“This here is young… Sorry, what was your name again, son?” Jerry asked.
Quentin stepped forward and stuck out his hand toward the guy who looked like he could crush his skull with one hand while throwing back a beer with the other. Manners might just prevent that from happening, though he wasn’t putting his money on it. And he was so not giving him his last name. “Hi, I’m Quentin.”
The man’s eyebrows rose, but he took off his right glove and accepted Quentin’s hand with a small nod. His hand was huge, enveloping Quentin’s with a strong grip that almost made him wince. Quentin waited for him to speak but let go when that, apparently, wasn’t on the program.
“Mac here is a man of few words,” Jerry said.
Quentin expected him to slap the guy on the back in a neighborly fashion, but Jerry kept his distance. Interesting. Jerry talked about Mac as if he knew him well, but the physical space between the two men did not suggest a close relationship. Moreover, Jerry’s voice held a hint of hostility, with a solid dose of condescending thrown in. What was that about?
Respect, he would’ve understood, considering the guy’s appearance. Fear, even. This was not a man you wanted to cross. But why that patronizing attitude?
The silence became uncomfortable. Oh, damn, Mac was waiting for Quentin to say something. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, so, Jerry said my car can’t be fixed and that you might be willing to take it. For your junkyard. For a reasonable price,” he quickly added before the man thought he was giving it away for free.
Jerry’s phone rang, and he picked up right away. His face broke open in a big smile. “Already? Yes, honey, I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in twenty.”
He ended the call and sent Quentin an apologetic look. “I gotta go. My daughter is in labor, so I gotta get to the hospital.”
“But…” Quentin sputtered.
Jerry had his car unhooked in no time, Mac watching silently while Quentin cursed the AAA guy in his head. Mac hadn’t named a price—and it would go down considerably now that Jerry was about to dump his car there. It wasn’t like Quentin had anything to bargain with anymore. And how the fuck was he supposed to get back to town without a ride? He’d have to call a cab.
“Mac will sort you out,” were Jerry’s parting words, and then his truck backed out of the short driveway, leaving Quentin and his useless piece of shit car behind.
Quentin suppressed a sigh as he turned around to face Mac, who was studying him with an unreadable expression. “Erm, yeah, my car. How much is it worth?” Quentin asked.
Mac’s jaw tightened, then finally opened his mouth. “T-t-t-two hundred.”
And at once, Quentin understood why the man was taciturn. Damn it, would it be cruel to try and negotiate with someone who had a speech impediment? He considered it. The alternative was treating him differently because of a perceived handicap, and would that be preferable?
“Is that the same price you would have quoted if Jerry hadn’t dumped me and my car on your doorstep? It’s not like I have many options here,” he said, trying to look as stern as he could.
Mac’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Ng-ng-ng-yes,” he said. “N-n-no different. W-would’ve b-b-been the s-s-same price.”
Quentin shrugged. The guy didn’t look like he was fleecing him, so he’d have to trust him, even if he did look like a total badass. “Okay, then.”
“Okay,” Mac said, some tension in his shoulders leaving, Quentin noticed. “I’ll write you a ch-ch-check.”
“Is cash okay? I’m not local and don’t have a bank account here.”
Mac simply nodded and led the way to a small office just past the sturdy fence that gave access to a large terrain filled with cars in all shapes, colors, and states of despair. Along the side fence, rusty blue containers stood neatly lined up, a hand-painted metal sign signaling what the présuméd contents were: batteries, mufflers, engines, and more.
On the other side of the fence stood a big wooden barn with a similar metal sign that read Shop, and at the end towered a pile of tires, some bigger than Quentin had ever seen in his life. Mac ran quite the operation here, but everything looked neat, even though it was a junkyard.
Quentin followed Mac into the office, which wasn’t the mess he had expected either. The metal desk was almost empty, except for a laptop and two plastic trays labeled In and Out. Mac was an organized and systematic worker, surprisingly. Though maybe that said more about Quentin’s prejudice based on Mac’s appearance than about Mac himself.
Mac took off his gloves and jammed them into the pockets of his jacket, then opened a drawer and pulled out a small cash box. He handwrote Quentin a receipt for the promised two hundred dollars, then wordlessly counted them out on the desk. Quentin folded the money and put it in his wallet. “Could you maybe give me the number of the local cab company?” he asked, taking out his phone. He checked if he had any messages.
“N-n-no c-c-cab here,” Mac said.
“There’s no cab company? Dammit.”
It did make sense in a town this size. How often would people here need a cab? Maybe, what, once a year? That didn’t provide enough customers. And Uber and Lyft weren’t gonna happen either. How the fuck was he getting anywhere now? It wasn’t like he could hike back, what with his two suitcases in the trunk, plus his backpack.
He lifted his eyes to meet Mac’s. The man had a gorgeous pair of brown puppy eyes that lowered his badass level significantly, but how many people managed to get past that intimidating first impression? There was no denying the man was hot as fuck, but Quentin’s gaydar didn’t even pick up the slightest buzz, so the guy had to be straight as a ruler.
“I c-c-can drive you to t-town,” Mac said, the first time he’d initiated a conversation instead of merely responding to a question.
“Would you? I’d really appreciate it,” Quentin said, his insides filling with relief. “Is there, like, a motel or something? The cheapest option will do.”
Mac nodded. “G-g-guesthouse.”
“That’ll do. Thank you, Mac.”
More nodding, then Mac turned around, apparently expecting Quentin to follow him.
“I need to grab my luggage from my car,” Quentin said when they were outside again. “And do I need to file something to deregister my tags?”
Mac pointed at himself. Quentin was starting to discover how much the man communicated nonverbally. “You’ll do it? Thank you.”
Mac hauled his two suitcases out of his car, then gestured to Quentin to check if he’d left anything else in there he needed to take out. Quentin did a quick search, but all he found were his proof of insurance, a ratty pair of sunglasses he always kept in his car, and a pack of gum. He’d already cleaned out his car before he started this crazy adventure, determined to be all adult-like. So far, that was not working out well.
Mac put the suitcases in the back of a massive pickup truck with ease, and Quentin hoisted himself inside, keeping his backpack close to him. It contained his most prized possession, his MacBook, and he was not letting it out of his sight.
They didn’t speak a word during the journey—not that Quentin minded. He was usually more than happy to give his mind a break and let his thoughts wander. And it wasn’t like he lacked things to look at. The gorgeous scenery around him was as pretty as a postcard.