Cocky Romance: Chapter 1

The mechanic bay is quieter than a grave.

My co-workers, dressed in over-alls and steel-toed boots, shuffle past with their heads tucked to their chests and their hands in their pockets. It’s like a funeral procession, eyes vacant and lips wired shut in thought as they mourn the loss of something precious.

Dread’s been building ever since the news came out that Stinton Group acquired the company and it’s all coming to a head today, with the announcement that our manager is ‘retiring’ in a month.

Not the kind of news you want to hear in a bleak time like this. Especially when the Big Bad Bully—Stinton Group—is known to target weaknesses. That’s about all we’ve got to serve up here at the Cross Roads Auto Shop thanks to steep competition with another auto brand just down the road.

New ownership means new regulations. New directions. New employees.

I just didn’t expect that they’d hit our leader first.

My fingers curl into fists and I whack the nut with my wrench a little too stiffly.

Stinton Group.

Carnivorous. Ugly. Run by a pack of wolves who think morality is some kind of flexi-ruler. My last run-in with their kind nearly destroyed my life. I’m not surprised that the minute their toxic waste cloud descended on our shop, it started tearing us up by the roots.

“Banner.” Clint gestures behind the glass pane of his office. He bends thick, oil-stained fingers, beckoning me firmly.

I frown, set my wrench back in the toolbox and march into his office. It’s a small, cramped space. No windows except for the glass pane that looks out into the mechanic bay. Picture frames of his family litter the desk that’s piled high with paperwork.

“Close the door.” Clint rubs his whiskered chin and leans against his desk as if all the wind’s been knocked out of his body.

I slam the door shut with a bang and whirl on him. “What did they do to you?”

“Who?”

“Stinton Group. Did they threaten your family?”

“What?” He squints at me as if I’m not speaking English.

“Did they beat you up?” My eyes dart between his. “You can tell me. We’ll fight them together. Doesn’t matter how big Stinton Group is, we can’t allow them to walk all over people like that. There are laws for—”

“Dawn, what on earth are you talking about?”

I’m seeing red, but when I blink and focus on Clint, I realize that he’s not sharing in my restlessness. He watches me with concern.

Me.

As if I’m the whack job.

Clint sighs. “Stinton Group didn’t pressure me into retiring.”

“But—”

“I don’t know what those boys have been discussing,” he juts his chin at the bay where the other mechanics are gathered in a circle—probably whispering about who’ll be next on the chopping block, “but I came to this decision on my own.”

“Blink twice if this room is bugged, Clint.”

He frowns at me. “Banner.”

I can’t deny that I’m a little disappointed. Stinton Group’s reputation is currently in the toilet and the public is finally starting to see what I’ve known all along. Now would be the perfect time to hit them with a lawsuit.

“Can we move on from the Stinton Group topic now? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“Give me a second.” I wipe a hand over my face and try to calm the justice rush that sent my adrenaline spiking. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”

“I know you’re planning on leaving the shop. I’d like to convince you to stay… and become the manager.”

My eyebrow jumps. “Not a chance.”

“You’re the only one capable of leading this operation.”

“The day Stinton Group acquired the company was the day I could no longer work here. Besides, half those guys barely tolerate my presence. The other half thinks it’s ‘amusing’ that I’m a female mechanic. They barely accept me as a colleague. Why do you think they’d accept me as their leader?”

“You can’t argue with results.”

That’s massively untrue, but I don’t expect him to understand what it’s like being a woman in a male-dominated industry.

“You’re the one who helps me with all this when I hit a snag.” He points to the files on his desk that look like a paper mill gave birth to a tower. “You don’t run away from problems. You’re smart and methodical. And you’re the best damn worker in this shop.”

I lift a hand. Flattery will get Clint everything he wants. Especially with me. I can’t let him get to my head. “Find someone else. I’m not doing it.”

“Banner.”

“I’ve got work to do, Clint.” I take a step back. “And congratulations on your retirement.”

He shakes his head in disappointment, but it doesn’t move me.

I throw the door open and stomp out of his office. The moment I’m in the mechanic bay, Willis and the other guys crowd me like pigeons swooping in on a crusty piece of bread.

