Page 59 of When There Was You
“It’s very picturesque.” The exterior is an open invitation—different from the hard, modern angles of California houses—and I long to see the inside. “I’m a big fan of this Barracuda. Yours?”If so, you just raised your cool quotient by a thousand.
“My son’s,” he admits. “But I’ve got a nice assortment of Mopars in my personal collection.” His knowing smile says it all, and I nearly get a head rush thinking about what awaits in that garage.
“I’m looking forward to seeing everything today.”
“Let me show you around and then we can sit and chat.”
“Perfect.”
Gus starts the tour outside, rattling off a brief history. His great grandfather owned the now-defunct Chrysler/Plymouth/Dodge dealership in town, which is why Hamilton Restorations specializes in Mopars, a word that’s become synonymous with those manufacturers. Their downtown started crumbling after department stores moved to malls and larger entities eclipsed mom-and-pop establishments. I hear his despondency as he explains how the once-thriving Main Street now lies mostly vacant, housing a few attorneys, an insurance agent, two antique shops, and a pharmacy with an eat-in counter and soda fountain.
He points out some of the old vehicles. Even in their state of decay, I admire the exterior details: bulbous fenders, signature tail fins, chrome bumpers, hood ornaments, wing windows. These old gals exude real style, the kind long faded from today’s automobile manufacturing.
“Gus, this is a little off topic, but I’ve noticed since moving here, and even on my drive across the country, the absence of makes and models I’m accustomed to seeing.Whereareall the cars? It’s as if they don’t exist outside of California.”
“The car culture here is different. A big issue lies in our harsh winters. Cars rust. People also get rid of the old models in favor of new ones. Modern engineering means vehicles last longer with less maintenance, which is certainly attractive to many folks. There are enthusiasts and collectors here, and we take our cars to shows and meetups rather than use them for daily drivers. I’ve been fortunate to spend time out west, and you’re right…it’s not the same.” He chuckles. “Bit of a culture shock both ways, I imagine.”
Gus continues talking about the business while I jot notes. We enter the main garage, Hemi trailing behind us and then flopping down on the cement floor with a groan of contentment. I scan the beautiful cars in various stages of restoration. There are too many to see from one vantage point in the gargantuan facility and my gaze flits incessantly. I’m in car nirvana.
We round the bend into another section, and a steady clanging rings out. I surmise someone’s working on a project—perhaps the son I’ve yet to meet or another employee. Gus keeps chatting as we walk toward the sound. A torso bent over the engine of an aqua vehicle that looks fresh off the set ofAmerican Graffiticomes into view. Long legs fill out a pair of jeans leading to black work boots. I swing my attention back to Gus.
“One of our repeat clients, an NFL player and car collector, brought us this 1959 Plymouth Savoy,” he says. “It needs repair to the body, interior, and motor. My son is machining some of the parts by hand—he’s our best fabricator. Let me introduce you.”
The mystery man pops up from under the hood. Surprise crosses his face, followed by a grin that lights up bold emerald eyes.
“Sundance?”
Thirty-Four
Shock reels through me as I gawk at Mr. Highly Memorable.
“Butch?” It comes out as a question but there’s no question it’s him.
“You all know each other?” Gus asks.
“We met once,” Butch says, coming to the rescue. Not only have all words escaped me, but I’d rather not admithowwe know each other…one glorious, breathtaking afternoon of hedonistic sex. And I’m damn glad neither of these men can see the images flipping through my head right now.
Mr. Afternoon Delight extends his hand, and I grasp it, the initial jolt almost making me flinch. I’m reminded how big he is—all of him—hands, height, dick... Heat engulfs me, and I step back as if burned.Holy...I clear my throat, choking on the awkwardness and hoping I’m not seven shades of red. Stealing another glance at Butch, my pulse races, recalling how his touch made me see stars. He scans me top to bottom and one side of his mouth lifts, like he’s remembering too.
Goddamn, he’s handsome—and filling out that black T-shirt nicely. My gaze shifts to the white letters rippling over his chest:Mopar: You’re with us or you’re behind us.
“Guess you got the job, huh?” His eyes narrow. “Magazine, right?”
“Good memory.”
“Damn good.” The satisfied smile on his face makes my entire body flush. Again.
Oh my god.
His expression morphs to one of understanding. “You’re here to do the article?”
“Right again.” I will my heartbeat to slow the fuck down.
“How about that,” he muses. “What are the odds?”
About a million to one. I should make a trip to Atlantic City and bet my savings. “Yeah, yup, for sure.” Great, now I sound like a blithering idiot. “Your dad was just giving me the official tour.”
“Don’t let me stop you. I look forward to catching up with you later,” he says, a knowing grin on his face.
