“I need a wing woman.” She slouches, her slender shoulders folding forward. She pretends nothing rattles her, but she is more insecure than people would ever guess. “Please?” she asks, her voice soft.

We both know I’m going to say yes. All I’m doing is losing precious sleep pretending otherwise.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll come.”

“Thank you! You’re the best.” She hops off the bed and throws her arms around me, squeezing tight.

“So I’ve heard. Now go away, I need my beauty sleep!”

She skips away, singing her thank-yous as she does.

I close the door behind her and sigh. It’s past midnight when I collapse in bed, after setting my alarm for six a.m. to get up and do it all over again.

Chapter Two

Devin

The alarm on my phone blares in my ear and I silence it with a grunt, dragging my tired ass out of bed before the damn sun is up. After shaking some of the stiffness from my muscles, and pulling on a pair of worn but clean jeans, I lurch into the kitchen for some much-needed coffee.

I’m too young to be this sore in the mornings. I swear, sometimes I feel a hundred years old. Never had this problem when I spent my days under the hood of a car. It’s sitting in that damn office, hunched over a mountain of invoices and staring at a dim computer screen until I can’t see straight. Humans weren’t meant to do this shit. A man should have something to show for himself at the end of the day. Something tangible.

Pouring myself a strong cup of fresh-brewed dark roast, I run through the day ahead of me. It’s Saturday, so the shop is going to be a madhouse. Sean’s got to repair the engine on that Jeep. I need that bay for the Chevy I’ve got coming in for a service. I’ve got to call Jose over at the junk yard to see if he’s got anything we can use to fix that piece-of-crap Pontiac Mrs. Jensen keeps bringing in. How the old woman can even still see over the steering wheel is beyond me. I’ll have to place a new order with Mikulski’s today for some brake pads and rotors before we get too low. Then there’s next week’s schedule to write. Does Shelley want Tuesday or Wednesday off?

I take another sip of coffee, the warm bitter taste doing its part in cutting through the morning haze. I fucking hate mornings.

I get to the shop before anyone else, like usual, and start flipping on the lights. The smell of grease and gas welcomes me, sweeter than the finest perfume. We don’t open for another two hours, but I can get a lot more work done when I don’t have to man the counter as well. The old metal office chair groans underneath me when I lower my massive frame into it. I know the feeling. I don’t want to be sitting here all day either. We’ve all got shit we’d rather not do. That’s called life. Better get used to it.