“What did Clint say?” Willis asks. He’s an older man with greying whiskers, pudgy cheeks and a paunch. The careless way his over-alls drapes only one shoulder and sags at the back fits the ‘slovenly mechanic’ stereotype.

It bothers me seeing that. People take Willis seriously just because he’s got the man parts to go with his wrench, but I always have to be neat and perfect just to get half of the respect he does.

“Nothing.” I stalk over to the bucket and mop. One of the company rules is to always keep our bay clean. Since auto mechanic work is a dirty job, we dust and mop the place about three times a day to keep it looking fresh for customers.

“Didn’t seem like nothing to me.” Willis follows me like one of those annoying men in the club who thinks ‘no’ means ‘try harder’. It’s why I stopped going clubbing. That and the fact that I met Beth’s father in a club.

“What it seems like to you is none of my business,” I growl.

Willis scowls at me. The air turns chilly. I can feel the tension spiking and my grip on the broom tightens.

Put me in a room with a misbehaving car and my gender doesn’t matter. I can fix that baby up with gusto. But just because I work in a male-dominated field doesn’t mean I am a male. And my five-foot two, one hundred twenty pounds of weight can attest to that.

What I’ve been through made me strong. Most of the time, I feel like I’m ten-feet tall, but reality has another story to tell. I’m a tiny woman. Part of surviving in this world is recognizing my weaknesses and that means being hyper-vigilant to the change in the air that spells trouble.

“Everything okay out here?” Clint’s voice breaks up the tension.

I push past Willis, sending him a dark eye of warning. “We were just having a conversation.” My voice remains steady and firm. Men can sense weakness and so I make sure that I never appear to be intimidated. I nod to Clint. “Where are you going?”

Clint gives Willis a hard look before he answers me. “I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll be back soon.” He tilts his chin. “Banner, I really hope you consider what we discussed.”

I rub the back of my neck. Thanks a lot for bringing that up now, Clint.

“Did all the considering I needed to. My answer won’t change.”

He chuckles the way I did when my daughter was a baby and she tried to ‘fix’ her toy truck when she saw me working on a cement mixer.

Clint leaves and silence descends on the mechanic bay.

Willis eyes me. “You gonna stick with your story?”

I wave Willis off and return to my broom. Clint talking nonsense about me taking over has everyone’s panties in a bunch, but Willis has nothing to worry about. My position is only temporary. In a few days, I’m outta here.

Willis backs off when I ignore him, retreating to the employee lounge. He and the guys will probably start playing video games to pass the time. There’s not much else to do.

I finish sweeping the dirt into a dustpan and start mopping my bay when I hear footsteps pattering. A guy in a fancy suit, oil-slicked hair and beady eyes stomps into the bay.

He sees me, dark fingers clamped around a mop, and flutters his hand. “Miss, can you call one of the mechanics? It’s an emergency.”

“I’m a mechanic. How can I help you?” I set the mop against the wall and approach him.

His bushy eyebrows tighten. “Look, I don’t have time to mess around. My boss needs his car back pronto. The tow truck’s waiting outside as we speak. I need someone to work on it.”

“And I told you I’d do it.”

His gaze slides over my frame. “Not sure what you’re trying to play at here, but I need an actual mechanic. This car is expensive. It has to be someone who knows what they’re doing.”

I give him a head-to-toe scan. Shiny black shoes. Black trousers. A thin white shirt under a jacket and a scraggly tie. The office worker who’s so addicted to the rat race that he can’t see his hand from his own behind.

“Tell them to pull the rig in here.” I nod to my bay.

His shiny shoes remain rooted to the ground.

Scowling, I march past him, whistle to get the tow truck driver’s attention and confidently wave him forward. He pauses for a moment as if he’s trying to figure out whether to listen to me or not.

I increase the pace of my wave until it’s a frantic back and forth motion. He seems to pick up my urgency. Either that or the bullish office worker already read him the ‘my boss needs his fancy car back pronto’ riot act.

The tow delivers the car into my mechanic bay. I’ve got no love for the client who brought it in, but I can appreciate a beauty when I see one. The vehicle’s sleek and all-black, like a panther in motion, just itching to get back on the road. I want to pat its hood and coo, ‘what’s wrong, baby?’. A beast like this isn’t meant to be tripped up in a mechanic shop.

