"In Which Reality is a Terrible Match Made in The Garage"

(Pt. 1)

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"I've been single for a while, and I have to say, it's going very well ... like, it's working out. I think I'm the one. "

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 Rebel Circus 

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The Garage, Downtown Square

6:18 PM

https://youtu.be/iN9CjAfo5n0

"When I was young, I never needed anyone, and making love was just for fun. Those days are gone ..."

Walking into The Garage, with Eric Carmen crooning to the slow dramatic beginning of 'All By Myself' wasn't the first thing I expected to be welcomed to.

Nor, the juxtaposed view of a bunch of hairy men, ranging from their early 20s to their early 50s and sporting random stains of grease and sweat on their grey coveralls; caught in a choreographic clangor of tinkering a vast array of metalwork while mouthing off to the lyrics by heart like it was a standard occurrence.

"... All by myself
Don't wanna be
All by myself
Anymore ..."

No, I expected Queen or Metallica — or anything heavy metal that would put a sense of congruity to this current picture of men who looked like they've been raised to pump irons* their whole lives. 

Scratch that. Anything would've been better than this — as long as it's not another message from the universe taunting me of the sheer dreadfulness of my situation.

Probably something upbeat, I ponder as I shuffle through the playlist of an old — and expertly restored by Pops — jukebox.

This, of course, causes the song to stop — and nearly everyone's attention zones in on me.

In a customary day-to-day behavior, I would've strutted this place and greeted a few of them with a laid-back "Whazzup?". Maybe even drop by for a quick chat, or just simply acknowledge their existence with the slightest of nods.

But this wasn't like those usual moments, I think to myself, passing by a lengthy row of high-end sports and luxury cars — including a circa 2015 Rolls-Royce Ghost that had the misfortune to rub against a lamp post.

Back hunched in outright dejection and shoulders bunched nearly close to my ears, I trudge across a minefield of tools and auto parts. 

Pops's dark man-bun comes into view, followed by the sweat-slicked forehead under his widow's peak and the rest of his weathered face; he stands behind the hood of a 40s Bentley in mid-restoration.

He signals a series of instructions for someone underneath the car, hand tracing the graying curls of his bristly beard (looks like somebody forgot their beard dye) in deep thought before his narrowed eyes glance over in my direction and twinkle.

He nods at the person to continue, slapping the sleek black hood lightly.

Why mechanics do that, I don't bother to know.

"Trouble!" he greets, his booming voice cutting through the constant chaotic rhythm of metallic beats blaring in the background.

An exuberant smile stretches underneath his overgrown beard, transforming his usual seemingly set expression. His hulking figure closes in until he swoops down and squeezes the life out of me with a bear hug.

He heavily pats my back before setting me down on my feet. "How was the—holy shit! What happened to your face?!"

He grabs both of my shoulders, his face painted on the verge of horror and astonishment.

I drop my head, a long growl vibrating at the end of my throat. I didn't have the energy — or the patience — to discuss my unusual choice of hair and makeup.

He clears his throat with a nervous chuckle.

"How was the interview?" he asks against my hair, the deep timbre of his voice reverberating in my ears like a tire driving on gravel.

I make a non-committal sound, my head pressed to his massive chest; choosing to inhale the comforting scent of cilantro, aerosol paints, car wax, day-old sweat and Old Spice than to respond with a tighter grip.

He tucks away the traitorous tendrils of hair covering my face. "That bad to cut my music off?"

Without a word, I simply nod.

That's the thing with Pops. He immediately catches on without me having to say another thing. He was like Professor X — but with the body of Hugh Jackman's Wolverine.

I sullenly peeh at him, my chin flattened against his chest. "The worst," I say, cheeks puffed.

Pops groans and stares at the ceiling with a helpless look on his face. "Not the Booboo lip," he comfortingly pats my hair while I resume to bury my head into the middle of his muscular pecs like an ostrich.

Pops sighs, and in a cooing voice (though, honestly it was more of a gritty whisper — but, at least, Pops tried) asks, "Wanna talk about it?"

My throat releases a growly noise against his scratchy denim overalls, my head shaking, "No."

Pops thinks about this for a moment, before attempting another verbal response out of me.

