Page 1 of Snowfall
1
Gerard
There’s nothin’ hotter than a woman who drives a stick.
Being a mechanic with an educated background in classic cars doesn’t usually dole out perks, but today, fate dealt me a sweet deal, ’cause I’m currently inspecting a 1995 Corvette with engine issues while checking out its owner — a dark-haired woman who’s pacing around me in six-inch, fuck-me-hard, stiletto heels and skintight pencil skirt. She’s like a high-fashion supermodel with edge, and I’m digging her hardcore.
“So, what do you think it is?” she asks agitatedly, wringing her hands together.
“Not sure, maybe a leak.” I wipe my greasy hands on a rag. “You’ll have to leave it here so I can give it a through once-over.”
Her pretty face falls. She’s so perfect. So put together. So fucking far out of my league, but that’s never stopped me from flirting before. An uptown girl and a backstreet guy. Stranger things have happened.
“It’ll only be for a little while, darlin’. No need for separation anxiety.” I shut the hood of the old Corvette. I wouldn’t exactly call it classic. More vintage. A sweet 1995 C4 with metallic black paint and white racing stripes. It’s sort of nostalgic and brings back memories from my early twenties. Cruising down the Las Vegas Strip, sewing whatever kind of trouble my boys and I could find.
The woman in front of me doesn’t strike me as the muscle car type, but she clearly has a connection to this one.
“I know it’s silly.” She laughs melodically. “It’s just, it’s my father’s car. We would work on it together. It’s the last thing I have left of him.”
Well, damn.
“You know about cars?” I inquire.
“A bit. I just don’t have time to tinker around and figure out the problem myself.” She looks at her watch. A rose-gold thing with lots of sparkly diamonds.
“Well, I definitely have the time to tinker,” I assure her, trying not to rip her clothes off with my eyes. She is some woman.
“Thank you.” Her smile’s so genuine and so free she makes my stomach tingle like a teenager. A few other places on my body, too.
I lead her back inside my shop to collect some information. Standard stuff.
Name: Kristen Kendrick . . .pretty.
Address: 2437 Pacific Coast Highway, Malibu, California . . .fancy.
Phone number: 555-7315 . . .jackpot.
“Well, Mrs. Kendrick—"
“Ms. Kendrick,” she corrects.
“Ms. Kendrick,” I repeat, trying to hide my smirk. My fishing worked. Single. Score. “I’ll get to work, see what I find, and get back to you as soon as possible.”
“I appreciate that.” Kristen pulls out her phone just as one of my mechanics appears from the garage.
“Gambit,” Moto calls my name. “Got a delivery outback, need you to sign.” He holds up a piece of paper.
Kristen raises an eyebrow as I sign away my life.
“Thanks, boss.” Moto splits. He’s a good kid from a bad neighborhood. Gifted mechanic, too. Been working here since he was sixteen. He’s close to twenty-four now.
“Gambit?” Kristen comments. “That’s an interesting name.”
I smile broadly. “Just a nickname.”
“What’s your real name then?” She’s genuinely interested. And I am genuinely interested in giving her the answer. “Gerard. Gerard Parish.”
“Well, it’s very nice to formally meet you, Gerard Parish.” Her voice is like a siren’s. Smooth and seductive as it puts me under a damn spell. “Please take good care of my baby.”
