Hard to Break Page 2

  I slide right on over to the car that will occupy my morning and get it raised up so I can slip underneath it. I get down to work and listen to the guys chatting casually as I do. The radio is playing through some speakers that are mounted on the walls, and every now and then one of the guys will laugh loudly, which always brings a smile to my face. They’re a dream to work with.

  I finish the red car in about two hours and move on to replacing a few batteries and doing a few general services on some others that come in. Then I get to work helping Lenny fix the body of a car that has been in a serious accident. It’s not easy when there’s so much damage, but I do love replacing old parts with the new. It seems to give the cars a fresh vibe that most people are happy to drive away with.

  “Yo, Quinn!” Jace calls just after lunch, when I’m head deep in the engine of an old Ford that sounds like it’s about to fall to pieces.

  “Yeah?” I call.

  “Call for you.”

  Ugh.

  Why must people be so needy?

  I push up to my feet and walk into the reception area, lifting the phone. “Hello?” I say in my best chipper voice.

  “Hello, Quinn, my name is Wesley. I’m calling about my car.”

  I sit down, crossing my legs. “Sure Wesley, what’s the problem?”

  “Well, Betty seems to be smoking quite a bit.”

  I blink. Betty?

  “Ah, Betty?”

  “Her name.”

  Oh dear.

  “Right.” I fight back a giggle. “And has Betty been doing this a lot?”

  “No,” he says. “Well … she’s quite old. I’ve had her since I was just a teen, so it’s been a long time.”

  Sounds like Betty is trying to blow herself up. I wouldn’t blame her.

  “Has, ah, Betty been regularly serviced?”

  He snorts. “Of course, she’s my pride and joy.”

  Alrighty, then.

  “Okay, listen, Wesley, it sounds like I might need to take a look at her. Smoke from the engine is never a good thing. Don’t worry, we’ll lead her away from the edge.”

  Wesley is silent. “Do you think she’s on her way out and is trying to tell me something?”

  Dear lord.

  “I think so, Wesley. But we’ll see what we can do.”

  “I’ll bring her right down!”

  He hangs up the phone before I can even say good-bye. I shake my head with a smirk on my face when the bell above the door rings, indicating someone has just entered the office. I turn and my mouth drops clean open as I take in who just walked into my garage. I must be seeing things, because there is no way in hell I am actually seeing who I am seeing. It can’t be right. I blink a few times, I’m pretty sure I even rub my eyes. No way. It can’t be.

  It is.

  Tazen Watts.

  Tazen freaking Watts.

  He’s only a world-famous custom car builder. Everyone in Florida, the States and probably the entire world knows who Tazen Watts is. He has been building cars since before he was eighteen and is now well-known for his television show Hot Fury, where he is filmed building some truly amazing cars. Some of the best racers in the world have cars from him. He’s … epic. He’s not only built cars for racing, he’s also built customs for millionaires, celebrities and even for charity auctions. I’ve seen him on television, watched him, swooned over him like every other hot-blooded female in the world.

  He was my idol when I was younger, I spent hours watching his show. He inspired me to keep following my dreams, even when I wasn’t sure this was the right place for me. Seeing the way he created such beauty, made me determined to one day build another car for myself.

  And he’s in my garage.

  Wait, why is he in my garage?

  “Morning there, little angel,” he purrs, letting his eyes travel over my body.

  I shudder. He just checked me out. Oh my lord, Tazen Watts just checked me out.

  Swoon.

  I changed into my coveralls earlier, when the job got a little more greasy, so I have them down, tied around my waist so he is getting a full view of my tank top–covered breasts and nothing more. I don’t like bras when I’m working. My breasts don’t agree with me on this poor choice, but they don’t get a say in the matter.

  “Ah,” I say in a weak voice, and I know my eyes are wide and shocked. “C-c-c-can I help you?”

  Great, just pretend you don’t know him. It’s better that way.

  There’s a good chance I’m going to pass out.

