Page 3 of The Woman in the Garage

I could be whoever I needed to be.

Rolling the tension out of my shoulders, I made my way back out of the bathroom, spending the next hour or so straightening up the front office.

It didn’t help much. The place needed new paint, new chairs, a TV that didn’t look straight out of the ‘90s. Maybe some art on the walls. A few plants.

Cash was just a little tight at the moment, so all I could do was spruce the place up a bit.

Right on cue, the other mechanics came rolling in clad in their street clothes I guessed they would hide with coveralls once they went in the back.

It was a mix of ages. Two of the men looked my uncle Phil’s age—somewhere in their late fifties or early sixties. Two looked to be in their mid-thirties. And then there were two young guys who looked barely old enough to drink.

I knew them all by name, but not face, so I decided to let them introduce themselves to me, so I didn’t come off, I don’t know, creepy.

Their lively conversation abruptly fell silent the second they moved through the doors, all of their gazes moving over me, my tray of coffee, my cookies, then back to me.

Two of them actually burst out laughing, making a sick sensation move up my throat.

It was one thing to be warm to your new boss. It was a complete other to laugh in their face.

“Cookies and coffee ain’t gonna make us like you,” one of the younger ones who I knew to be named Ren said as he passed.

But that wasn’t bad enough.

He accidentally on purpose whacked the plastic container of cookies, sending them flying over the counter and scattering all around the messy desk.

That got another chorus of laughter from the men as they went through the doorway to the garage.

“Dunno. I’d fuck her,” one of them said, making my stomach twist.

“Nah. Too big for me,” another of them said, getting more laughs as the door closed, silencing anything else they may have had to say about me.

There was a window between the garage and the waiting room, allowing customers to check the progress going on in the back.

But also allowing the mechanics to see into the front office.

I could not cry.

No matter how much my eyes were stinging.

I took a deep breath, blinking rapidly until the wetness retreated.

Then I slowly gathered all of the cookies off the desk, shoving them back into the plastic container, allowing anger to replace my upset, even if they both created a similar shaky sensation inside of me.

Then I squared my shoulders and made my way toward the door to the garage, leaving the coffee for guests to help themselves to, and moved into the garage, the temperature immediately ten degrees colder thanks to the open bay doors. It only managed to make me feel even shakier.

But I had to do this.

I couldn’t let them get away with it.

I let the door slam behind me, making all their heads turn to watch me as I walked over to the open metal trash can and dropped the cookies—plastic container and all—into the bag.

“Ren,” I called, hating the cocky smirk that toyed with his lips. And the way I felt like I was going to shake apart in seconds. “If youeverspeak to me like that again, you’re fired. Do you understand me?”

“I didn’t—” he started, that stupid smirk falling as a darkness crossed his brown eyes.

“Do you understand me?” I asked, each word its own sentence.

“Fine,” he said, embarrassed to be scolded, but clearly wanting to keep his job.

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