Page 1 of Boy Issues

Chapter One

“’Night, guys.”

Silver waved at Miguel, the lead cook at Ray’s Diner. Miguel grunted and gave him a dip of his chin as he carried the container of shredded potatoes for the morning’s hash to the walk-in. Silver couldn’t remember the name of the kid who’d just been hired at the late-night restaurant where Silver moonlighted five nights a week, but he acknowledged him as well. The front staff came and went with startling regularity.

As he bumped the long metal door rail with his hip to push his way through the rear door exit, he yanked his apron over his head. The stained garment would need an extra good soaking after his mishap with a tub of spaghetti sauce, so he’d have to grab a clean one from home before his next shift.

Silver let out a sigh and rolled his neck. What a fucking long night. Mr. Jenkins, his boss at the garage, had dropped off a fifty-eight BMW Roadster early that morning, and Silver had been pulling it apart all day. The engine was in carefully arranged pieces next to the now-gutted frame, so he’d been in almost constant motion. Every muscle in his body ached, and the soles of his feet protested the unfairness of it all.

Silver made his way to his ride that he always parked at the end of the asphalt parking area, beneath a streetlamp. The part of Glendale the diner was located in wasn’t as bad as Los Angeles area neighborhoods went, but almost anywhere was suspect when it came to classic sports cars. His baby was a tricked out sixty-seven Mustang in candy apple red, so discouraging thieves was something he always took into consideration.

As he drew closer to his vehicle, he noted someone bent under the hood of a car at the curb of the sidewalk that ran adjacent to the lot. Silver made a low whistle. His attention wasn’t on whoever seemed to be having mechanical issues. What drew his gaze and held it in an iron grip was the chartreuse Lamborghini Miura that seemed to be beckoning him to her side.

Silver could come from the sight alone of such a rare beauty. All thoughts of sore feet and aching muscles disappeared.

“Having problems?”

The man who’d been examining the car’s engine rose too quickly and banged his head on the underside of the hood. Silver winced. The excitement of seeing an actual Miura for the first time in real life, instead of in the glossy pages of a magazine, had clouded his judgement. It was after midnight and creeping up on a stranger with a vehicle worth six-digits or more wasn’t cool.

The stranger eyed him with suspicion as he rose to his full height, rubbing the back of his head and taking a step back. If the tall, lanky man kept going, he’d end up in the middle of the street.

Silver raised his hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. Even though the handsome, older man was at least six inches taller than Silver’s five feet, eight inches—he was slim. The fitted dress shirt he wore accentuated his thin frame and the T-shirt Silver had on did nothing to hide his bulked up, tattooed body. Silver could tear apart this guy with minimal effort, and the man undoubtedly knew it.

“Hey, it’s all good. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Silver held up the apron he’d slung over his shoulder. “Just got off work at Ray’s.”

The man’s gaze traveled in the direction Silver had indicated. His slack jaw snapped shut and he cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes. Sorry.” He gave a shaky laugh. “You caught me unaware, which isn’t like me.”

“Nah. I’m the one who should be sorry.” Silver shrugged. “I’ll admit your wheels caught my eye and I got ahead of myself.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the car. “That’s a sweet ride.”

The stranger ran a hand across the top of his head, and Silver realized he was still quite nervous. Being Latino in the city meant that most white people, doubly so if they were clearly rich as fuck, would automatically assume he was a gang member or up to no good. His numerous tattoos and the ear gauges probably contributed to the man’s stereotyping of him. But Silver’s typical irritation at that fact was tamped down by the clear predicament the man seemed to be in.

The stranger still hadn’t said anything and kept glancing around as if seeking an escape route.

Silver pressed his lips together as he rubbed his forehead. “Look, man. I’m not gonna jump you or anything. I came over to see if I could help.” He held out his hand. “My name is Silver. Silver Cruz.”

The stranger seemed frozen where he stood, but then something must have clicked in his brain, because he stepped forward and accepted Silver’s offer.

“Donovan Fonterra. Pleased to meet you.”

Silver gave him a smirk while accepting Donovan’s offer. “You sure about that?”

Donovan chuckled. “I am. I apologize for my…” He brushed his hair back again, the action striking Silver as being a nervous habit more than Donovan’s concern over his appearance. “Uh, rude behavior.” Donovan indicated to his vehicle. “I was mortified that my car broke down so late in this awful neigh—” He pinched the bridge of his nose then rose his head with a sigh. “I should probably shut up now.”

Silver arched his eyebrows and snorted. “I wouldn’t say awful. Questionable, yes—if I had to give it a label.” He shrugged. “But if you’re interested in areas that well-dressed men with visible gold jewelry and killer wheels shouldn’t break down in, I can make you a list.”

“I… Look. I can be a real asshole.” He grunted, speaking so low Silver could barely pick up his words. “Runs in the family.” Donovan shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Anyway, I apologize again.” He gave Silver a hopeful smile. “Twice in less than three minutes. Possibly a new record for me.”

The exhaustion Silver had been battling at the end of his shift began to resurface with a vengeance. Banter and sparring with words wore him out on the best of days, and he sensed that this nervous, tightly wound mess of a guy used those tactics as his primary form of communication. He didn’t care to engage any longer.

Silver pointed to the car’s engine. “Want me to take a look?”

Mister Nervous Pants shifted from foot to foot as he rubbed the back of his neck. Silver wondered if he was terrified of allowing someone—who he likely viewed as lesser than—touching his precious collector car.

“Is… Have you ever…?” He cleared his throat. “What I mean, is that this is a very specific type of vehicle. Needs a gentle touch. Someone who…understands the intricacies of performance cars.”

“Jesus. You’re not kidding.” Silver sauntered over to the car then glancing over his shoulder before leaning down to check the engine. “You really are an asshole.”

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