Monday, April 11, 2016

Excerpt time!

Demo and Marisol didn't exactly get off on the right foot...

I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Nobody called me this late, except for the occasional booty call. But I wasn’t currently involved with anyone, a fact that irritated me almost as much as the fact that my cat insisted on taking a hour to take a dump every night.

 A booty call sounded nice right about now.

“Probably Lexie,” I murmured to myself, slapping across the hardwood floors with my bare feet—which were still repulsive on the bottom from my little adventure earlier. She was probably up feeding the baby, and fretting about the quiches. She was infamous for adding an ingredient at the last minute that transformed dishes from good to great, and unfortunately that inspiration only seemed to happen long after we’d stopped cooking for the night.

I plucked up receiver, and answered without looking at the number. “Lexie, this is the worst booty call I’ve ever gotten. You know I haven’t swung that way since that one kegger in college.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Lex?” Pulling the phone away from my ear, I looked at the tiny screen. “Oh, um. Sorry. Who is this?”

“Is this Marisol Vargas?” The deep, gravelly voice on the other end sent a whirl of excitement shooting up my spine. 

Demo-the-mechanic. I’d left him my home number back at the shop, since my iPhone was still missing. Note to self: replace cell tomorrow. Well, well. Maybe it was a booty call after all.

Not interested, my ass, I snickered to myself. “This is she,” I purred. “And let me guess. This is Demo… Demo… uh…”

Dang that crazy last name of his. It was blowing my sexy cover all to pieces.

“Antonopolous,” he replied.

“Right.” I pressed my lips together and reminded myself to keep my temper in check. “So why are you calling me so late? A little lonely in the garage at night?”

“I towed your car after we closed,” Demo said simply.

My eyebrows rose high on my forehead. He’d done something nice for me. Maybe there was hope after all. “Oh. Well, thank you.”

“Since it was after hours, I’ll have to charge time and a half.”

My eyebrows dropped back to their normal spot. “Of course.”

“You made it sound like money wasn’t your primary concern,” Demo explained in a flat voice.

“It’s not,” I hissed. “Do you always work this late at night?”

“I knew you wanted it back quickly,” he answered simply. “So I brought it back and took a look.”

I leaned against my kitchen countertop and waited for the bad news. The booty call scenario fizzled right before my eyes. “So what’s the verdict?”

I heard him shifting some papers, and then the clang of something landing on the metal desk. “You’ve got a bad alternator.”

“The car’s only a year old!” I blurted.

“It happens. Got a buddy across town who works with BMWs all the time. He says your make and model are infamous for alternator problems.”

“Can I get his number?” Grabbing a pen and paper out of my nearby mail stack, I readied myself to write. “Maybe he’ll be able to fix it.”

“Oh, I can fix your car.” Demo’s voice took on a defensive edge. “I’ll have it ready by ten tomorrow morning.”

“You can?”

“I can.”

“You’ve got the right parts, and everything?” I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to know that BMW parts weren’t usually sitting on the shelves in most Spokane mom and pop auto shops. That was the reason why I usually took it to the specialty shop at the dealership for maintenance.

“Got a buddy who owns a parts store.”

“My, you certainly have a lot of buddies. He let you into his shop to get the part this late at night?”

“She opens at six am. It’s in stock.”

A random spark of jealousy blinked inside my chest. I really needed to get a grip on myself. “Well, I underestimated you, Mr. Antonopolous.”

Yes! I got his last name right. Score one for me.

“Seems to be a habit,” he grunted.

I grit my teeth together. “And you’re telling me that you’re going to fix my Beemer first thing in the morning?”


“For time and a half, right?”

“The tow was more,” Demo growled. “The labor will be standard cost. Unless you’d like to pay more, Princess.”

Seeing red, I pushed myself away from the counter. “Hey, who do you think—”

“Sorry. Listen. You want me to work on your car?” he interrupted. “I’ve got a client who needs new sparkplugs in his delivery van real bad. I can do that first, if you like.”