MARCH
Amelia Island Concourse d’Elegance
Hosted by Sotheby’s
Amelia Island, Florida
I’m bone-tired. And jet-lagged. Even though the car expo in France was a great experience, and I doubt most guys my age would ever have the opportunity to go to an event at a chateau and call it work, I’m glad to be back in the States.
We’ve just finished a long-ass weekend here in Amelia Island. If I felt surrounded by wealth back home in Fairhope and at the country club there, this surpasses that on all fronts. Let’s just say when the words “Sotheby’s auction” are spoken, it’s a whole different ball game.
Uncle Johnny tried to prepare me for it, warning me I’d see some cars up for auction that’d give serious car restoration enthusiasts “massive hard-ons,” but I had no idea it would be—could be—on this grand of a scale.
Now, I’m seated at the bar in the Amelia Island Plantation Resort, nursing a beer. Now that the event is over, this place has thinned out considerably. I should be celebrating with the other guys and my uncle, who are in the billiards room playing a game of pool and partaking in friendly shit-talking, like usual. Instead, I’m here, scanning the countless liquor bottles in front of the mirrored wall of the bar, wondering if my eyes were just playing tricks on me.
It’s happened before. First, a few weeks after I got to Atlanta. Then in France. In my periphery, a woman with long blond hair, the shade of Magnolia’s, will catch my eye. It’s never her, though.
She haunts me, but I have no one to blame for it except myself. But I needed—need—this. To try to make something of myself. To try to be worthy.
To try to feel worthy.
I reach for my back pocket and withdraw the small, thin item like it’s some sort of priceless artifact. It’s fucking ridiculous since it cost me less than a dollar, but I always keep one with me. Having a packet of cherry Pop Rocks makes me feel closer to her somehow.
The guy beside me slides off his barstool after scribbling his signature on the credit card slip. Within seconds, someone new takes his place. Distractedly, I run the pad of my finger over the edge of the packet and take a sip of beer. The bartender sets a fresh pint of the pale ale on tap on the coaster in front of the guy beside me.
I wonder what Magnolia’s up to. I haven’t been able to bring myself to search for her on social media. I’ve steered clear of creating a Facebook account of my own, but I created one on Instagram. Granted, it’s more to drum up attention for Uncle Johnny’s shop because I tag his business’ Instagram page when I post. Which reminds me…
I reach for my phone that sits on the lacquered bar surface and snap a pic of my beer and the coaster. I tag Custom Motorwerks and mention the auction, and within seconds, notifications pop up with people liking it or commenting. I take another drink of beer and toy with the edge of the Pop Rocks packet.
“What’s her name?”
My head snaps around at the question from the man beside me, his Southern accent thicker than molasses. From Texas, maybe?
At first, I’m caught off guard by how physically intimidating he is. Sure, I jog and do push-ups to stay in shape since I’m lugging around heavy equipment daily and logging long hours on special restoration projects, but this guy has serious bulk. Yet the thing that stands out to me most are his sharp blue eyes. They give me the impression he doesn’t miss much.
He lifts his chin in my direction. “That expression on your face is a dead giveaway.” One edge of his mouth turns up. “Gotta be a woman.”
I shake my head and turn my focus to my beer glass, the condensation beading on the outside.
“Let me guess. Sweet Southern belle. Her daddy chased you off with a shotgun.”
I shoot him a sharp look. “You always like this with people you don’t know?”
“Yep,” a male voice answers from behind us, and a dark-haired man steps into view, sliding into the spot beside the other guy. “He won’t shut up till he bleeds you dry of your life story.”
“Not feelin’ the love, cuz.” The man’s tone says otherwise, voice dripping with amusement.
The dark-haired man meets my gaze. “I’m Jude, and this behemoth here”—he tips his head, gesturing to the blond man—“is my cousin, Kane.”
Begrudgingly, I offer my name. Good manners and all that. “Hollis Barnes.”
Something flashes in Kane’s eyes that looks like recognition. He cocks his head to the side. “You’re Johnny Barnes’ nephew, huh?” His eyes survey me.
“Yes, sir,” I answer carefully.
Kane’s lips stretch wide into a grin. “You just sir’d me.” He leans against the back of the barstool, looking over at Jude. “You reckon I’m an old man, now?”
Jude lets out a low grunt and smirks. “Now?”
Kane’s hand flies to cover the center of his chest, and he feigns hurt, his Southern accent growing thicker. “That wounds me deeply, darlin’.”
“Yet somehow you’ll move on, I’m sure,” Jude answers drily.
Kane shakes his head with a smile and turns his attention back to me. “I served under your uncle. He’s a good man.”
It takes me a moment to get on track with the shift in topic. My uncle Johnny had been in the Army for a while—specifically a Green Beret—until an injury took him out of the game. He’d battled with TBI, traumatic brain injury, until he finally called it quits.
“That he is.” I take a drink of beer.
“Word on the street is you’re the best guy for body work aside from him. Impressive for your age.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the compliment. My uncle doesn’t cut corners and actually takes his time with projects. His work is top-notch, and I’ve learned more than I ever expected by shadowing him.
I’ve graduated from my apprenticeship, and I’m proud to say I’ve earned my title of Auto Body Restoration Technician. I’m still on the lower ranks, but I know I’ll move up quickly. I’m good at my job, and I love it. It’s something that gives me pride, especially when we auction off our work through a prestigious company like Sotheby’s.
The more I learn and the better I get at this job, the closer I get to being good enough.
For her.
It’s always at the back of my mind even though I’m sure she’s moved on by now. No way could a girl like Magnolia Barton stay single forever. I know there’s no chance she’d want to be with me, but at least I feel closer to being good enough.
“You from Georgia, too?” Kane’s question draws me from my thoughts.
“No, I’m from Alabama.”
“And the girl you left behind’s there, too?”
“Ye—” I stop myself abruptly, jaw clamping shut. Damn, he’s slick.
“Well played,” Jude mumbles.
Kane nods, and his eyes flick to the Pop Rocks lying before me. “You got a sweet tooth?”
A small laugh rushes out. “Not really.” Shit. My voice sounds all sad and pathetic. I’m hoping he won’t notice.
“But she did.” It’s not posed as a question.
I just nod.