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"Maybe. What's the problem?"
"It's making a funny sound. Here, listen."
All Ryan heard was static and a clicking noise, a pause, and more clicking. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but what am I listening to?" Expecting a diagnosis of a car problem, a noise, over a buzzy cell phone connection with no idea of what it might be, was asking way too much.
"Can't you tell? There's something wrong!" Yikes, that was a nasty squeal she had going on there, but Kelly's didn't sell vocal cord lubricant.
Ryan lowered his voice in an effort to get her to lower hers. "What part of the car am I listening to, ma'am? What part of the engine are you putting the phone near?"
"It's not the engine, it's at the back of the car!"
He winced at the even higher screech; his tactic clearly didn't work. "Ma'am, where at the back of the car?"
"Like, it's where you put the gas in!"
Ryan frowned. "The gas cap? You're turning the gas cap?"
"Well, yeah!"
"Ma'am, it's supposed to make that noise. That lets you know it's fastened."
"But I'm at the gas station and it won't come off!"
"Ma'am, you have to push in and turn at the same time."
"It worked!" -click-
Ryan hung up the phone, shaking his head. He muttered, "You're welcome." What he really wanted to say was, "Take the car back; you're too stupid to own one," but that would get him fired. Besides, he was being uncharitable; maybe she couldn't read. Still, a thank you wasn't too much to ask.
He wasn't at the shop long; he made delivery after delivery, and his shift extended. Their other delivery driver didn't show up or even call in. Ryan felt bad for William, although he appreciated the addition to his paycheck. When the end of the day finally rolled around, he was wiped, and his arm ached.
After work, Ryan hit a drive-through. His stomach gnawed on his backbone, and he didn't feel like cooking. At his mom's house, he let himself in and padded down the stairs. He didn't want to talk to anyone. Not today—too many people for too many hours. No workout either—he needed pure couch potato time.
Plopping down on the full-size bed, he sighed. His old bed was a little saggy. He'd get a queen or king whenever he got his own apartment. He'd looked, but there wasn't much available in his price range, not where he'd feel safe living. And "safety" wasn't physical safety—overall, Marcus was quiet and peaceful. He couldn't live near a bar—the noise and commotion would drive him crazy or trigger his post-traumatic stress, and the temptation to drink himself into oblivion would be too much. He'd done enough of that at Walter Reed Army Hospital. He'd learned excessive alcohol made everything worse.
He didn't want to live downtown for the same reasons. But he didn't want to live in the middle of nowhere because it would cost too much in gas and time to get to work. He stuffed a French fry in his mouth. A place of his own was a problem that wouldn't get solved today. Scrolling social media was boring. So was his email and e-reader. He didn't feel like watching TV either.
Restless, he thought about Erin Moore. "Smoking hot" didn't begin to describe her. She was beautiful, with a generous laugh and happy smile. And legs that went on for miles, plus all that red hair...
He dropped his head, groaning. He was lusting after the Sarge's wife. That was so wrong.
But the Sarge was gone. He'd been killed... almost four years ago. Erin should have a boyfriend or be remarried, have some kids, maybe. But the rumor mill said she was single. The guys in Marcus were dumb. Beauty, brains, her own business—she was a catch. Ryan sighed. Owning a business wasn't easy, so maybe she didn't have time to date. Maybe she didn't want to date.
Ryan sniffed. He could understand that. Dating was hard. For someone like him, it was impossible. Maybe she was tired of sorting through the duds; it would take a lot of time and effort. But if he were dating her, he'd find things to do that wouldn't take time away from her business, like bringing her a picnic dinner, or taking her to a classic car show, or offering to help work on the cars or do research on the cars, or just about anything, as long as it was with her. Not that she'd want anything to do with him; he was too damaged. His mouth twisted. He'd given up on a lot of dreams. Erin Moore was one more.
Chapter 5
The Future Is Milky
Erin leaned into the Barracuda's engine compartment. Where was the master cylinder mounting point? Disc brakes were a factory option in 1968, so it ought to be easy to find, but... Like so many other things that ought to be easy, it wasn't. Not on a classic car. The metal crease of the fender bit into her legs.
High-pitched screeching penetrated the shop wall. Erin jumped, dropping her wrench with a clatter on the concrete floor. Trouble.
Sprinting into the coffee shop, Erin stopped just inside the door. What in the world?
Tiffany and another girl screamed at each other, arms waving around wildly, milk running down their faces and clothes. Milk was everywhere—sticky white coated the floor, the walls, and the countertops. Izzy was covered too; scorched milk hung in the air and steam hissed wildly out of the wand, with nothing to catch it. Erin cranked Izzy off and turned on the two women. "What is going on here?!"
Silence rang for a split second, and then both girls turned toward her and screeched, waving crazy arms again. The loggers at the end of the room grinned, enjoying the show. Not surprising; not only was it a girl fight but a wet T-shirt contest too. Erin glared at the two girls—definitely not women. Wait a minute. They both wore the exact same T-shirt, some custom air-brushed hot pink thing with a guy's name in fancy writing. Aw, rats. Teenage girls and boys. Too many hormones, not enough brain cells.
