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PROLOGUE
Exhaustion threatens to take over my tired, aching body as I walk carefully down the stairs. My eyes are burning from the lack of sleep in the past few days and my feet are hating me for every painful step I take. My house is dark, but I know he’s down there because I can hear him retching. Frustration seizes my chest, a savage twist to my heart, as my feet slowly take me closer to a scene I’m so tired of acting out.
“Quinn?” he cries between retching. “Quinn!”
Swallowing down the anger threatening to rise and explode from my chest, I walk with numb legs towards the bathroom. I step over an empty bottle of whiskey on my way there, the remainder of its contents soaked into the carpet for me to clean up once again. I put my hand to the slightly ajar bathroom door and push it open, stepping inside. My father is on the ground, curled in a ball, covered in vomit.
Pain rises up and flashes through my body as I walk towards him and stare down at his pitiful form. He wasn’t always like this. Before my mother died he was happy, fun loving and clean. Now he’s a drunk and he has been since the day she was taken from us. I’m the only person in the world who cares enough to stand by his side, no matter how hard that is at times.
“Dad, you need to get up and into the shower. I have to clean this mess up.”
He groans and rolls to his back, his shirt soaked with stale sweat. My shoulders slump and I know there’s just no way I’ll get him into the shower. He’s too drunk, too far gone. Instead I go to the sink and fill it up, and then I take a washcloth and start the daunting task of dabbing him clean. When his shirt is vomit free and his face is wiped clean, I get to work helping him out of the bathroom so I can clean up in there, too.
We make it to the couch before he vomits again. Swallowing down my tears for a third time, I start cleaning up that mess. When I’m done, I force him to drink some water then I go about hiding the remaining alcohol in the house because I know he’ll look for it. He’s too drunk to bother to try too hard. If he can’t find it he will, as always, just pass out.
Once the bathroom is cleaned and sanitized, I cover my passed-out father with a blanket and then disappear down the hall to my bedroom, closing the door gently. I gather my clothes, take a shower and then slide into bed. It’s late, probably past 1 a.m., and I have an entire garage to run tomorrow. The dull ache in my chest, the one that never leaves, is heavier tonight. It’s heavy with the burdens of our lives. How the hell am I supposed to fix it all?
I’m twenty-five years old. I should be out with friends, falling in love and have no care in the world except what I’m going to wear for the day and what sort of coffee I’m going to order. Instead, I have the responsibilities of a business, because it’s the only thing that keeps me sane. I have to keep this two-bedroom shack tidy because it’s the only home I have.
I have no friends, except the guys that work at the garage with me. I have very few family members, and only one of them actually gives a shit about my dad and me. That’s my uncle, who visits as much as he can, but mostly, he is too busy. I have never been in love. In fact, the only boyfriend I’ve had time for was when I was sixteen. He left me when he saw the state of my house and my father, oh, and when he got into my pants. Since then, there have been only a few random dates that didn’t go anywhere.
I want happiness, truly I do, but there are far too many obstacles in my way to ever begin to imagine where to start. The business is struggling. The expansion we did two years ago didn’t pay off the way we originally thought it would and our debts have doubled. The mortgage is overdue and utility bills are piling high. My dad gets worse by the day, in fact, it’s been over two weeks since he’s dragged himself off the couch and came in to check on his own garage.
So it’s just me. I’m all I have and right now, I’m okay with that.
Aren’t I?
As I close my eyes and drift off into a fitful sleep, I wonder just how much longer I can take all of this before I eventually end up exactly like my father. When the pain becomes too much, where will I go from there?
CHAPTER ONE
“Good morning, Dad,” I say, heading into the kitchen the next morning.
My father is sitting on the couch still, his head bowed, a cup of joe in his hands. He looks up when I come in and I wince. Once, a long time ago, my dad was an exceptionally handsome man with his golden hair and bright blue eyes. He had a big frame and was all muscle. Now he’s frail and weak, his hair is dull and his eyes … they’re empty.
“Morning, sugar,” he rasps. “I’m, ah, sorry ’bout last night.”
He says this every time that happens.
“No biggie,” I say in my best chipper voice, pouring a coffee. “Are you coming into the garage today?”
He frowns. “I would, but my stomach … it’s not so good. Maybe tomorrow.”
He says that every time, too.
“Okay, Dad.”
I gather my keys and carry my coffee to the front door. As I pass him, my dad reaches out and curls his hand around my wrist. “I’m sorry, Quinnie … I’ll try to be better.”
I look down into his empty blue eyes and I wish I could believe that, I really do. There’s a pain etched deep in my chest, and it’s one I live with on a daily basis. There is pain for the loss of my mom. There is pain because my dad is so broken. And there is a deep pain knowing that my family is no longer beautiful like it once was. I don’t resent my dad for being this way, but I can’t accept it either. I’ve tried to understand, but I guess since I’ve never had a love like theirs, it is beyond me.
