola’s shock when he discovered that I’d not only detailed the Barracuda, along with the rest of the cars in his fleet, but had fixed a misfiring spark plug when everyone else had left for lunch.

“You found that?” he wondered as I slipped my time card into its slot. “Tony’s been restoring this car for three months and didn’t catch it.”

I shrugged. “It’s easy if you know what to listen for.”

“Mmm.” Zola gave me a look like he knew I was full of shit. Misfiring spark plugs were hard for even the best mechanics to catch.

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