Although knowing him, he would have just the right medicine for my surly angst-filled mood.

"Will a few rounds on the ring make you feel better?"

What did I tell you? Professor X!

My head indolently rolls up at the tempting offer. I flash his shadowed face an indignant stare. "Yes, please."

Pops chuckles to himself. Once again, the deep rumbling sound reverberates against my ear.

He props my head against the inside of his cotton-sleeved arm. "I'll let Dax have this one."

His finger playfully taps the tip of my nose before he releases me, bellowing short snappy orders. "John, get Dax, and will somebody turn that music back on?!"

I have to admit, even I jerk back a bit at the roaring intensity of his tone. Like clockwork, the jukebox goes back on in an instant. 

https://youtu.be/Xb6l38eP-4w

A slow song soon echoes around the place, its heady periodical beats infectiously calling my hips to respond.

They almost did (which was a bad idea) when Rupert Holmes's smooth suave voice entered the air.

"I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long
Like a worn-out recording, of a favorite song"

"Bad news, boss," Tom — or was it Ted? — pops in from behind me, hands wringing a piece of oily rag. He briefly tips his baseball cap in my direction, before continuing, "The V6 engine shipment isn't coming as fast as we hoped."

Pop swears under his breath. "Fuckin' Santos!"

And there goes that magic word (more like a curse word, really) of Pops's sworn frenemy.

If only humans can spew fire, then Pops would have burned the entire building down every time he drops Carl Santos' name. Of course, I was never at the receiving end of Pops's wrath — Dax and Deck had once or twice, but never me — so all I could do is look for a bucket of popcorn and enjoy the show.

Two large hands clamp down on both his shoulders.

"Easy there, Pops. Remember what Cami said about your blood pressure," Dax says from behind him.

Pops grunts upon hearing the other magic word, and a deeper tinge of red spreads across his ruddy cheeks. "Great, she's got you telling on me, too?"

Dax shrugs, flashing a pearly-white smile at me. "That 50 bucks was hard to resist. Plus, you don't pay me enough."

I roll my eyes.

Pops runs his hand down his face and grunts. "How am I gonna have a good 50 herspers* more from a rusted 6 cylinders modern engine? Did you at least get a word in?"

Ted(?) stares at him with a subdued expression, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Boss, we both know I didn't."

Pop makes a guttural noise at the back of his throat. He lightly ruffles my hair with the palm of his hand, his jaw clenched.

"I'm gonna have to get back to you in a bit, kiddo," he says, not bothering to wait for my reply as he marches towards the back office with Ted (?) in tow.

I take a deep breath of air through my nose, not really sure of what else to do — except sway along with the music.

SWO-OOSH-H-H!The car creeper suddenly slides out from underneath the Bentley, exposing a finely carved face and a pair of argent blue eyes a few feet from where I was standing.

Like a knee-jerk reaction, I jump back, the base of my spine connecting to the hard edge of a table.

CLANG! CLANG! One by one, the tools clatter as they hit the floor. Yet, my eyes couldn't help but be preoccupied with the view in front of me.

"If you like piña coladas,
And getting caught in the rain ..."

Just when I thought Oz had finally fired his ass, I had to find him here.

He strides in my direction, closing the empty gap between us in a couple of steps with his tantalizing scent. Without a warning, he goes down to his knees.

A gust of warm air creeps down my body, sending shivers crawling down from my stomach and to the heat pooling in between my thighs. My knees wobble, and my breathing gradually becomes erratic.

I immediately grip the table's edge for balance, my eyes refusing to take a single peek at the glorious golden mane drawn back into a tight coil on the back of his head.

THUMP! .... THUMP-THUMP! BA-DUMP! What was that?

THUMP! .... THUMP-THUMP! BA-DUMP! I clutch at my chest, my hands twisting the soft cotton fabric of my shirt to stop the thundering cadence from resonating around me.

My mind, whose main job was to scream at me to get a grip of myself, instead is rendered speechless by a single question:  How do I breathe again?

For what felt like hours, were just tiny splits of seconds as Atlas slowly stood up, eyes roaming all over my body until they linger on my face in an inscrutable stare.

He snakes an arm around my back, a subtle clink of metal ringing behind me.