  “Yeah, you can help me all right,” he says, his eyes lusty. God, he has beautiful eyes. In fact, he has beautiful everything.

  I don’t even try to stop my eyes as they travel over him. He’s standing there, looking devastating as hell, and I have the urge to rush over and lick him. Tazen is the picture of hot male. He’s tall, maybe six feet, and built like a brick wall. He’s all muscle, from the bulges at his shoulders to the biceps pressing against his shirt.

  His longish brown hair is a mess, but in the best possible way, as it curls slightly near his collar. His eyes are the color of milk chocolate, melted milk chocolate. His skin is lightly tanned and he’s got killer dimples. There was a time when I stared at those dimples every time I watched his show. They are to die for. Tazen Watts has the power to make any girl’s panties melt off, even if they’re batting for the other team. He’s that beautiful.

  I’d take a guess and say he is around thirty, and he is rocking it. Oh yes … rocking it.

  “Well,” he says, his voice a low, thick husk, “you going to help me, angel, or are you going to stand there and give yourself wet panties checking me out.”

  My eyes snap up and I splutter, “My panties are not w-w-w-wet.”

  I’m stammering. Someone kill me.

  He gives me a lazy, half grin. “That so?”

  Oh boy.

  “What can I do for you?” I say, trying to steady my shaky voice.

  A dimple appears in his cheek. Well, now I have wet panties. “I’m here to see a dude named Quinn. Heard he’s running this,” he glances around, “old fucked-up place. Get him for me, will you, love?”

  Oh. He. Did. Not.

  My back snaps straight and all my attraction for him flies out the window. He just insulted my garage, and worse, he insulted me. I hate being called love, and more than that, I hate arrogant men that assume that it must be a man running the place, because it couldn’t possibly be a woman. I study him and then grin. “Of course, I’ll just go and fetch…” I trail off and run my fingers down my cleavage. “Him.”

  His eyes drop to my fingers hovering over the swells of my breasts, and I want to slap him.

  Tazen who?

  Asshole.

  “You do that.”

  I turn and with a grin, I untie my coveralls, pull them up over my shoulders, wipe any emotion off my face and turn back to him with my hand extended. “Hi there, I’m Quinn. How may I help you today?”

  He blinks.

  Then he narrows his eyes.

  Then he bursts out laughing.

  “Right, good one.”

  I don’t smile and I watch as his eyes travel to the name embroidered onto my coveralls. Then they widen and he mutters, “Fuck.”

  “Yes, that would be an appropriate word,” I point out. “Now, what exactly brings you into my garage, Tazen Watts? I’m sure people like you have plenty of better things to do than come into my old, fucked-up garage. Right?”

  His eyes skim over my face and my skin prickles. “People like me, angel?”

  He did not say angel in the loving kind of way this time.

  “Yes, people like you. I understand my little space isn’t up to standards for a man like you, but you’re here and obviously you have a reason. I want to know what that reason is. The fact that you came in here, and insulted me by insulting my garage and assuming that I was a man has already pissed me off, so make it quick, will you? I have no time for sexist pigs.”

  Now his b
rows shoot up. “Sexist?”

  I lean in close. “Yes, sexist.”

  “You have a name that can be read wrong, it’s hardly being sexist.”

  He has a point.

  I say nothing.

  “Why are you here?”

  He crosses his arms and it takes all my strength not to stare at the bulging muscles that pop out from that very movement. “I’ve heard this joint is for sale. I’m interested.”

  Say what?

  My body flinches and my eyes widen as I let his words sink in. For sale? No. He must have it wrong.

  “I think you’ve misunderstood, Mr. Watts. This place isn’t for sale.”

  “Tazen,” he says, his voice a low growl. “My name is Tazen, angel. Mr. Watts makes me feel, well, old.” His eyes drop to my lips. “And I can assure you that I’m far, far from old.”

  I shiver, but manage to force out my next words.

  “My place isn’t for sale, Tazen.”

