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Erin took her frustrations out on the bolts rusted into the tranny. At least the car problem was solvable.
Her mother wasn't so easy.
Chapter 2
Misdirection and Memories
"Hey, kid!"
"Yeah?" Ryan Walsh hated the moniker, but since Jim was older than the hills, he put up with it. Besides, complaining brought more of the same. Ryan learned that lesson in a far tougher place than Kelly's Auto Parts. He missed the guys from his unit. They could be rough but not mean.
"Take this tranny rebuild kit to Coffee and Cars." Jim held the box high; it shook in his trembling hand.
"Coffee and Cars?" Must be a new repair shop. The tiny town of Marcus had changed a lot in the years Ryan had been gone. Kelly's Auto Parts was still the same, though. A standalone store at the north end of town, jammed with parts, cases of oil, and antifreeze stacked in the aisles, making it hard to move if they had more than two or three customers. The mix of oil, grease, and antifreeze hit his nose like a baseball bat every time he walked through the door.
"Yeah, kid. They're down the highway about a mile on the left. Ask for Erin." Jim gave him an evil grin, dropping the box and paperwork in Ryan's hand. Shuffling to the tiny office at the end of the back parts counter, Jim's gimpy leg made his shoe squeak on the concrete with every other step.
"Aaron?" He always asked; with his lousy hearing, he missed things.
"Yeah, kid. Erin. Pay attention!"
Ryan frowned. Jim knew cars, but he was such a grouch. Rude, even to the customers, did as little work as possible, had one foot in the grave, and brayed like a jackass. Ryan quickly learned to question almost everything Jim said, except actual mechanical car information. That, Jim knew like the back of his hand. Probably better—his liver spots seemed to multiply daily. Ryan checked the address on the receipt, then plugged it into his phone.
Yeah, it was a mile away on the left, but it was a mile north, not a mile south as "down" the highway would imply. His mouth twisted, holding back the comment he wanted to make so badly. Jim was trying to send him on another wild goose chase. Good thing William knew the score. Ryan checked the delivery counter. Jim "forgot" to tell him about deliveries, too. No boxes waited on the table, so he grabbed the delivery truck keys. The job definitely wasn't his dream job, but it kept him busy and gave him spending money. His hands ached to hold a wrench. But that wasn't possible anymore.
Ryan followed the directions to a big beige metal building with a green roof, like many of the other commercial buildings along the highway. Strange he hadn't noticed the big 1960s style sign proclaiming "Coffee and Cars" on top of the building. But he'd missed a lot of things since he got back.
He drove into the parking lot. Smaller signs directed him right for "Coffee To Go," along a slightly rutted gravel road leading to what must be a drive-through window; another pointed left for "Cars & Dining." He went left and pulled into a parking spot. Two human-sized doors about twenty feet apart broke the expanse of metal siding, with four big double-high garage doors beyond on his left. Coffee and cars seemed like an odd combination, but maybe not if people waiting for car repairs bought expensive drinks and snacks.
Ryan tugged down the long sleeves on his bright green shirt, then hopped out with his box. He opened the door in front of him, assuming it led to an office. Strong, slightly scorched coffee scent blasted him. A long, narrow dining room stretched ahead with an eclectic collection of tables and chairs. On his right, a group of hulking guys surrounded a big round table in dirty T-shirts and jeans. The rest of the tables were empty. The walls held a collection of early-era car memorabilia, including the entire front end of a 50s Chevy, the headlights and blinkers shining. A cute little blonde with big brown cow eyes, too much makeup, and lots of curves stood behind the counter at the far end.
Ryan walked to the counter, attempting to smile. "Hey, can you tell me where to find Aaron?"
The girl blinked at him for a few seconds. "Sure. Go back out the door and in the door next to this one." She looked him up and down. "And come back and get some coffee after you drop that off. I'll be happy to serve you." She leaned on the countertop, deepening her cleavage with her arms and smiling sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
"Thanks." Ryan turned on his heel and stomped away. She'd be happy to serve him until she discovered all his damage. Then she'd run away screaming. He'd learned that lesson. She was too young anyway. He entered the next door, stepping into a small foyer. In front of him, a door labeled "Private;" the door to his left held a smaller version of the "Cars" sign. He opened the left door.
His feet stopped. A huge garage, with four bays, but it could easily fit eight cars, with plenty of room between them. At the far end, two classic muscle cars—one a primer gray shell with boxes piled around it, the second a big silver beauty with the hood propped open. In front of him, two lifts, one with a car up high. Big red rolling tool cabinets stood against the back wall, bright stickers plastered across them. It was hard to tell from where he stood, but some of those stickers looked familiar. His shoulders tightened and rose to his ears; he rolled them.
The stickers were probably racing stickers, not military unit stickers. The sharp smell of citrus hand cleaner mixed with a little burnt oil, but the shop was clean. A long, narrow office counter on his right was empty. A pair of gray coverall-clad legs stood underneath the car on the lift, the car hiding the upper body and face. The only vaguely human-looking thing in the garage, it must be Aaron.
Ryan walked closer to the car. "Aaron? I've got a delivery from Kelly's."
The coveralls ducked out from under the car. Ryan faced a pair of brown eyes, totally different from the cow eyes on the girl next door. No, he knew these caramel brown eyes, flecked with gold, surrounded by a gorgeous, freckled, heart-shaped face, a radiant smile, masses of wavy red hair, and the hottest figure to ever grace the Elmendorf Air Force Base flight line. Shoving the box into Erin's outstretched hands, he spun, sprinting for the door, escaping to the truck. Somehow got the underpowered piece of junk to spin out in the gravel and reached the highway. His heart hammered.
Holy... Erin Moore. I'm going to kill that old coot. Jim did the whole name-confusion thing on purpose. Jackass. His fury grew with every mile. He pulled into the parking slot, threw the truck into park, and jumped out. Banging the door into the wall, Ryan marched behind the counter, throwing the keys at their hook. He pushed past his coworkers to the office door, his jaw aching.
"You! I've had enough of your jokes!" Jim's wrinkled face grinned up at him, but the silly smile disappeared when Ryan raised his right arm, bringing it back to punch Jim's smug face. A grip of steel clamped Ryan's wrist.
"Stop," the equally steely voice said. "Jim, get out front, and do some actual work."
Jim scuttled below Ryan's arm, still held back by William's hand, and scampered away like the rat he was. William let go and pointed at a chair. "Sit."
Ryan sat. Jerk.
William closed the door and sat, gazing at him for a long time. "Want to tell me what that was all about?" Mild interest sat on his slightly round face, the long, slightly edgy flattop haircut above it contrasting with his looks and his manner. William was one of the calmest guys Ryan had ever met—and far from edgy. He was pretty sure William's wife insisted on the haircut.
Ryan forced his jaw open. "I've had enough of the not-funny jokes. I know I'm the FNG, so I've sucked it up and taken all the crap, but I've had enough. It's been two months and today was the last straw." He owed William for giving him the job, despite his handicap and post-traumatic stress.
