Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 2

TWO

WYATT

The smell of motor oil and gasoline, an ever-present yet nearly invisible combination to my senses, is faintly registered by some part of my brain as I start up the 2001 Mercury Sable that Mrs. Dixon refuses to part with, despite the bi-monthly visits it has to take to my shop.

The ignition catches and the engine rolls over, and if I smiled, a small one would probably be on my face right now. But the hit of pride from another vehicle with a motor fixed is about as good as it gets for me. Add in a cold beer or a nice bourbon, the occasional warm body in my bed, and that’s damn near the peak of my life.

In short? Can’t complain.

A streak of something dark mars the tattoo that encases my forearm—a realistic cross-section of an engine—and I use the sorta, kinda, almost clean enough rag on the dash to wipe it off. A well-earned sigh leaks out as I climb out of the sedan, my knees creaking with the effort, the chief tell of another nine-hour day popping up and down beneath a hood, a chassis, anything that purrs or hums for me once I’ve fixed it up good.

Southern rock blasts from the boombox across the garage, one that’s even older than Mrs. Dixon’s car.

“Shit!” The only other human company I have in here graces me with his voice, somehow louder than Ronnie Van Zant’s, and a heavy clunk follows it.

Ignoring him as usual, I wash my hands in the sink tucked in the back of the shop, using that granular orange soap to get the last of the grease residue off of my hands. At least what of it ever comes off at this point. Pretty sure my blood is a fraction motor oil at this point, but the doctor hasn’t told me my time is around the corner yet, so I’m not too worried.

“Heading out,” I call over to Gonzo.

His head pokes out from under the hood of the ’73 ’Vette he’s working on, but he bumps into the hood strut instead of backing out smoothly and he hollers a few choice curse words that could use some creativity, if you ask me. His balding head shines with sweat in the dim light of the old garage as he rubs the back of it angrily. Impossible to miss that nose that got him his nickname in any light. “You coming back after you drop ’er off?”

I shake my head at him, hands in the pockets of my Dickies.

“See ya tomorrow then, Grady.”

“Good luck with the missus.” My usual farewell. Ninety percent sarcasm, but Gonzo bitches about his wife being up his ass enough that there’s some truth to it. Mostly it’s good luck to not piss her off. Like he’s not lucky as fuck he pulled her all those years ago. She’s still out of his league, and he knows it. He’d be an idiot to screw it up, and I’ll be the first to remind him of that if needed.

Yank on the neckline of my shirt, pull it over my head, all the way off, and toss it straight into the shop washing machine, put on another coat of deodorant and a fresh, dark Henley out of the stack next to the dryer, pull those sleeves up a bit, and I’m back behind the wheel.

No point A to point B within the limits of Smoky Heights is more than fifteen minutes, but Old Lady Dix, as my boss likes to call her when no one else can hear, isn’t even half that from Gonzo’s Garage. Windows down, the comfortable end-of-summer breeze keeps me company as the trees fly by, the mountain view you can see from just about anywhere along the route never getting old even after thirty-four years in this town.

The population of a few thousand, where you know every single resident through some familial, church, or recreational connection? Yeah, that shit gets a little tired for me.

Alone time are two words most in this town don’t know the meaning of. Just like privacy and boundaries.

Case in point, the socialization required when I come up to a stop sign a few blocks away from my client’s house and one of my mom’s neighbors strikes up a conversation through my open window. That’s on me. I should’ve known better at this point than to drive up to a neighborhood with my windows down. Might as well walk down Main Street, whistling, arms wide with a shirt on that says “Free Hugs.”

I do what I can to wrap the obligatory catch-up as quick as possible, offer a nod with a tight grimace and a hand raised in parting, and I’m back on my way, and so is the tiny buildup of traffic at the intersection we just held up for four minutes.

Unless I’m two-plus beers deep and it’s Dallas, the usual bartender at my preferred haunt (Smoky Suds), a couple of the regulars there, or the one childhood friend I managed to make and keep through the years (Ronnie), small talk and chit-chat is pretty much a no for me. But tell that to the friendly folk in the South. That particular gene must’ve skipped me entirely. My brother Weston probably got my share of it, actually.

You might be starting to see how I’ve been volunteered as the one to play the Grinch in the annual Smoky Heights Christmas parade more than once, but all that guy wanted was to be left alone, and honestly? I can relate.

When her baby and I roll up smoothly, no clunking noises audible anymore, Mrs. Dixon meanders on outside to collect her keys and get the lowdown on what we did to her this time. After filling her in and trading her an invoice for a personal check, she gives me her usual offer.

“Can I drop you off back at the shop, darlin’?”

“I’m good, ma’am.”

“Are you sure?” she presses.

The head nod/sealed lips combo seals the deal.

“All right then, Wyatt. Thanks for taking care of ol’ Bessie.” When Old Lady Dix gave up on her dream of owning a farm after her husband passed away before they had the chance to start one, back in the nineties, she took to naming her cars like they were her cows instead.

Tilt my chin down at her. “Of course, ma’am. You let us know if she starts givin’ you trouble again.”

“See you around,” she says with a smile, and waits on her front porch until I’m out of the driveway to head back inside her house.

The short walk to my nightly haunt stretches past several small craftsman houses that line the path to downtown, more churches than gas stations, and roads leading to the workplaces and/or homes of about half my graduating class. Nestled into the north side of Main Street, Smoky Suds kicks off the stretch us locals call downtown, though no one who’s ever so much as seen a bigger city would probably acknowledge it as such. It’s just a few central blocks, capped off with some “Welcome to Downtown Smoky Heights” archways on the north and south ends, splattered with most of the things we need to get by around here.

For me? That’s this place. Suds, as it’s usually known.