  His teeth flash as he smiles over my use of his name. I hold his eyes, my glare not wavering.

  “You really are a tiny thing, aren’t you? This place is adequately named, wouldn’t you say so, Pixie?”

  My blood boils.

  “Don’t ever,” I growl, stepping closer, “call me that again.”

  “I wonder,” he says, lifting his perfect freaking hand and scratching his chin. “How well you really run this place? I mean, obviously you’re not doing a good job … from what I’ve heard.”

  I’m going to lose my shit in about three point five seconds.

  “Tell me why the hell you’re assuming my business is for sale?”

  “Your business?” he says, raising his brows. “I thought it belonged to Robert Peterson and you’re just filling in?”

  “It does,” I say through gritted teeth. “But right now, he’s out of action so I’m running it. I’m his daughter.”

  His eyes flicker over me, and I shift uneasily. “Well, it would appear you’re in some trouble then, wouldn’t it?”

  “Hey,” Jace says, stepping into the office and up to my side. “Back off.”

  Tazen gives him a bored expression, as if he’s no more than an annoying fly buzzing around in his space, then turns back to me. I get in before he can.

  “You have your wires crossed, it is not for sale. Now, can you please leave?”

  He looks up to the front door, then back to me again. “You’re in a prime position here, investors are piling up to take over this garage. It might be a shit heap but with a bit of money poured into it, it could be amazing. I have money and there are a hell of a lot of car enthusiasts around this area. Not to mention some of the biggest races around the world come here every year—it’s a gold mine and therefore a perfect location to open another shop of mine.”

  A lump forms in my throat but I keep it together, saying dryly, “It is my garage and until that changes, you’re on my property and I want you to leave.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll leave, but it won’t be for long. I’m making an offer on this place this afternoon.”

  “This is my home,” I whisper, angrily.

  His eyes soften slightly.

  “And I’m sorry for that, but business is business, Quinn.”

  “Are we done here?” I mutter.

  His eyes grow dark and I swallow down the lump forming in my throat. “We’re done for now.”

  “Go to hell.”

  He smiles at my sass, flashing those killer dimples. Damn him for being beautiful. “Angel, hell is for the weak. And if there’s one thing I am not, it’s weak.”

  This guy is pissing me off.

  “Leave.”

  He gives me a lazy, lopsided grin that makes my heart pound.

  “Afternoon, Pixie.”

  With that, he turns and strides out. When he’s gone, I turn to Jace, who is watching him go. “Was that,” he swallows with wide eyes, “Tazen Watts?”

  “Yes,” I mutter. “It certainly was.”

  “Tazen Watts…” he breathes. “Holy fuck. He is only the best custom car builder … ever.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “You should have gone over and just held him, at least for a few seconds. He’s a god. You love his show.”

  “I loved his show. Now I want to stab him.”

  Jace turns to me, biting his lip to stop the laughter. I point a finger at him. “Don’t. I have to call the bank. If he’s right, we’re in trouble.”

  His face falls.

  “Jesus, Quinn.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, staring out the door.

  If we lose this garage, we lose everything.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Yes, but,” I try but the lady on the phone cuts me off once again.

  “Miss Peterson, you’re four months behind in payments and unless you can provide these funds in the next thirty days then we have no other option but to foreclose on the garage.”

  God, I knew we were behind, but I must have miscalculated, because I didn’t realize we were this far behind.

  “My father is sick,” I cry, frustrated.

  “If you can provide documentation from a doctor, then we may be able to extend the time frame.”

  That won’t happen, it won’t because he isn’t sick … he’s an alcoholic. Dammit. Damn him!

  “Please,” I beg. “This is my life…”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Peterson, but this is my job and I’m unable to bend the rules.”

  “I understand,” I whisper, feeling my chest building with pressure. “H-how much is it that we need to get back up to date?”

  “Twenty-two thousand.”

  Twenty-two thousand dollars.

  I’m going to vomit.

  “Okay,” I say, my voice breaking.

  “I wish you the best of luck.”