I pat his shoulder and pull my wrist from his. “Okay, Dad. Later.”
I rush out the front door and get into my old, restored, baby blue Mustang with white leather interior. It’s the only thing I cherish in my life. It is important to me because when my dad was sober, and my mom was alive, we fixed this car up together. It’s the only piece of the old him I have left, so I hang onto it with both hands, cherishing the memories it holds for me. My dad taught me everything I know about cars and how to restore them. I’ve never loved anything as much as I love being under the hood of a car. Strange, I know, but it takes me back to a place where happiness was like a bubble surrounding me.
It was hard growing up being a tomboy. I had the looks to be a girly girl, but I never used them. I loved being around the guys, and I loved being with my dad. During my high school years, I got a good deal of taunts thrown my way, because I was different from the rest. I still recall the memory when I told Dad I wanted to be a mechanic—the very thought makes me smile.
“You want to be what?” he asks, his eyes wide.
“I want to be a mechanic,” I say proudly. “Like you, Daddy.”
He blinks. “Baby, you’re a girl.”
I stare at him, shocked. “And?”
He shakes his head. “Shouldn’t you want to, I don’t know, wear dresses and paint your nails?”
“Not all girls do those thi
ngs, Dad.”
He laughs. “No … but … honey, I don’t think it’s the right profession for you. It’s a world of males and … well … male things.”
I straighten. “You don’t think I can handle that, because I’m a girl? That isn’t enough of an excuse, Daddy. I’ve been under those cars since I was big enough to do so, and you know it. Don’t be like the rest of them, don’t make me feel stupid for pursuing something that isn’t necessarily feminine.”
My dad’s face softens. “Baby,” he says gently. “I’m damned proud when I watch you under a car, I just want you to do what’s right for you. If this is it, then Quinn, I’m over the moon. You know you’ve been my little sidekick since you were little. I’d love nothing more than to be able to expand your knowledge.”
I beam and throw myself into his arms. “Are you saying I can work for you?”
He chuckles, squeezing me tightly. “After you talk to your mother about it.”
I come back to the here and now, with a smile on my face. My dad never had a chance of stopping me. I was born to be under cars and once he convinced my mother of this, I never left the garage. With a smile, I back out and drive to work.
The garage my dad owns, and has owned since I was born, is only about twenty minutes away from home. There are five of us that work there. Jace, Lenny, Oscar, Matty and myself. These guys are the only reason I keep fighting as hard as I do, because there are so many times when giving up would be so much easier. They’ve been in my life for a solid five years now, and if it wasn’t for them, I would have never been able to hold the garage together. During this time, I’ve managed to bond with them all. They’ve become the only family I know.
Jace is my closest friend out of the four guys. He’s two years older than me and an amazing mechanic. He’s got a skill under the hood that not many people have. He’s also a playboy at heart. He has more women than underwear, but I have a friendship with him that is just that, friendship. There is, and never has been, anything sexual between us, even though he’s handsome, he’s funny and he makes me smile.
Lenny and Oscar are the oldest of the group. Lenny is fifty and Oscar is fifty-eight. Both are friends of my father’s and so therefore, are like second and third fathers to me. They’re loyal to him and they do amazing work. Lenny has serious talent when it comes to fixing the bodies on cars. He has a way of making them look better when they leave than when they came in. Oscar is an old-school mechanic, and people love him for that very reason. The garage just wouldn’t be the same without them.
Matty is our newest member, and he’s only twenty but is blossoming into a great mechanic with every passing day. He’s training under us, so he also studies as well as puts in hours at the garage. He’s good with his hands, but most importantly, he’s got an eye for the smaller things. The things we often miss. He’s smart as hell, and he’s taken in every single thing he’s learned in his time with us.
I arrive at the garage and pull my car into the reserved spot that’s always been mine. I throw my booted feet out and then slide my body out at the same time slamming the door behind me. I’m always first to arrive and last to leave. But it’s not just because I love this place. I help out with the cars, but I also have paperwork coming out of my ass on top of it. I don’t mind, though. There’s a certain peace this place brings me, and being here gives me stability. I’d be lost without it.
I walk towards the large, two-bay garage with Pixie Wheels written in bright blue across the top of the old, steel colored walls. My mom used to call me Pixie when I was little so Dad made sure to include it into the name when they started this business. I’ve never had the heart to change it. My parents had so many happy years in this place, and I think it’s part of the reason I hang onto it so tightly. It’s the only happy memories I have left.
I open the door that leads into the office from the workshop, and step inside. There are two offices in the front left-hand corner of the garage, one that has a reception desk and files, and another that has a computer and phone, as well as a crap load of tools and boxes stacked against the wall. The second is where I lock myself away to do most of my work. Matty rotates his time between the garage and reception, because we can’t afford a receptionist right now. I had to install a phone in the workshop so we could take calls out there.
