But then, somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the voice of my momma say, “You don’t blame the chicken when a fox gets in the hen house ”
Now, Shelly was no chicken. And Drill was no fox. But the analogy still fit. Plus, she wouldn’t be able to hide behind coveralls. She was striking no matter what she wore.
“Is that it?” she asked. Unless I was imagining things, her shoulders seemed to relax a smidge.
“That’s it.”
She lifted her chin, inspecting me. I got the sense she was trying to determine if I was being truthful, which in turn made me wonder why this woman was so distrustful.
As we were exchanging stares, I spotted Mr. McClure—the fire chief—pull into the gravel lot in my peripheral vision. Inwardly I cursed. Thanks to the Drill’s big mouth, I was running behind with Mrs. McClure’s timing belt.
Abruptly, Shelly announced, “If I wanted commentary on my ass, I would go to a proctologist.”
My smile felt more like a grimace at this point. I tried to smooth it into something resembling genuine. “Of course.”
“I want to fix cars.”
“Sounds good.”
I must not have been giving her the answers she wanted, because her jaw grew tight and her stare fierce. But before she said anything else, Mr. McClure called out a greeting.
“Hey, son. Hot enough for you?”
I turned my attention to the fire chief and gave him a wave, which quickly turned into a handshake as soon as he was close enough. “Morning, sir. I’m not quite finished with your lady’s car. I should have messaged you. Sorry about that.”
“Oh, ain’t no bother. I can wait.” The older man shrugged, turning his attention to Shelly. Giving her a genteel smile, as was his way, he held out his hand. “Hello, there. I’m Carter McClure. Who might you be?”
I glanced at Shelly, waiting for her to accept the fire chief’s handshake.
And then I waited some more.
And then continued to wait.
With dawning horror, I watched as she glared at Mr. McClure—one of the kindest, most generous, and well-meaning folks on the face of the earth—and then glared at his hand.
Without saying a word, she turned and walked away.
* * *
“I don’t like her,” I was hollering even before I had the door completely open, allowing it to bang against the wall as I entered the office.
As usual, Cletus didn’t look up from whatever was so damn fascinating on his computer screen.
“Cletus? Did you hear me? I don’t like her. She can’t work here.”
He continued to click stuff on his screen then finally, finally, gave me his attention. “It doesn’t matter if you like her or not, Beau. What matters is whether Shelly Sullivan is a good mechanic. She is a good mechanic. Furthermore, thus, as such, vis–à–vis, and so forth. Fill in the blank.”
I tried—Lord, how I tried—to even my tone. “She might be a decent mechanic. But she’s as prickly as a porcupine.”
“No, Beau. She’s not a decent mechanic. She’s a great mechanic.”
I opened my mouth to—I don’t even know because he was right, she was a great mechanic—and Cletus talked over me. “Duane is leaving before Thanksgiving. We have too much work as it is. We need the help. Now leave me be. I need to finish this up before my meeting with Drew.”
As though everything was all settled, Cletus turned away, facing the computer screen.
I stared at him, seething, endeavoring to mind my temper. I swallowed the surge of fury threatening to choke me, taking a deep breath for good measure. I knew my brother. No amount of yelling on my part would make him listen. Likely he’d just dig his heels in.
Without looking away from his work, he snapped, “I’ll kindly ask you to stop trying to penetrate my brain with those laser beams you call eyes.”
“I’m not done talking about this.”
Huffing loudly, he turned his chair to face me. “Why don’t we talk about something else, like the preparations for Jethro’s bachelor party? Did you finish the scavenger hunt?”
“Yes, I did. Two weeks ago. Stop changing the subject.”
“Fine then.” He set his teeth. “Go ahead and talk about Shelly.”
“She’s rude. Not just to me. She’s rude to the customers.”
“Why’s she talking to customers? That’s your job.”
“What do you want me to do? Hide her under a car? She’s impossible to miss, Cletus. She looks like one of those . . . those . . . those models from the magazines.”
“Which magazines are these?” Cletus’s tone was dry and heavy with implied meaning because, Yes. Fine. Okay? I like car magazines and I like looking at the models in them.
Satisfied?
I tossed my hands up and then settled them on my hips. “You know what I mean. People catch sight of her, they want to talk to her.”
“You mean men catch sight of her and want to talk to her.”
“Yes. Fine. Men. Men want to talk to her. And then she insults them. Do you really think that’s a good business strategy? Hiring a gorgeous woman to insult our male customers?”
“No. No, I do not.” His tone was serious but I didn’t miss the telltale twitch of his mouth.
The sneaky bastard thought this was funny.
“Oh, is this funny?”
He didn’t respond, but he was laughing.
“Are you laughing?”
“Nope,” he said, still laughing.
It was the wrong thing for him to do. The simmering anger, the pinch in my lungs regarding Darlene, my frustrations, they all chose that moment to boil over. Before I knew what I was doing, I knocked the container of writing utensils and the stacks of papers off the file cabinet with a growl.
Finally, he stopped laughing. And when I faced him, his eyes were crackling fire at me.
“You’re going to pick that mess up, Beau Fitzgerald Winston.”
I was too angry, too pissed off, and maybe too proud to do as he ordered.
However, I wasn’t too far gone to realize that this was Cletus I was addressing. If anyone could make my life a nightmare, it was him. Instead of capitulating to his demands, I jabbed a finger in the direction of the chaos and seethed, “I will pick it up when I’m good and ready to pick it up.”
Then I turned, slamming the door after me as I marched down the stairs, almost colliding with Drew Runous at the entrance to the stairwell. Muttering a short apology, I darted past him, out of the garage to the back lot where I could pace and calm down.
Cletus didn’t want to fire the woman? Fine.
Fine.
That was just fine.
But hell if I was going to work with her. Or talk to her. Or look at her.
As far as I was concerned, she and her rude—perfect—ass didn’t exist.
4
“Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else.”
― George Orwell, 1984
* * *
*Shelly*
“I’m having invasive sexual thoughts.”
“Tell me.” Two words.
I took a breath and silently counted to ten before speaking again. “Do you think it’s the new medication?”