When I turned the corner and walked into the thousand-square-foot Customer Comfort Center complete with a brick fireplace, leather lounge chairs, and a coffee machine that dispensed an incredible variety of gourmet coffee, I nearly fell to my knees and wept.
Within minutes, I had an almond caramel latte, a warm oatmeal raisin cookie, and a sweet spot at one of their high top tables right next to a convenient outlet. It was kismet.
Feeling more positive than I had in months, I cracked open my laptop, and after a couple of sips of coffee, the words I’d been struggling to find in my latest smutty story suddenly flowed from my fingertips. I had found my way out of the dreaded writer’s block! It was a Christmas frickin’ miracle!
I blinked, and three hours had passed. The customer service agent said my car was ready, but when they said they didn’t mind if I stuck around for a while, all I heard was jackpot! Before I knew it, I had crushed five thousand words in five hours.
I had never written that fast in my career as an author! And they were good words too! That was the real clincher.
So, like a dog who’d found the best dumpster of leftovers, I decided to come back for seconds. At first, I brought in a few vehicles for oil changes … my neighbor’s, my friend’s. My two brothers even let me take their vehicles in, but they side-eyed me the whole time because I had to drive thirty minutes just to get their cars—judgmental pricks.
But then I got the feeling a guy at the counter was starting to recognize me. They get a lot of traffic at Tire Depot, and sadly, I don’t exactly blend in. I’m a curvy redhead with skin that doesn’t suffer the sun like so many of my fellow gingers. But I think what tipped the guy off was when I brought in my seventh car for service. At that point, I was bringing in a friend’s co-worker’s vehicle, so I was clearly fucking desperate and maybe a bit manic. But I knew I had to do whatever it took to get in my words!
Then I realized the comfort center had its own entrance. An entrance that bypassed the counter guys. They were the gatekeepers, after all. The only ones I ever spoke to. So why couldn’t I just slip in the side door every day, quietly do my work, drink my weight in complimentary coffee, and sneak out with no one the wiser?
I mean…sure, my guilty conscience poked at me a few times, but the more I went, the easier it got. America’s greatest serial killers probably lived by this same mantra. But so be it.
Give me complimentary coffee or give me death.
The CCC had become my Luke’s Diner. I was Lorelai Gilmore waltzing in every day, and that little, nonverbal, automated coffee machine was the grumpy diner owner that I was slowly falling in love with. And now I’ve met Betty, the baker of the goods and direct cause of my poor diet these past few weeks.
But love is a wild creature. You can’t contain it or control it. You can’t break it and tell it no. It’s a charging animal that you must accept as your destiny.
That is how I feel about the Tire Depot CCC: true, unadulterated love.
So for now, I’m blending in with the crowd. Tire Depot is a busy place, and with four areas for seating, this makes concealing my identity quite easy. Gone are the days where I beg my brothers to ask their friends if their cars need oil changes. Finished are the moments I try to plan a road trip just to get my car closer to needing service.
For now, I’m incognito, and Mercedes Lee Loveletter is writing a book that’s going to blow her horny readers away. Wait…I punned. Oh man, that’s good. I’m writing that down.
Leaning against the outside of the building in the alley behind the garage, I lift the red rope of licorice to my lips and suck air in through the opening I just bit off. I take an actual bite and blow out, imagining the intoxicating rush I’d be getting if this were an actual cigarette.
If only I still smoked.
My head snaps to the left when the back door of the comfort center opens, and a blaze of curly red hair comes out. The same redhead is back. The one I’ve seen passing through this alley for several days now. I always get a glimpse of her red mane through the foggy shop window where my station sits. I keep wondering where she comes from and where exactly she’s going.
Today, I have a much better vantage point. She’s dressed in plain black leggings and a loose, flowing T-shirt that has PIZZA scrawled across the front. From the drape of that top, it’s clear she’s well-endowed, and even in flip-flops, I can see the definition of those legs clear as day. Curvy and small in all the right places. She’s low-maintenance hot, not the type to primp before going to the grocery store.
The redhead is moving straight toward me but looking backward like someone’s going to come chasing out after her. I try to get the licorice out of my mouth fast enough to tell her to stop, but it’s too late. She barrels into me like a bunny against a brick wall. In the scuffle, her flip-flop gets lodged under my work boot, and with an awkward twist of her ankle, she goes crashing to the ground, her gray satchel flying five feet into the alley.
“Shit, are you okay?” I ask, reaching down to offer her my hand.
Her blue eyes fly wide. “Oh my God. My computer!”
She doesn’t even look at me as she scrambles across the hot asphalt for her laptop bag that landed a few feet from her. Crouched on her knees, she pulls the MacBook out of her bag and opens it quickly. With a sharp intake of air, the redhead finally says, “Not cracked but will it boot?”
After tapping the space bar, the screen alights with a login window. She falls off to the side on her hip and exhales with relief. “That could have been so bad,” she mumbles to herself. “Ugh, this is why I email the file to myself after every session. Rookie mistake!”
“Everything okay?” I ask, approaching her cautiously as she slides the laptop back into her bag. I feel really fucking weird about interrupting the conversation she’s having with herself, but staying silent seems ever weirder.
Her gaze turns to me, and her eyes widen as she takes in the full sight of me. As if she’s only now noticed another human standing right next to her this entire time.
Her eyes slide up my body, taking in my rough, steel-toed work boots and oil-splattered, charcoal coveralls currently protecting my denim-clad legs. I’ve slipped my arms out of the top of the coveralls, revealing the black athletic tank I always wear underneath. My arms have a decent sheen of sweat, considering it’s summer and the shop is not air-conditioned. And let’s face it, some of that perspiration is from nicotine withdrawal.
Her eyes finally reach my face, so I decide to repeat my earlier question. “Everything okay?”
Her brows draw together, and she nods, her nude lips still parted with a dazed expression on her face.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, trying to make sure she didn’t sustain a head injury in our collision because she’s acting super fucking weird.
She shakes her head, so I offer her my hand to help her up. My hot, rough hand grips her cold, soft fingers as I pull her to a standing position. She’s a good eight inches shorter than I am, but at six-foot-four, all girls are small beside me.
She clears her throat. “You…you…work here?” She closes her eyes like she’s mentally chastising herself.
I cross my arms and can’t help but notice her eyes watching my biceps flatten on top of my hands with interest. “I do. I’m a mechanic. Were you getting a service?”
She giggles. She giggles so hard that it turns into a laugh, and then she’s slapping her hand over her mouth to muffle it. Mumbling against her palm, she replies, “Yes.”
I frown and ask, “Then what brings you back here to the alley? Completed cars are parked out front. These back doors are employee entrances.”
Her eyes flash back to the door, and she begins gnawing on her lip. “Right. I, erm…was just…” She eyes the spare strand of licorice I have tucked behind my ear. “Coming out for a smoke!”
My brows lift. Smokers come in all shapes and sizes, but something tells me this luminous, ginger bombshell does not smoke.
“Great, can I bum one?” I ask, calling her bluff.
“Weren’t you just fake smoking with licorice?” she asks, pointing to the half-eaten piece that fell to the ground during the course of our collision.