Unfortunately, I have to restrain myself because Douche Bag is eyeing me like a hawk. Oh, and he’s multiplied. Now there are two identical skinny-tie-wearing employees flanking him on either side.

Douche Bag Number One clearly feels more powerful with his back-up. His chin raises to an acute angle and he looks down his nose at me.

I try to ignore him and take a few steps toward the vehicle.

He slides into my path, his tone oily and dismissive. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I stop short and fold my arms over my chest. “What were the symptoms?”

“Didn’t I ask you to get a real mechanic?”

“Since it had to be towed, I’m assuming it’s not starting?”

“Listen, princess, I’m all for female empowerment, but not when it involves something this expensive. You’re not touching my boss’s car. You can’t imagine how much this thing costs and saying sorry won’t fix a damn thing if you go and mess up—”

“You.” I look past him and point to Douche Bag Lite.

“Me?” The kid pokes a finger in his chest.

Douche Bag Prime arches both eyebrows in surprise.

I nod at the younger guy. “What happened? How is the car giving trouble?”

He glances at his boss.

Douche Bag Prime shakes his head.

I step forward. “Spit it out.”

“The vehicle can start, but it can’t run.”

“Jefferson.” Douche Bag Prime hisses.

“Ignore him.” I gesture to Jefferson since he seems like the weakest link. “Tell me more.”

“The minute you put it in gear or try to stomp on the gas, it stalls. The problem is recurring. Every time the weather reaches this temp, it does the same thing.”

“Hm.” I drum my fingers on top of my arm. My mind is already sorting through the symptoms.

“That’s enough, Jefferson.” Douche Bag Prime frowns at me. He’s got a sharp face and cheekbones like knives. His dark scowl tells me he’s not used to being dismissed. I can’t imagine what a monster his boss is if he relies on someone this egotistical.

I turn my hard stare on Douche Bag Prime. “Why’d you bring the car here?”

“It was the closest to where we broke down. However, I’m starting to think that choice was a mistake. If you’re all this place has to offer, it’s no wonder it’s empty.”

I grit my teeth and fight to remain civil. We don’t have enough customers for me to justify punching this guy in the face. I wouldn’t mind taking the chance since I’m leaving anyway, but I can’t ruin Clint’s record as manager just before his retirement.

“I’ve heard enough. Why don’t you wait in the coffee room while I get a real mechanic to handle your car?” Pasting on a fake smile, I gesture to the lounge.

Like Clint’s office, the customer lounge has a giant glass pane that overlooks the mechanic bay. It also has a coffee machine, paper cups and a few couches with the latest automotive magazines on a table.

“Thank you.” Douche Bag Prime dips his chin like he’s relieved I’ve finally seen the light.

I keep the tight-lipped smile on my face and lead them all into the room. As soon as they’re inside, I haul the door shut and lock it.

Douche Bag Prime’s shocked face is a work of pure art.

He bangs on the window. “What the hell? Did you just lock us in here?”

I give him my back and glide toward my station. More thumping explodes from the door. I don’t have to turn around to realize that Tweedle-Dumb One and Two are joining in the fight to escape.

Calmly, I pop my ear buds in and pull out my phone. The music that Sunny shared with me starts playing through the speakers.

Sunny’s from the Caribbean, specifically Belize, and her music taste reflects this. The music is fast-paced and exciting. I can’t help but bop my head.

“Hey! Do you hear me? This is illegal! This is a crime!”

I can still hear Douche Bag Prime faintly. Pressing my finger against the volume button, I turn the music up and approach the car. The make and model are imprinted under the dash, not that I needed to confirm it. I recognized the brand on sight.

Mentally, I pace through the symptoms that Skinny Tie outlined.

Starts but can’t run.

Dies when you press the gas.

Happens every time the weather reaches this temp.

I’ve heard of this problem somewhere. I reach for my phone and log into the high-tech IATN group. With my other hand, I pluck a lollipop from the dozens I keep in a cup near my bay and pop one into my mouth. My eyes scroll through the vehicle diagnostic site. Ah. There it is. I check the information. Seems like these issues are a sickness with this type of vehicle.