Rustic wood doors—the same unfinished look that all of the interior is decked out in—face the side parking lot and I grab the handle of the left one to avoid the chunky splinter poking out of the right-hand side, the damage it’s waiting to give out to the sorry sucker who doesn’t know the eccentricities that accompany Suds. Lucky for those folks, I guess, no one who isn’t a local bothers to set foot in here too often.

The glare of the setting sun does its damndest to blind me on my way in. It’s a few seconds of total darkness before the final brightness of the day is blocked out by the closing door behind me and my eyes reorient themselves to the familiar surroundings.

A dip of the head in greeting from Dallas behind the bar, like usual, possibly the only guy in this town even quieter than me.

If only everyone else in here got the memo too.

A chorus greets me instead of my preferred silence, but at least an icy longneck is also waiting for me at my regular spot at one corner of the square bar in the center of the room.

“Hey.”

“Grady!”

“There he is!”

“Wyatttt.”

“About time, young man.”

“Guh-guh-guh-Graaaa-dy!”

The voices bounce off of the wooden walls and the inside of my skull, and I nod at the people they belong to all as one as I make my way over to my seat, grateful for the relief the first sip of cool liquid provides. It’s a kind of peace I only find in alcohol, physical labor, and being outdoors, the way Southern boys grow up doing. Guess I found it one other place once upon a time, but we won’t go there.

The voices blend and fade, drowned out by the buzz of the game that’s on the TV behind me and the rhythmic bump of the country music playing overhead.

On my second beer, a hand claps my shoulder roughly and jolts my entire body in the process. I manage to salvage the beer, thanks to years of practice, and scowl to my right, at the grinning face waiting there like I knew it’d be. Deeply tanned, like mine, like all the blue-collar boys have around here. Ronnie works at the plant, not on cars, but he still spends a good chunk of his day sweating underneath the sun like the rest of us. The lines around his eyes are proof of that, and of the many horrible jokes he’s cracked himself up with over the years. Guess that’s why I don’t have as many as him.

“There the fuck you are,” he tells me, fool’s grin still spread on his face, sandy brown brows waggling at me. “Didn’t see your truck in the lot.”

“Where the fuck else would I be?” I turn back toward the front and bring the bottle to my lips again.

When he doesn’t answer me after a minute, I face him again. He nods to the standing bar that wraps along the front side of the building. The curvy blonde there, watching me with eyes full of sin.

“Better part of a foot inside of her?” His crass joke barely elicits a ghost of a snort from me. More like a sigh. I break the eye contact with her, not ready to commit to entertaining her for the night.

“Really wish you had some boundaries when it came to camping,” I tell Ronnie, taking another swig as he settles in on the stool next to me.

“And I really wish my wife never saw your monster, but here we are.” His wistful voice makes me shake my head at him.

“You’re the one that opened the tent flap while I was changing, fuckwit.”

“You were in there for ages! I was checking on you, being a good damn friend.” So defensive.

“Not sure how exposing me to half of our crew was being a good friend, but if that’s what makes you feel better about it all, keep tellin’ yourself that …”

“Well, now I know why it was taking you so long. Prolly had to roll that thing up like a Fruit by the Foot to fit it in your boxers and get all tucked away so you could actually zip your damn fly.”

Times like this I almost miss laughing, but he keeps going, hands raised in front of his chest in innocence.

“Have I made that mistake again? No. But you still gotta bring it up every time, like it’s my fault.”

Ronnie taps the bar in front of him with his knuckles to get Dallas’s attention and gets a jerk of the chin in response. I’m sure he knew Ronnie was here. My guess is he didn’t want to hear this story one more damn time. Or maybe he just wanted to make him wait for his beer for being so fucking annoying. I wouldn’t blame him if either were the case. Lord knows I take any chance I get to torture Ronnie. We all do. It’s practically the local pastime.

Dallas drops off a Coors Light for the guy I begrudgingly call my best friend, but doesn’t pop the lid for him before turning his back and heading to the opposite side of the enclosed square bar, tending to some other regulars with way more focus than usual.

Ronnie hollers after him, but Dallas doesn’t turn back, and his voice drops to a mutter. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

I let Ronnie struggle for a minute before getting tired of his dramatics. I roll my eyes at him, grab his beer and pop the top for him. Dallas peers back over his shoulder and winks at me. Prick.

“Well,” I proclaim, standing and taking my chance to jostle Ronnie’s entire frame with both hands on his shoulders right as he goes for his first sip. Sweet payback. “Sounds like I have better places to be, don’t it?”

“Seriously?” he whines. “I just got here, man. At least have a beer with me before I have to go back home and put the kids to bed. Grace’s in a mood today and I need to get my energy up before I see her again. I can tell she’s gonna ride me like a fucking barrel racer tonight.”

I let the grimace show on my face. “That was way more than I needed to hear.” Way more than I needed to visualize. Try to wash it away by tossing back the rest of my beer, and then I set the empty bottle on the counter with a clink. “You’re on your own with that,” I tell him.

Had I been planning on taking Hallie home before Ronnie threw it out there? Nah.

Does it sound better than sitting there listening to his dumb ass complain about shit all night? Yeah. If she gets talkative, I can fill her mouth with something that shuts her up every time.

Hallie sees me walking across the room to her and stands up before I’m even over to her, tossing her long, silky hair over a shoulder, straightening out her jean skirt, and eyeing me up and down like she’s planning out a road trip on the map of my body, hitting every worthwhile spot on the ride, enough to take all night.

My balls don’t tighten, my stomach doesn’t drop, I don’t get so much as a twitch anywhere in me. As per usual, I feel nothing inside. But I’ve got nothin’ better to do. Gave up on anything better a long time ago. Like I said, this is as good as my life gets.

I nod my head toward the exit and lead the way.