The Lace Garage was buzzing around my head almost as much as Laney. It was a cute idea, a strange combination that somehow worked—the literally sweet and feminine, juxtaposed with the rugged and masculine. Her lace curtains in the windows of a shop filled with grease, auto parts, and burly men. Laney struck me as fearless, the kind of girl who would try anything. She obviously wasn’t afraid of failure or of breaking norms. I loved that she was the kind of woman who would take risks but who would also stand up to me. In a matter of twenty-four hours, the woman picked me up, fucked me, ditched me, nearly killed me, and left me for dead and then asked me out on a second date after discovering that I was her main competition in life. Exactly the kind of partner I wanted. Laney Mills knew how to fuck some shit up. I was simultaneously impressed, scared, and turned the fuck on.
I tossed all of the mail into the garbage can and fell onto my huge couch that took up most of the open plan main floor of the house. After pawing around for the remote without moving my body, I clicked the television on to a game and smile at the ceiling. I’d play her little game—there was no way she could outsmart me. I did some Googling. Miss Mills was born with a silver spoon in her mouth—figures. She’s the daughter of the municipal judge. She’d wanted for nothing, while I’d worked my way from the bottom of the barrel to the top. I think we both know who would win.
My brother Ethan stopped by around dinnertime. I called him Ethel—always had, always would—and I knew he was here searching for food, like an ill-mannered truffle pig. Ethel only came to call when dinner was put on the table.
“Can we order a pizza?” he asked, plopping down beside me. Ethel was arguably America’s Most Eligible Bachelor. He just wasn’t as rich as I was. He, too, grew up around cars. He ran the shop here in town and, in his spare time, climbed mountains. He was single, stubborn, and often, a pain in my ass.
“Ethel, order a pizza if you want one. You have a voice. You have a phone.”
“What’s your problem? How was Springfield?”
“Delightful. Infuriating. I met a lady who I plan to see again.”
“A lady? How old is she?”
“She runs a garage. Local, quaint. My franchise is eating up her business.”
“And you expect her to go out with you?”
“She tried to kill me once already, but I like a good challenge. Like you… You’re challenging. Could you get your muddy hiking boots off my white sofa, moron?”
“Oh, I’m the moron, says the guys who buys a white couch. Mechanics are dirty. This couch never stood a chance. I’m ordering pepperoni and olives. You want anything?”
“Cherry Coke.”
Ethel gives me a weird look as he orders two pizzas to my address.
8
Laney
I was allowed to check out the local competition if I wanted to. Okay, maybe stake out. I just didn’t want the guys he was with at the bar to recognize me. I had a suspicion that those two were employees of Roads. The place was nice. It looked more like a car dealership than a mechanic’s garage. The long line of cars streaming in and out of the place made me grit my teeth as I sipped my green tea, which I’d brought along in a thermos. I’d make a bad cop. I’d also packed up my own baked goods instead of stopping at the local doughnut shop. I had nothing against a good doughnut, but the homemade honey nut muffins in my lap were to die for.
The guys inside looked like they were having a grand old time. I should take pictures and send them to Edison. Show him all the fraternizing his dollars were paying for. I slapped my own cheek, gently, to stop my mind from picturing Edison Roads naked.
I was stumped. Obviously they had more money than I did. I checked out their prices online, and they were below ours, but not by a huge margin. I thought it was sexism, plain and simple. Customers inherently associated cars with men and therefore trusted them implicitly when it came to fixing them. Maybe the lace and pastries wasn’t the best idea to capitalize on.
I nearly spilled my hot tea down the front of my jeans when someone approached the Santana from behind and rapped on the window.
I rolled down the manual window and looked up into the smiling face of one of the guys from the bar.
“Cool car!” he said.
“Thanks.” I suppressed all of my childish comebacks. He didn’t know who I was. Maybe it would stay that way.
“The Lace Garage, huh?”
Oh God, my license plate.