Page 28 of Forget

She’d wanted to make a time to start work on her website today, so he’d headed to the last place on earth he wanted to be—his father’s car yard—which proved the lengths he’d go to in order to avoid any kind of emotional entanglement.

Because that was exactly what was in danger of happening if his breakfast with Jayda this morning had been anything to go by.

He’d agreed to her breakfast request because they had a great night together and he’d wanted to prove to himself that he could spend time with a woman beyond sex and not flee. So when they’d started talking about uni days on the drive back to her car and she’d invited him to share a dawn breakfast, he’d agreed.

And regretted it since.

Something had shifted between them during breakfast at that damn university quadrangle. Their connection had been palpable.

Ironic, considering he’d avoided it for four years during his undergrad degree yet all it took was a few hours and he fell for its charms; more to the point, Jayda’s charms.

She had a talent for making everything special. He’d eaten from a million food trucks over the years, usually grabbing a quick bite between jobs. He’d also eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants with exquisite degustation menus. But nothing had tasted as good as that brekkie burger from some old dude named Merv. He didn’t blame the pop-up cook for not forgetting Jayda’s standard order. She was pretty memorable.

He’d also seen his fair share of dawns during the early months of his start-up company when he worked all night to get ahead and establish himself in the IT mosh pit. He might not have pulled all-nighters during his uni days but launching his company had meant many sleepless nights. But today’s sunrise had been spectacular, and he owed it all to her.

Which was why he needed a big distraction and checking on the car yard’s accounts would provide exactly that.

He indicated left and pulled off the highway onto a side road. The car yard’s signage hadn’t changed in twenty years, the tacky red and white faded bunting dangling limply in the breeze, while neon lights, some broken, signalled his impending entrance into G.O. Second Hand Cars. How his father proudly put his name to this shithole, he’d never know. George Olsen should swap the initials to N.O. because who in their right mind would buy a lemon from his dad?

Brock’s gut churned with trepidation as he parked out the front. No way in hell would he take his gleaming ebony baby into the yard with its rust buckets. Not because he was a snob, but because he knew the kinds of people his dad employed and he wouldn’t put it past them to do something to his car out of spite.

Pocketing the keyless remote, he strode into the yard, ignoring the memories assaulting him. Most kids loved schoolholidays, he’d hated them because he’d been dumped here too often. He hadn’t begrudged his mum doing part-time work to help make ends meet but he’d resented being treated as slave labour here by his dad when she had.

How many times had he dragged the signage out to the side of the highway, earning cuts on his palms from the jagged metal edges, washed cars that wouldn’t look new no matter how many coats of wax he polished, and scraped stickers off windscreens when his father discounted his shit boxes to bargain-basement prices? Too many times to count and he thanked God every day that he’d earned those scholarships and worked his ass off at school and uni to ensure he never had to set foot in this dump again.

Until now.

He couldn’t ignore his mum’s plea for help when she rarely asked for anything. She hadn’t wanted to accept the house he’d bought for them—and put the title in her name so his father couldn’t sell it and squander the proceeds on his ailing car yard—because she’d known how his father would react. But to Brock’s surprise his dad had thanked him. Reluctantly, but he’d thanked him all the same, and that had gone some way to broaching the yawning gap between them.

That had been two years ago, when his company made its first million-dollar profit, and he’d seen his folks a grand total of eight times since. Two Christmases, their birthdays, and his. He should feel ashamed, but he didn’t. He’d figured out a long time ago that they viewed him as an obligation they had to endure rather than a son to love. It used to bother him. It didn’t now. He’d grown up early. Guess he had them to thank for that.

He strode through the deserted car yard. George always ran on a skeleton staff, preferring to deal with the occasional customer himself. The yard was clean but the cars still looked like higgledy-piggledy rows of metal destined for the scrapheap.He’d always wondered how many cars his father actually sold. He’d soon find out once he delved into the accounts.

When he entered the small ‘showroom’—a two-room shack housing his dad’s office, a kitchenette, and a two-by-four space used as storage for paperwork—the septuagenarian receptionist, Glenda, glanced up from a computer screen that probably featured Solitaire.

Her wrinkled, overly made-up face eased into a smile. ‘It’s good to see you, young man.’

She’d called him young man from the time he’d toddled in here at eighteen months of age.

‘You too, Glenda. Had any big wins at bingo lately?’

Her smile faded. ‘Would you believe I’ve been one number off the five-hundred-dollar jackpot eight bloody times in the last month?’

‘Hang in there, you’ll win it one day.’

‘Yeah, and my no-good, son-of-a-bitch husband will stash his horns and pitchfork and come up to haunt me from down there.’ She jabbed a thumb in the direction of the floor. ‘Your mum said you’d be stopping by to look over the books?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re a good boy…’ She trailed off, as if unsure whether to proceed, before determination lit her eyes. ‘Have you visited your dad yet?’

Hating the squirm of guilt in his gut, he shook his head. ‘No. Mum only told me last night what had happened.’

‘And the first place you come is here?’ Glenda’s pencilled brows arched in disapproval.

‘I’ve been busy.’

The excuse sounded lame even to him and Glenda’s brows knitted further.

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