  We hang up and I lean over, lifting my legs to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I start panting, trying to breathe through the panic. A hard hand curls around my shoulder but I don’t look up.

  “Sweetheart.”

  It’s Lenny.

  I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out except a broken sob.

  “Quinn, tell me what’s going on.”

  He spins my chair slowly around and kneels in front of me. He captures my face in his big hands and forces me to look up at him. Tears are running down my cheeks. He swipes one away with his thumb. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

  “Twenty-two th-th-th-thousand, Lenny. I have to give them twenty-two thousand in thirty days or the garage is gone.”

  Lenny closes his eyes and pain flashes across his face for a brief second before he pulls it together. “We can fix this.”

  “We can’t fix it.” I laugh bitterly. “We’re behind, we’re never going to get that much money in such a short time.”

  “Yes we are.”

  I jerk my head and see Oscar, Jace and Matty standing at the door.

  “Guys,” I whisper.

  “We’ll do a car wash, say it’s to raise money. The locals will be all over that,” Matty says.

  “We’ll do a deal. We have a heap of tires out the back that need to be used. Free tires with a full service,” Oscar puts in.

  “We’ll talk to businesses, see if any of them are willing to make a donation,” Jace says.

  My heart breaks, because these guys will go to the ends of the earth to save this garage. It’s just as much their home as it is mine. I know I need to dig deep and fight for this, but right now I feel so damned empty I can’t breathe. I open my mouth to answer when, of all people, my father stumbles in.

  Yes, stumbles.

  He falls through the door and his hand lashes out just in time to stop him from falling. When he’s managed to steady himself, he looks up and smiles a twisted, drunken smile. “Well howdy ta-eam.”

  Jesus.

  He’s smashed.

  “What’re you doin’ here, Rob?” Lenny snaps, standing and storming towards my father.

  “Just comin’ ta
check out my garage.”

  “Your garage?” Oscar snorts. “Don’t insult us, Rob.”

  My dad’s eyes find mine and he gives me another wonky smile. “Hulllllo, love. Not goin’ to give your old dad a cuddle?”

  I stare at him and something inside me snaps. It just snaps. I storm forward and my hands lash out in front of me and land on his chest. Then I shove him with all my might. He falls backwards in slow motion. Lenny’s arm shoots out to try and catch him but he doesn’t make it in time. My father lands with a thump, then a bounce.

  He yells out in pain but I’m too far gone. I see red, my head is pounding, my body is prickling all over as I storm towards him. When I reach him, I lean over and scream in his face. “How dare you come in here! How dare you come in here, drunk! How dare you have the nerve to call this place yours! It isn’t yours, it’s mine. I am the one who has worked here trying to keep it afloat. Don’t you come in here, when everything is about to fall to pieces and have the nerve to do it drunk!”

  I leap over him when I’ve finished screaming and run out. My heart is pounding and my head is spinning as I charge past the doors of the garage and onto the driveway. I stumble down the sidewalk, passing my Mustang. I rush down towards the rows of clubs, restaurants and bars that line the streets. I don’t know where I’m going, I just know I can’t breathe and it hurts. I trip a few times, shoving through people. I’m so confused, so torn, so broken down. I hate the mix of feelings fighting against each other in my chest.

  One minute I feel guilty for being harsh to my father, the next I feel a wild anger that he’s so careless, and the next I want to hold him and make his pain go away. It’s emotional whiplash and every day I live with it, it gets a little bit harder. I want to understand, I want to run away, I want to help him, but I can’t be everything all at once. My mind is a mess when it comes to him, and I honestly don’t know how to change it.

  My mental fog clears slightly when I hear a distant voice calling out for me.

  I don’t stop. I’m having a panic attack. I’m familiar with panic attacks; I’ve experienced them all my life. I usually have them in private but this one is full force and there’s no stopping it, public or not. I push past a few more people, tears running down my cheeks, when a set of hard arms go around my body and haul me to a screeching halt.