Page 1 of Dark Seduction

V

Buy a garage,Judge said. It’ll be a great addition to our club’s legit business plans.On paper, yes. In working theory, hell no.

Being one of the only guys with mechanic experience in the club, I could have told Judge and the others that buying a garage and running it right is two different fucking animals. I had a couple years experience running a garage before coming to Austin with Mom when my own Black Hoods chapter and personal life had gone up shit creek. A change of venue had been much needed, but stumbling back into the garage business had not been a part of the plan.

Yet, here I am, managing the day to day operations under Judge’s watchful, though semi-absent eye. It hasn’t been easy getting this palace up and running. We’d had enough shit with the Ladrones and their theft ring putting us behind on opening day, but the shit just keeps on piling up. Today is no exception.

After the parts order showed up two hours late, and a tune-up went wrong, I have yet to take a break or eat lunch. Eating had been the last thing on my mind until my stomach began to revolt. I no sooner put my ass into the chair, ham sandwich in hand, before the phone starts ringing. I consider ignoring, and eating, but Judge would have my ass if he knew.

“Hoods Customs,” I answer as my stomach rumbles yet again. My eyes staring at the sandwich. The mayo dripping off the corner of it onto the desk before I can stop it. Grumbling to myself, I tuck the phone against my shoulder while I clean up the mess with a Wipe All.

“Hey V, it’s Benny Snyder.”

Benny, one of our best customers, had just picked up his 1959 Cadillac Cyclone. His newest edition to his show cars. The thing had been found in a barn in upstate New York after the original owner had passed away and his kids had no damn idea their dad had a treasure trove of classic cards hidden away on their property. It had been in rough shape, but we’d spent four months working on it for Benny. By the time it left our shop last week, the Cyclone looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line and purred like a fucking kitten.

“How’s it going, man? How’s the new ride treating you?

“That’s why I’m calling.” His tone is flat. I curse under my breath. Benny is an outgoing guy who usually stays hours after his pick up time to crack jokes or talk shop. This Benny is all business.

Shit.

I toss my uneaten sandwich onto the plate in front of me. My hand draws up to my face, scrubbing it. “That doesn’t sound great. What’s going on?”

“Took her out to the show in Dallas last weekend to debut her. By the time I got her there and unloaded, the paint job was bubbling and peeling.”

I sigh. Benny has climate controlled trailers. If she’d been baking in the sun, I’d be tempted to write it off as a fluke, but with his setup, she should have arrived in pristine, show condition like she’d left the shop.

“Shit, Benny. I’m sorry to hear about that. We’ll fix it, of course. Free of charge.” I reach for the garage calendar on the desk. The old paper calendar has red lines all over it. Cancellations. Shit. Judge hadn’t said anything when he was in the office this morning, and with how busy my morning was, I hadn’t had a chance to check in. I flip to next week. More red lines. What the fuck has been happening today? “Looks like I can get you first thing tomorrow if that works for you.”

A pregnant pause echoes silently through the receiver before Benny audibly sighs, “That’s the thing, V. I won’t be. It’s nothing against you or the club, but your paint guy does a shit job. I thought the paint job on my Mustang was a fluke, but this is twice now.”

Fuck, I’d forgotten about his mustang a couple months back. Our paint guy, Ronnie, had just started, and we were just getting the paint shop up and running. Benny’s requested powder blue mustard had come out more of a neon see it from space blue. Ronnie’s excuse was that the paint was mislabeled from the previous owner’s painter. The beginning of his many excuses.

Irritation grinds at me. We should have fired him weeks ago, but Judge didn’t want to pull the trigger until we’d found a replacement, a process he didn’t get started until earlier this week. Fucking figures.

“I’d hate to lose your business, Benny. Are you sure we can’t fix it up for you?” The twinges of annoyance and anger at yet another hit to the business coil in my belly like a snake about to strike. Benny was a good guy. He spent a shit ton of money with us when he could have gotten the work done cheaper elsewhere. Losing him would be a hit to our bottom line—one we couldn’t afford to take so soon after opening.

“If he’s still there, not a chance.” Benny pauses before sighing. “I mentioned his name around the show last weekend, and dude’s got a bad reputation for shit like this.”

“That so?” I mutter, trying my fucking hardest to tamp down my anger in my voice. I’d told Judge not to hire this guy until I could call around, but we’d been desperate to fill the spot. That desperation is now costing us time and money.

“I’m not one to tell anyone—least of all your club—how to run its business, but as long as he’s there, I won’t be back. I’ll take the refund on the paint job, though.”

“Of course,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll have a check mailed to your house first thing in the morning.” The coiling anger inside me swells. I knew this would fucking happen. I’d tried to tell Judge we needed to hire quality people up front, but it didn’t work out that way.

“I hate to do this, V. You do damn good work, but I can’t risk some of my classics with that guy.”

“I understand, and I appreciate your feedback. I’ll definitely be sharing it with Judge,” I growl. Benny apologizes again before hangings up. The second the call disconnects, my rage breaks free.

My fist makes contact with the desk the second I toss the receiver, the coiling rage no longer able to stay inside of me. My forgotten lunch slides off the edge of the desk and lands with a plop on the floor.

“God dammit, Ronnie,” I growl. I shove away from the desk and head for the garage bays. The paint bay is at the far end of the building. A couple of our civilian mechanics spot me and grimace as I pass by them. One of the guys, Billy, sighs in relief as I pass him, clearly happy no be the target of ire today.

With long strides, I stalk toward the paint bay and find my target with his feet propped up on the desk, a sandwich half out of his mouth, and his cell phone in hand with some fucking video playing on it. He stiffens when he sees me, tossing his phone onto the work station like I didn’t fucking see or hear it land.

“Hey, V,” he says, a nervous smile spreading on his lips.

“Ronnie, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” I roar. “I just got off the phone with Benny, and guess what he just told me?”

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