Satisfied that I’m on the right track, I glance at the customers again. One of them is still trying to test the door. I can tell by the way the doorknob is rattling. Jefferson has given up. He’s sitting in the couch, pouring himself some coffee and picking up one of the magazines. Knew I liked him.

Douche Bag Prime is on the phone. His face is red and a vein is busting out of his neck. His gaze switches to me and he starts mouthing a threat. Or it could be a marriage proposal. Not like I can hear it. But I doubt anyone would be saying sweet words with an ‘I could kill you’ expression.

I peer closer at his mouth because I’m curious. It seems like he’s saying ‘you’re going to jail’.

Huh.

With a shrug, I pop the hood open. The air around me shifts and I glance over my shoulder to find Douche Bag slamming his fists against the glass pane. Someone could choke on such thick outrage.

I restrain the eye roll and pluck my lollipop out of my mouth while I bend over the engine. Most women look into the belly of a vehicle and get an instant headache. I look at the inside of a vehicle and get a sugar rush.

My fingers grip either side of the hood as I find my balance. Then I reach inside. The pounding on the glass gets louder, but I can barely hear it because the Belizean artist is encouraging me to wave my flag and ‘go ahn bad’.

I purse my lips as I do the inspection. My suspicion is the vehicle has a short on a five-volt reference circuit. It would explain the trouble Jefferson outlined and why it gets worse in colder temperatures.

Even though I have a hunch, I’m not hauling at circuits yet. I believe in diagnosing and testing three times before I move. It’s why I’m so confident when I work. The moment I go after a problem in a car, it’s because I’ve already solved it.

The music changes, which means three minutes have passed. I wheel my tool trolley closer. It has everything I need to repair this car. Heat gun. Multi-meter. Wire repair tools. Crimpers.

I put the lollipop back in my mouth and bob it up and down as I disconnect the wiring.

“Banner!”

I don’t jump when I hear that bellow. I’m working and my hands are precise. Waiting until I’ve finished wrapping the wires, I glance over my shoulder and spot Willis charging out of the employee lounge.

His eyes ping-pong from the men in the lounge to me and back to the men. His stomach swishes as he tries to increase his pace from frantic walking to a full-on jog. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m working,” I say in an isn’t that obvious tone.

“Hey!” Douche Bag Prime waves his arms at Willis. “Hey, let us out!”

“Did you lock them in there?” Willis asks, flying past me to the men and trying the door.

“No.” I inspect my work one more time. “They don’t know there’s another door around the corner that leads outside.”

Willis curses under his breath and takes off. While he’s gone, I tuck the wires where they belong, shut the hood and slide into the car so I can turn the key. The chair melts around my shoulders like butter.

Ah, the rich really live differently.

The beautiful sound of the engine purring fills my ears. It’s sweeter than a full-on orchestra in the throes of a passionate climax. I drive the car outside, leave it there and climb out. Stretching my arms over my head, I look around for Willis and the other guys, but I don’t see them.

Assuming they’re back inside, I head that way. Before I can get two steps in, the suits storm into my line of sight, followed closely by Willis.

I gesture to the vehicle that’s still running. “You shouldn’t have a problem now.”

“How dare you.” Douche Bag Prime gasps at me like he’s an extra in a B-rate play. “Do you think you can get away with pranks like this?”

“Pranks?”

“Locking customers in rooms and messing with their expensive vehicles is a crime.”

“Don’t think it is,” I respond calmly.

“Are you insane?” He sticks a finger in my direction. “You must be insane.”

I stare him down without blinking. “I didn’t lock you in the room.”

His eyes widen as if he can’t believe I’m denying the truth.

“I locked you out of my mechanic bay.” My tone remains calm and clipped. “Which is perfectly within my right.”

“We couldn’t get out!”

“There was a door leading out of the customer lounge. Not my fault if you don’t know how to use it.”

Jefferson snorts.

Douche Bag Prime slants him a dark look and he sucks the chuckle back into his mouth.