I drop my phone down onto the reception desk and flick on the lights. I open the door leading out to the garage and see we have four cars still needing to be pushed through before we can take on any more today. The locals around here know the business, know me and know my story, so they are loyal and always bring their cars in to us, even still, when you’re so far behind, business has to be better than that to stay afloat.
I sit at the desk booting up the computer and hoping to get through some invoicing before the guys start in two hours. I have a lot to do and it’s the only time we’re quiet enough for me to be able to do anything without interruption. I manage to pore through fifty invoices before Lenny sticks his head in the door, his deep brown eyes softening when he sees me.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Lenny.” I smile, standing.
He studies me and his expression becomes grim. I know he can see that I’m exhausted, hell, I can see that I’m exhausted. I avoided looking in the mirror this morning because I knew that I’d see what resembled a run-over, beaten-up clown looking back at me. I don’t have time for a reminder of what I already know.
Lenny steps through the door, his tall frame taking up most of it. Even in his fifties, Lenny is strong and fit. His hair is more pepper than salt still, giving him that rugged, older hot guy look. I bet the old ducks go nuts over him. That thought makes me scrunch my nose up. Nobody wants to think about old people going at it. Great way to start the morning.
“Rob give you trouble again last night?” he asks as I try to step around him.
I wave a hand. “Nope, I look like a clown because I was out raging all night.”
He gives me a bitter expression. He doesn’t like my humor. He’s too caring. He doesn’t understand that my humor is all I have left.
He reaches out and takes my shoulders in his big hands, looking down at me, his expression dark. “Quinnie, you’re exhausted. You’ve got huge circles under your eyes. You look like shit. Don’t lie to me, honey.”
I frown, he can see right through me. “He got drunk, made a mess, it was fine.”
Lenny shakes his head and his jaw goes tight. “Goin’ to have a word with him again this afternoon.”
“What’s the point, Len?” I throw my hands up. “We’ve all tried and let’s face it, he doesn’t listen. He’ll never listen.”
“You’re running yourself into the ground.”
He’s telling me nothing I don’t already know.
“Don’t worry, I’m made of steel.”
“Quinn…”
“Lenny, I’ll be fine,” I say in a firm tone, stepping past him.
I enter the garage just as Jace, Oscar and Matty come in. They’re always on time, each and every one of them. I’m grateful for that. Jace strides over, wearing his favorite pair of coveralls, which believe me, do not take away from his masculinity one tiny bit. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and plants a loud, smacking kiss to my forehead. “Mornin’, sunshine, you look like crap.”
I smile. “Thanks, and you look like farmer Joe.”
He steps back, hooking his thumbs through his coveralls and grins. “You like?”
“Not even a little bit. Better not let your ladies see you in those, you’ll go from hot to … well … not.”
This is a lie. Women would probably throw themselves at his feet if they got a look at him in those coveralls with his long dark hair curling at his neckline and those bright blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Farmer Joe, eat your heart out.
“I always knew you thought I was hot.”
His grin gets bigger. I roll my eyes.
“How you got that out of what I said is far, far beyond me
.”
“Morning, Quinnie,” Oscar says, winking at me. With his salt-and-pepper hair, he’s far more worn-out looking than Lenny, but he’s got the sweetest green eyes. “You do look like shit.”
“Come on, guys,” I protest. “You’re killing me here. Can one of you tell me my hair looks totally rad? Please? Hell, just lie to me and we’ll be cool.”
“You look like a sweet sugar pie,” Matty says in his Texan drawl, which I absolutely adore.
“Now you nearly made that believable.” I grin.
He chuckles. Matty has only been in Florida for the last four years, before that he was a Texan boy through and through. He’s going to be handsome as all hell when he fills out from that young man to an older, more mature man. He’s got sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. His face is handsome, yet sweet and there are a good lot of girls who want to get their hands on him.
“What’re we pulling in today?” Lenny asks, coming up behind me and resting his hands on my shoulders.
“We need to move what’s already in here and then bring in as many more as we can get through before closing.”
“I’m on it,” Oscar says, disappearing into the office to collect the booking information schedule.
“I’ll do the little sedan,” I say, nodding to a red sedan that’s without its tires in the corner. “Tell me what it needs.”
“The alternator has shit itself,” Lenny informs me. “Got all the parts ordered in and ready to go. Also got some new tires for it.”
“Cool,” I say. “Well, let’s do this.”
I disappear into the office to get my things and then head into the female bathroom to put on an old pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved button-up shirt that’s seen better days. I quickly change, rolling up the sleeves on the shirt and lifting my black hair into a high ponytail.
Then I dare to look in the mirror.
I don’t like what I see.
They’re all right. I look awful. My eyes, which are usually dark brown, are bloodshot and there are some serious dark rings under them. My hair, black as the night, is limp and gross. I look drawn out and tired. I splash my face with some water and slap my cheeks a few times to give them color before heading back out to get started on the day.