Page 12 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
“Wait, what? How am I just hearing this?” Trish looks at me accusingly. “I asked you what happened and you made no mention of any hot guy drama.” She winces slightly in Rose’s direction. “I mean, Flynn.”
Rose waves Trish off while lifting her brows at me. “Hmmm. Now why wouldn’t you mention dear old Flynn?”
“It’s nothing. It was nothing. No big deal.” Damn it, my face probably looks like I had heat stroke. “Anyway,I’m just glad I got you home okay.”
“In her piece of shit car, no less.”
“Thanks a lot, Trish.”
“Oh, speaking of your car. There might be a problem,” Rose says as she meanders around to our side of the shelving.
“What do you mean? Did you leave something in it?”
“I definitely left something.”
“I didn’t notice anything. Maybe it rolled under the seat. Was it your phone? Wallet? We can go look now if you want. My car’s just out front.” I start making my way past her toward the door, but Rose stops me with one hand, and gives me a business card with the other.
“What’s this?” I ask. She’s given me an automobile mechanic’s business card. “West Auto?”
“Yeah, that thing I left? It wasn’t last night. It was ten minutes ago.” For some reason, she looks quite pleased with herself. “It’s a big-ass dent.”
* * *
The car stuttersas I park it at the garage Rose directed me to. She had hit the side of my car, right by the back left wheel. I still don’t understand how she did that pulling into the space next to mine. She would have had to drive straight into my car. When I explained that her accounting of events didn’t match the basic trigonometry of the accident’s angle, Rose just shrugged.
Next to me is a white luxury car that only seems to highlight the decrepit nature of my own vehicle. It might be time to get a new one. I grab my bag and haul myself out. Maybe I’ll get an SUV so I don’t always feel like I’m climbing out of a hole. I pass what I now see is a BMW, and a vintage sports car with a For Sale sign propped on the dash. Now, I don’t know much about cars, but I do know this particular car is badass. It’s a cherry red convertible. It has that classic, boxy look to it, with the initials GTO on the front grill.
Wowzers.
I walk up to the driver’s side and peer in. White leather seats with a red dash. Stick shift. Hmmm, I don’t know how to drive a stick. Maybe Trish or Jules knows? With the way Rose apparently drives, I don’t think it’s a good idea to ask her.
A loud clank brings my attention back to the garage. It’s off NASA Road 1, about two minutes down the road from my apartment. Though it’s in the opposite direction from NASA, I still must have driven by it quite a bit. Funny what you miss when you’re not looking.
The auto shop is comprised of several open bays, most of which have more luxury cars in them. Even with my limited car knowledge, I know that my POS does not belong here.
I enter the glass-front office situated to the right of all the bay doors. A guy about my age, maybe younger, is standing behind a hip-height desk clacking away at a computer. I stand for a moment waiting for him to look up, but he doesn’t. Instead he keeps ‘typing,’ which is really him just pounding two index fingers at some keys. Who doesn’t know how to type properly these days?
“Hello?”
He pounds a few more keys and looks up. That’s when a smile spreads slowly across his face as his eyes drop to my feet and make their way up to my eyes. Again—slowly. It isn’t the most seductive moment of my life, but as he has a nice smile, and he doesn’t actually leer, so I appreciate his appreciation. Jules always says that a little innocent appreciation does a body good.
“Hello there.” He leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. It does nice things for his biceps as they flex to take on some of his weight.
“Hi, yes. I’m Jackie. Rose sent me. Told me to ask for the owner, a Mr. West? Said he would know who I was.”
“Rose, huh?” His eyes travel over me, his eyebrow quirking when he gets to my Chucks. “Unusual.”
Before I can figure out what that means, he walks away. What the heck? I stand there for a few minutes and am about to leave to find my own mechanic when the office door opens andhewalks in.
I can’t be this unlucky. Or lucky, I guess, depending on how you see it.
He already looks angry. I wonder if he’s perpetually pissed, or if there’s something about my general appearance that puts him off. Maybe hot guys are only nice to hot girls. And he is definitely a hot guy. Why didn’t Rose mention that her boyfriend owns the place?
Flynn, thatiswhat she’d said his name is, has grease-stained coveralls on. Coveralls that are universally unflattering on any man, woman or child, and yet there he is looking like sex. Just straight-up sex. I’m peering over the counter to see if he has cowboy boots when he speaks.
“You wanted to see me?”
I snap my gaze up. He’s caught me checking him out. Crap. At least he doesn’t look angry anymore.