I take slow, determined steps forward. “I promised you a real mechanic and I delivered. Your car is working perfectly now. You’re welcome.”

“You’ll be hearing about this. I’m calling my boss—your boss—and letting him know about your atrocious behavior.”

I want to roll my eyes and call him a tattletale but I, wisely, hold my tongue.

“Banner?”

That’s Clint’s voice.

Shoot. Why is he back so early?

Clint draws near to us and his eyes widen when he sees Douche Bag Prime. “Mr. Hills.”

I hook a thumb at the suit. “You know this guy?”

“He’s an executive assistant for Stinton Group,” Clint mumbles. “The executive assistant.”

A slow, unnerving horror balloons in my chest. Hills watches my expression and misinterprets it. His chin cranks all the way up again. He puffs out his chest. Cocks his lips in a smirk.

I whip back to the beautiful car. If Hills is here on behalf of his boss then that car belongs to…

My fingers curl into fists.

Stinton.

The boiling irritation gets worse when Hills paces the workshop like a pompous villain about to unveil his evil plan. “I can see now why this place is going down the toilet. You have crazy women taking the helm.”

Who is he calling crazy?

Clint places a calming hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Hills, why don’t we discuss this in my office…”

“No need. We’ve got things to do.” His eyes swerve to me. “But you’ll be hearing from us soon.”

Clint keeps that hand on my shoulder until the suits get into the car and drive out of sight.

I brush him off and stalk toward my bay.

“Banner, where are you going?” Clint calls to my back.

“To pick up my daughter,” I grind out. “School’s out.”

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel when I drive to Beth’s middle school. As traffic slows to a crawl, my mind drifts to that awful day eight years ago. Men in suits. Pens and contracts shoved in my face. A silky lawyer’s voice telling me to take the money.

Monsters.

All of them.

I clench and unclench my hands, pushing that nightmare far from my mind.

Beth opens the door when I park in front of her school. Bright hazel eyes land on mine as she hauls herself up by propelling her legs on the running board. Though both of us are small in stature, we’ve gotten used to hauling ourselves into big cars.

Beth slams the door shut and glances over at me. Her lips tighten. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re angry.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You leave fingermarks on the steering wheel when you’re angry.”

Damn it. “Someone tried to cut me off in traffic.” I cough out a laugh. “How was school?”

“Fine.”

I prod her until she starts chatting about her best friend Bailey and their class pet. When she falls silent again, I ask more questions and keep her distracted for the rest of the drive.

As I pull the truck into the parking lot of the auto shop, my phone rings.

I nod at Beth. “Go ahead and get started on your homework.”

She nods and gracefully climbs down, striking out over the lawn. There’s a tiny corner of Clint’s office where she does her homework in peace. I love that Clint allows me to keep an eye on her in the afternoons. It’s one of the many reasons I find it hard to say no to him.

Sending my attention back to my phone, I frown at the unknown number.

Hesitantly, I answer. “Hello?”

A deep and masculine voice scratches my ears. “Ms. Banner.”

“Yes?”

“This is Max Stinton.”

My eyes widen. I haul the phone away and hang up before he can get another word in.

Max Stinton?

This day just keeps getting worse and worse. I’ve managed to avoid the Stintons for seven years and yet in one day, I can’t take a step without getting tangled up with them.

Huffing, I stalk into the mechanic bay and notice Clint waving me forward.

“What?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.

“Phone for you.”

“Me?”

He nods and shoves the landline at me.

I accept the phone and hold it to my ear.

Max Stinton’s gritty drawl slips through my body. “That wasn’t very nice, Ms. Banner.”

I haul the phone away.

“Ah-ah.” His voice is faint but firm. “Hang up on me again and I’ll have to show up in person.”

The thought makes me cringe. I put the phone back to my face. “I have nothing to do with Stinton Group. Don’t contact me again.”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to honor that request.” He pauses. “I’d like to see you in my office. Tomorrow. Eight sharp.”

“I don’t care what you’d like and I definitely don’t want to see you.”

“Then I’ll come and find you.”

My nostrils flare. It’s a threat and it’s potent. I glance at my daughter who’s pulling out her homework book.

Gritting my teeth, I spit out, “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”