Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 126098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Mark took her carry on from her shoulder and slung it over his own. “We ready?” he asked her.
Abby looked at him and nodded. “Yep. Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
The next weekend, Mark had cancelled their Friday night session to work late at the garage. He’d told her he was swamped today, too, and that they were working to catch up from the weekend they’d lost in Vegas.
Abby changed into a pair of old jeans, boots, and a faded blue shirt and revved up the engine of the Camaro. She swung into the lot of Burnout and parked. After she killed the engine, which she noticed with no small amount of satisfaction no longer wheezed, she got out of the car and headed toward the open bay doors.
Shooter greeted her first, being closest to the doors.
“Hey, Vegas,” he called.
“Shooter,” she acknowledged. “I hear you’re holding my man hostage for the weekend.”
He nodded. “Got a bit behind.” He grinned. “Was worth it, though.”
“Hell yeah it was!” Easy shouted from underneath a truck.
Shooter laughed. “Tex can take a break, but I can’t spare him for too long,” he told Abby.
Abby shook her head. “Actually, I came to work.”
“Really?” Hawk asked, sidling up to the two of them.
“Not entirely selfless, though,” she admitted. “I want my man back tonight. And not so tired he can’t work his other job.”
Hawk glanced at Mark and laughed.
Abby jerked her chin toward the Camaro. “Brought my resume.”
Shooter looked at the Camaro, which, granted, still needed a new paint job, but he couldn’t have missed the purr of the engine as she’d pulled in or the lack of grinding brakes when she’d parked.
“Could use the help,” the former lieutenant admitted.
“Just tell me where you want me.”
“That’s my job,” Mark said, approaching the group. “What’s up, baby?” he asked, pulling Abby in for a kiss.
“I came to help out,” she told him.
“Hmm,” Shooter said, pretending to reconsider. “So long as Tex can keep his mind on his own work and not staring at your ass all day.”
“Does that go for us, too?” Easy asked from a few feet away. “Cause it’s a fine ass. And I’m tired of working in a sausage fest.”
Shooter ushered her into the garage. “When she’s here, she’s one of us,” he declared.
Easy grumbled, but went back to the truck.
“Thanks, Abby,” Chris said. “For everything.”
Abby smiled at him. “That’s what friends are for. Plus, and I said up front that I wasn’t being completely selfless, do you think you guys could spare about an hour on Monday and come to the hotel?”
Shooter looked at Mark, who shrugged, not knowing what was up. “All of us?” he asked.
Abby nodded. “Yeah, I just need a favor. Nothing big.”
Shooter grinned. “We can swing by.”
“Great!”
Abby tied her hair up and got to work on a chopper that needed a new fuel line. Around noon, Slick brought lunch for the group, which Abby was supremely grateful for. She and Mark were the last ones in the breakroom and when Abby attempted to leave, he snagged her arm and pulled her back.
“He’s right,” Mark said, nipping her earlobe. “It’s totally distracting having you here.”
She giggled. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” she told him. “Because I’m enjoying myself. In fact, working on that chopper has inspired me to get another bike.”
Mark turned her around and pushed her up against the table. “Not happening,” he said.
His answer surprised her and she stared at him. “Why not?” she demanded.
He leaned in and kissed the side of her neck. “Because I don’t care if it’s on a bike, or in between the sheets, or right here on this table, if you think I’m giving up being between your legs, you’d better think again.”
Abby let out a surprised laugh and he tickled her with his nose behind her ear.
“Work!” Shooter called from the garage.
She laughed again. “Come on. We’ve got to go.”
She pushed Mark in the opposite direction and headed toward the parking lot where a man was pulling up with in a Ford Fairlane. He got out and she smiled at him. “Hi!” she said enthusiastically. “Help you?”
He eyed her warily. “Are you the receptionist?”
“Um, nope.”
“Well...I’d better talk to someone else.”
Shooter walked over at that moment. “Help you?” he said, repeating Abby’s words.
The guy nodded. “Yeah, I need an oil change, tire rotation, and a tune up. But I don’t have an appointment. And I need it back by the end of the day.”
Shooter glanced at the Fairlane. “Can do,” he replied.
The guy handed over the keys. Shooter turned to Abby. “Oil, tires, tune. Got it?” he asked, passing her the keys.
“Yes, Sir,” Abby replied with a mock salute.
The guy spluttered. “Hey now!”
Shooter turned and gave the man a look that could stop a freight train. “You don’t have an appointment. You’ve got a vintage car. You want a full day’s work done in three hours. Have I got all that straight?”