Tongue-tied, I glance in my periphery, only registering the tools on the table to be exactly where they were before I knocked them over.

Like whiplash, he turns his back on me, pauses, and turns around to face me again.

I try to search his eyes for a clue and found nothing in their enigmatic depths.

To be fair, my eyes barely stayed on his. It was, after all, a struggle to crane my neck with him so close and my head barely reaching his collarbone.

That, and the drool-inducing pectorals underneath his shirt, winking straight at me to notice them.

His arm propped on the table behind me, the calloused pad of his other hand's finger elicits waves of a thousand-bolt shock zinging throughout my brain, nudging my slackened jaw shut.

Satisfied with the result, the merest groove appears at the side of his lips before he walks away with a clean piece of towel slung on his shoulder.

Huh...ren...sohn!* I snap out of my moronic astonishment.

Before I can do anything stupid like calling him out, Pops comes back beside me.

I wrinkle my nose, vehemently rubbing the traces of his finger off my skin. "What's he doing here?"

"Who?" he asks, taking a new towel from a neatly folded pile on the table and proceeding to wipe the sweat and grime off his face.

He settles his gaze to where my deadly glare is currently affixed at. "The Viking God?"

Arschloch,* I almost corrected him.

"He's a new hire."

I could feel my eyes flash in fury and shock, their daggers sharpening. Mostly, in fury.

Seriously, how many jobs does this guy need?!

Well, his pad did certainly look a bit too expensive to maintain.

Oh, shut up, brain! Where were you when I needed my wits earlier?!

"Did you say something?"

My head whirls back towards Pops with an innocent shrug on my shoulders. "Nothing—I mean, ugh, is he even that good?" I ask in a convincingly flat tone.

He arches a brow, hands resting on his hips in a defensive stance. "Oz recommended him to me."

Translation: If he's good enough for Oz, then he's good enough for me.

Shit! I grind my teeth, crossing my arms. If Oz liked him, then Pops would like him — even enough to train personally. This isn't good!

"He seems like a good kid. Knows how to turn a wrench," he muses, his bottom lip pushed forward as he observes his newly hired mechanic carry a stack of hubcaps in one hand and a couple of tires slung on his other shoulder without breaking a sweat.

"Strong, too," he adds, a strong approval in his tone.

Yeah, I don't need to know that!

The temptation to peek and marvel at the scene myself was too hard to resist that I couldn't help but take a secret look.

Ficken Rossette!*

Sweat glistening on his bronze skin, his wet nondescript shirt molds around his — sinfully lickable — muscle-bound body.

His borrowed coveralls, with the top tied around his rippling waist, and his pair of steel-toed boots took the definition of Auto-Mechanic Chic out of a GQ magazine.

"Huh," I say blandly, a mask of indifference etched on my face.

Pops curiously looks down at me.

"' Huh?'" he repeats in a skeptical tone, brows raised and his forehead wrinkled. "You can barely keep your eyes off him, and you just say, 'huh'? No, 'he's cute''" — he prompts, attempting a high-pitched teenage girl voice while pressing his fist to his chin and batting his eyelashes — "or 'Is he dating anyone', or 'What does he do after work?' — no normal teenage girl response?"

I shake my head in mock sympathy.

"Look at him!" He gestures his arms towards Atlas who was — thankfully! — unaware that he was the topic of our conversation.

His heavily corded biceps are proudly on display — and mouthwateringly biteable — under the rolled sleeves of his shirt as he helps River install a honeycomb filter into the Bentley.

"You can clearly see you could've done better than that degenerative ass who had the guts to take you for a quick schtupp* and leave you at Oz's doorstep," he spits the last phrase, his burr getting thicker by every word.

I slightly wince.

After escaping into Tia's balcony (and narrowly breaking my neck) and bailing the others from jail, I may have (okay, I have ) given Pops a condensed and (highly) edited rundown of last Friday night. This included some specifics that may — would definitely — trigger his overprotective dad instincts.

I shake my head with the casual bravado of a seasoned poker player, clicking my tongue in disappointment. "Let me get this straight. You hired him specifically, just so in the chance for me to sound like a desperate hormonal teen? You are twisted, Pops!"

