“Not offering,” I cut in. “Where you parked?”
“Where ‘are’ you parked,” Stacy mumbles behind me, correcting my English.
Does she bust her boy-man’s balls like this? She’s dating a super submissive kid who I delight in creating pet names for. This, Stacy does not appreciate. The boy seems fine, but he can barely form two words in my presence (he’s afraid of me—something I like about him) so I worry about his intelligence. Then again, I’m not confident his diction is what she has him around for. Which reminds me: I’ve been meaning to have another word with the boyfriend. I don’t know if her mom’s had the talk, but this besotted puppy Stacy is seeing is seventeen and in love. They don’t neck in the parking lot anymore, we’ve already had the you-touch-her-wrong, You Die talk, and it went well. So well, her boy spooked and stopped picking her up here at all for a while and Stacy managed to avoid speaking to me for nearly a week, which isn’t easy when all I have to do is lean over my desk and we can see each other, and it’s her job to hand me the credit card receipts every night.
Turns out you can do that without a word and mean mug your boss like it’s part of your job.
Stacy’s too sweet to stay furious at me for forever though, and the little jagoff she’s dating got braver and eventually started picking her up from work again.
Unfortunately, it’s not legal for me to bar her from his vehicle. First time he showed up to take her home, I made them wait while I called her mother to verify that she’d given permission for this. She had. I don’t know what Stacy’s mom is thinking. But maybe she’s got our girl in an industrial-grade chastity belt. I didn’t ask, because questions like that would probably land me in prison for the wrong reason, but that’s about the only thing that would put my mind at ease.
Inara is searching my face, and it’s a struggle, but once I’m out of my head, I have to work to stay focused on her eyes. The rest of her is too damn cool to look at, her features—especially her curves, which, covered in scales or not, do everything in their power to catch attention.
They’re definitely trying to steal my attention.
My eyes have no trouble staying locked to hers the moment her next words leave her mouth though. “I parked in the woods.”
“The woods?” Stacy asks the question I almost bark—although she sounds more softly puzzled than pissed.
“Why,” I ask slowly, “did you feel the need to park in the woods, sweetheart?” I ask my new employee, who has no address, no ID, and who is giving me all sorts of bad feelings right now as she bites her lip and tries too late to avoid my eyes.
She waves a hand. “That’s not important.”
The fuck it isn’t.
“The point is, I assure you—”
Oh, here we go.
“—I’m fine, and I don’t need—”
Good God, save me from women who don’t need help.
“—your help,” she finishes, and I want to turn, walk back to my desk, and proceed to bang my head onto the walnut until I see stars or until women start making some fucking sense.
I don’t do that. I opt for what I think is a reasonable approach. Sometimes, I forget that it rarely works to reason with a woman. “You got it anyway. Let’s get Stace here to her car, then we’ll—”
“Mr. Shawnessy,” Inara cuts in softly, with what sounds like strained patience.
I can relate.
“I promise you, I’m fine.”
I nod. “And I’ll be right beside you to ensure that. Just let me get Stacy—”
“Matt!” Inara enunciates through her sharp teeth.
That’s when I lean in until we’re nose to nose. She’s tall for a woman. And her nose, covered in little scaly bumps? It’s cute. But I’m about to put it out of joint, figuratively speaking. “Keep up the attitude. It’s only going to piss me off while we do this.” I pause, letting her see I’m all sorts of serious. “You are not. Walking. Alone. We’re doing this.”
Inara’s eyes roll, the flash from her too-colorful irises to white orbs happening so suddenly that I flinch, and I hope she didn’t see me do it.
Stacy, still behind me, definitely did see it though, and I know this when she lets out a surprised little snicker.
“Can it, pipsqueak,” I warn her.
No, telling the kid this doesn’t work. It never works. Makes her laugh though, and that’s almost as good as if she just shuts her trap and behaves.
Fuck, why do I keep paying these little headaches. I should troll senior centers for my employees. Although, I grew up watching Golden Girls. Those old ladies threw sass just as bad. Shit. Women never grow out of it, do they?
To Inara, I tip my head and give her my firmest smile. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 5
We get Stacy to her car without incident.
The incident starts when Stacy’s still got her car door open, when Inara informs me that she can really get to her ship just fine.
“Your ‘ship,’” I repeat. “The one you parked in the woods?”
“Yes. That is the transport I mean.”
“Oh, crap, Matt, can I come with you?” Stacy breathes.
I cut her a wide-eyed glance. “I’m not sure.” Should I… have a witness? No, no—I can handle this. I don’t care if Inara is cracked, just as long as she shows up looking and behaving tomorrow just like she did today.
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I think you’d better get home.”
“Are you going to take her in your car?” Stacy asks in disbelief.
She’s got reason to be pretty stunned. My car is almost a holy relic. Practically created by God himself, it’s the Mustang to end all Mustangs: it’s a classic black Boss 429. It was my grandpa’s, and it was to be my dad’s. And would have been, if he hadn’t passed away so early.
I think that’s part of why my grandpa let me have his car. He was crushed to lose his son, and it hit home hard that life is too fleeting. And that’s when the vehicle stopped being a showpiece and started being a daily treat to drive. He wanted to enjoy every moment he had with it—and he wanted me to enjoy the car while he was still alive to see it.
Of course, he didn’t just hand it over to an over eager sixteen-year-old me. I had a long road ahead of me to prove I was responsible enough to care for a car worth more money than I’d ever be able to earn in a lifetime. Okay, that’s a bit of a stretch. If the average American makes something like seven hundred grand over the course of their life, they’d be able to afford at least two Bosses… except they can’t, because there aren’t that many 429s to go around.
There were 1,359 Boss 429s made. And with over three hundred components unique to these cars, they’re not an easy keeper. To put it plainly? Replacing anything on them is a bitch. For this reason, it’s only the serious Mustang connoisseur who will put up with their special brand of headache.
Despite using the Boss for daily commute, I could sell this car and earn a fortune. Or I can drive it and think of my grandpa and my dad constantly tinkering with it. Restoration work was their hobby, and this car was their passion.