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"So, this could really be trouble." Ryan frowned.
"Yeah." She shrugged, feeling helpless. "Maybe. Either way, I need to get the thing done. Yell if you need help." She retreated to the garage. The ‘Cuda's engine was due in this week. All the other parts were here, so once the engine was in, everything else would go quickly. It would still take a couple of weeks, maybe a month, but it would be out of her garage soon.
It couldn't be soon enough.
Chapter 9
Rich People Turn Trouble into Catastrophe
Ryan scrubbed a table, the bleach making his nose wrinkle. It didn't surprise him when Erin stood up for him, but the vehemence was a little shocking. Obviously, there was some bad blood there. Chaz sounded like a real winner. But trouble with rich people was trouble doubled or tripled. The little guy usually got squished. He'd do everything he could to protect Erin, but he probably couldn't do much. He had less clout than she did.
And if it came down to a fight, he was in trouble. A guy with one arm wasn't much of a threat.
The silver-haired crowd finally jittered their way out of the shop, letting Ryan consider Erin's problems and wipe down all the tables without getting his butt pinched. Some of these ladies were outrageous, egging each other on like a contest for "Grandmothers Gone Wild." He snorted. At least they tipped well.
And none of them said a single word about his arm. He'd gotten a few stares, but they quickly averted their attention, sometimes blushing or grimacing. His terse "Afghanistan" seemed to satisfy the few who asked. But then, most of the older ladies had lived through two or three wars—they'd probably seen worse. Wringing out the cloth, nose wrinkling at the bleach, he moved to the next table.
There were a few like Erin, curious about the mechanics of the arm and why he didn't have one of the fancy prosthetics. He'd toss off an excuse about the difficulties of living in Montana and they understood. Montana was beautiful but remote; that's why people loved it. In his case, it was partially an excuse. He could get one, but Seattle was a nine-hour drive, and that meant hotels, way too many strangers, a multitude of unknown threats, taking time off, and a lot of hassle. Maybe someday. He didn't need anything fancy, so why bother?
The Chaz Cust problem was a much bigger issue. Since Ryan had little money and less influence, he had limited ways to help. Except, he could help her with the Barracuda. No reason not to help her with it, especially in the evenings. He wiped the next table. Not like he had a social life or anything—he watched the idiot box, blew zombies away, and talked with old friends online. And if he helped Erin with the 'Cuda, he'd build up hours to trade for Erin's help with his own muscle car someday. That day was probably a long way off—he had to save some money and find something he liked and could afford. He'd watched some of the car auction shows; most of the classic hotrods were way too expensive. Maybe something a little more modern would be better. One of the early 2000s Mustangs? Or an IROC Camaro? But computers meant more expensive parts and less work he could do himself.
It didn't matter right now; he didn't have money or time for toys. Furnishing his new apartment took priority. He'd bought a good mattress first, a king, arriving Saturday. Then he could move the rest of his stuff in, empty his storage unit, quit paying that bill, and see what else he needed. He'd scour the second-hand stores and save his hard-earned money for important things.
But even if he couldn't afford a stick of furniture, he'd be happier here, sleeping on the floor. He loved his family, but he craved peace, quiet, and a lot less smothering. He'd been on his own for a lot of years. His family was a little too clingy, treating him like he was handicapped—and he wasn't. They didn't mean to make him feel bad or less—but they did. They forgot he'd learned how to live without a lower arm. Erin didn't coddle him—even when he needed an accommodation, she was practical. She worked with him to find a solution, unemotionally and logically; it was such a relief to be an equal instead of a problem child.
He gave the counter one last swipe, the cloth almost dry, and frowned. Erin usually helped close. Ryan locked the cash register, put up the "ring the bell once only, please" sign and entered the garage. She wasn't in the first two bays, so she must be in the back by the Barracuda. Her voice rose above the constant ringing in his ears. He couldn't understand her words, but the anger was clear. He sprinted around the lift. Inspiring that level of fury in Erin, far fiercer than earlier, was a real feat. She was in trouble.
Near the Barracuda, Ryan skidded to a stop. A short, fat man was plastered against Erin’s back, pushing her into the front end of the 'Cuda. Her hands clamped the man's wrists, trying to get his dirty, T-shirt-clutching paws off her waist; the animal was grinding his pelvis into her.
"Chaz, get off of me, or I'm taking a wrench to your head."
She didn't need to. Ryan marched to the idiot, grabbing the back of the man's shirt collar firmly in his good hand and his belt with his grasper. "Let her go, now, or I'm going to beat you bloody." When the dummy didn't reply or let go of Erin, Ryan jerked the idiot's belt up and snorted at his gasp of pain.
The dolt squeaked. "Let go of me, or I'll charge you with assault."
Ryan yanked again, harder. "And I'm sure Erin will charge you first. With attempted rape. Let go, now!" The man released his grip and let Erin go. Ryan pulled him back two steps, spun him toward the door, and shoved, sending the jackass stumbling to the floor with a thud.
He glared, tossing his thin comb-over back. "You're going to regret that, boy!"
"I don't think so." Ryan stared at him, going for cold and menacing, with his hand on his hip and his grasper ready.
Erin's boots thwacked the concrete, then she stood shoulder to shoulder with him. "That was the last straw, Chaz." She fired each word at the man and sneered his name. "I have told you, time after time, not to touch me. We're done. I am canceling our contract in accordance with the unreconcilable differences clause. I will deliver your Barracuda back to you and return the money that remains in your account, along with the final accounting. Today." She glanced at the car, then focused on Chaz, fists clenched at her side, her words staccato. "Charles Cust, you are not welcome on my property ever again. If you come back, I will call the Sheriff and have you charged with trespassing. Is that clear?"
"You'll regret this. You're going to pay, and pay big." Chaz struggled to his feet, brushed himself off, and staggered out the door.
Ass. Hope a truck runs him over. Ryan clenched his fist, desperately wishing he had two so he could pound the idiot into the concrete. With a sigh, Erin locked the door behind him, then returned to the car, sagging against the fender. He scanned Erin, looking for physical damage. "Are you okay?"
She laughed, but despair blasted through the sound like an air horn. "Oh, sure, I'm fine. I'm going to get sued again."
Ryan stepped closer but didn't touch. "I meant physically. Did he hurt you?" He knew better than to touch any woman uninvited, but especially a woman who'd been assaulted.
Erin flipped her hand carelessly and scowled. "I'm fine. Chaz might have been something in high school, but he's a sponge now. A rich, slimy sponge. He probably will charge you with assault." Erin scowled harder. "I'd better call Sam."
"Who's Sam?" A boyfriend or former lover?
"My lawyer."
They might both need a lawyer. "Good idea. Want me to get the phone?"