Pops visibly recoils from the accusation, his expression satisfyingly horrified. "Of course not! Why would I risk my business just to get you a boyfriend? Though" — he pensively plays with his beard — "I really was sure of it this time."

I grimace, rolling my eyes. "You do realize voicing out your apparent approval doesn't really endear him to me?"

Pops runs his fleshy hand over his face in frustration. "Again, look at him" — he ardently motions at the silver-eyed devil — "even I find those eyes dreamy and those guns taut — and I'm straight!" he lightly slaps his chest.

I tap my chin thoughtfully, pretending to study the object of his fascination with a thorough appraisal. "What I see is a guy who looks the type to spend his nights whisking some helplessly drunk and sex-starved girl over his shoulder like a caveman and bringing them to his apartment for sex."

At that last word, Atlas suddenly looks over in our direction, his silvery-blue eyes flaring like beacons as if he heard every word that I just said.

I scoff and flash him a malevolent glare.

This doesn't escape Pop's hawk-eyed perception.

Chest puffed and arms folded across his chest, he bends down towards me with a stink-eye.

"Is there something I should know about, Trouble? He someone you already know?" he grunts, his tone gaining a deadly edge.

Formal Translation: Do you know him — in the biblical sense?

Raw Translation: Did he fuck with you?

I open my mouth but close it before I can even utter a single word.

Impressed or not, Pops would go against anyone within a heartbeat if they fucked with any member of his family.

A tiny evil part of me (fine, it was colossal — nearly all of me) wanted Pops to do just that (retribution for me and my leather jacket!), to feed him to his men, and render him unemployable throughout town.

But then, I clench the neck drop of my shirt, why do I feel this tight sensation painfully clawing in my chest and tying knots in my stomach?

Pops taps his foot impatiently, waiting for an answer.

I suck in a deep breath, my voice a few decibels higher than usual. "What? Him and me?" — I forced out a braying sound — "No-o-o."

He shoots me a come-on-you-can-do-better-than-that look.

I guess an Emmy performance isn't enough. Here goes an Oscar!

"Come on, Pops," I scoff for good measure, my face twisting in a snarky expression. "Like who'd want to go out with someone whose idea of a great date is probably making his date help him with a custom wash and spending the rest of the night watching Fast n' Loud reruns?"

Pops oddly gapes at me, mouth open and his entire body stock-still in shock.

(To be Cont.)

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On a scale of 1 to 10, how ridiculous is Pops and his man-crush over our mystery silver-eyed devil? 

Also, what made Pops react like he's in shock?

Write your ratings, predictions and the reason why in the comments section.

I know it seems like a long chapter this time - apologies in advance :(.

There's this inner-saboteur of mine that constantly reminds me that I write too long chapters. I mean, I get it. It's a bit dragging at this point (I dunno) and I tend to over-describe.

I guess, I'm still trying to work on that, and I just want to thank anyone who managed to read this far into the story. I hope you're enjoying my story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Anyways, semi-rant over. Let's go to the third shout-out of this book!

theforeverlost  , author of "Footsteps in the Snow"

I swear I've been fangirling over this book the entire time I was reading it. If you're into romance (let's face it, you are) I highly recommend her book. 

Simply click her username or search for it. 

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PLAYLIST

(in order)

All by Myself — Eric Carmen

Escape (The Piña Colada Song) — Rupert Holmes

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TRANSLATION/S

Huh ... ren ... sohn! — whore's son or son of a whore!

Ficken Rossette! — Fucking asshole!

Fick! — Fuck!

Arschloch — Asshole

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*[F/N]*

Pump Irons  — (US slang) to exercise with weights; do body-building exercises.

Herspers — (Car Slang) means "horsepowers", a unit of measurement of power, or the rate at which work is done, usually in reference to the output of engines or motors.

Professor X  — a fictional character from the X-Men comic series. He is a mutant with the ability to read and communicate with other people's minds. 

Hugh Jackman's Wolverine — Hugh Jackman is an Australian actor who played the mutant, Wolverine, from the X-Men film adaptation. His appearance on-screen showcases thirst traps of his gorgeous muscular bod. 

Schtupp — (Yiddish Slang) means "to have intercourse". 

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André