He wondered if she even knew how much he loved her. It was incredible to know that someone in this world understood him and still loved him. She was wrong about Gene, he was sure of that, but he knew she just hoped he would find love.
Too soon, they were back at the garage. Billy was really getting to like riding behind Gene, although hehad to admit it was probably more about wrapping his arms around him.
He followed Gene into the shop again, and this time he ushered him through a side door in the office thatentered into the main garage area, housing three spotless bays. He glanced around and whistled at the car sitting low on a lift at the far end.
“Beautiful car,” he whispered, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.
Gene smiled and gestured with his shoulder for Billy to follow him. “1949 Mercury, two door flip-top, special detail paint job, bent eight engine…” He spoke with quiet reverence, as if speaking too loudly would disrespect the auto.
Orange and yellow flames flowed up and over the hood onto both sides, flickering against the bright, glossy blue paint that covered the rest of the car. It wasn’t too high off the ground, so he moved forward and peeked in. His jaw dropped and he swiveled his head back to Gene.
“Is that a custom leather job?”
“Yes. The guy that originally owned it had them customize the seats with blue and yellow. I almost drooled when I saw it,” he admitted, chuckling.
“What’s wrong with it? I mean, why is it here?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just tuning it up for the new owner.”
“Wow. How are you not going ape over this? How are you not driving it all over the county?” Billy asked, only half jesting.
Gene’s eyes skimmed Billy’s face, a smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, I have plenty of time,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I own it now, so I have plenty of time to take it cruisin’.” Gene leaned against a large concrete pole, arms crossed in front of him.
Billy’s jaw dropped. “This is yours?”
“Won it a few weeks ago in a drag race,” he answered, a small smile on his face. “Other guy didn’t have a prayer against my friend Sal’s old Pontiac.”
“An old Pontiac?” He looked at Gene doubtfully. “How the hell did you beat a Mercury?”
He smirked. “That guy was so cocky, but I could tell he was all talk. It didn’t matter that I was driving an older car. He was too busy showing off for some doll in one of those damn poodle skirts and didn’t have his mind on the race.” He pointed his index finger at his temple. “Winning is all up here.”
“Why didn’t your friend drive?”
“Sal? God, he never drags. But, this idiot wouldn’t leave him alone. Egging him on, teasing him, calling him names.” Gene moved over to the car and traced the door with his fingers. “He dared us, and Sal asked me to drive. Said if I won, I could keep the car. No way I was going to turn that down,” he proclaimed.
“Was it a close call?”
“Hell, no!” Gene’s eyes flashed and Billy felt stirrings in his belly; heat slowly unfurled, rising through him, a flush creeping across his face.
“You okay?”
His eyes shot back to Gene, his body suddenly stiff and uncomfortable. Panicking, he turned his back on his new friend and pretended to look at some tools sitting out on a table. He reached for one and knockeda can of something—grease or oil, maybe—over and it splattered up onto his shirt. He cursed and jumped back.
Gene moved fast and had the can in his hand before it hit the floor. He handed Billy a rag, but that just smeared the black stuff around.
“Shit. Just making it worse,” he muttered.
“I have some T-shirts upstairs in my apartment. Probably be too big, but better than nothing. Want one?”
Gene did live upstairs. Something about being that close to his bedroom made Billy’s breath catch. “Um, yeah, I think that’s a good idea. Thanks.”
“Okay, hang on. I’ll be right back. Just toss the shirt on that chair over there.” He pointed to the back corner near a shelf full of supplies, and an old motorcycle.
He made his way over, tugging the shirt over his head and trying not to smear the black goo on anything. Wadding it up, he swiped at his chest and got most of the oil off before throwing it down on the chair.
The old motorcycle caught his attention. It needed work, but he could tell it had been beautiful at one time. He let his fingers trace over the handles and over to the seat, noting the leather seemed in perfect condition. An old Harley-Davidson FL model, most likely from 1941, he mused. Wondering if it was sturdy, he swung his leg over and slid back, his hands reaching forward and resting on the handlebars.