Fully Restored (19 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Teagan

W
ith Seth at the helm for the website and the magazine Ads, I was up to my eyeballs in prospective employees, all with various skill levels and nefarious pasts. The pasts, for the most part, I could live with. I mean, look who I fell in love with. The past means little when the person is currently doing everything to make it right. Wait. Did I really just pull my own head out of my ass over employee forms? Was I holding Brock’s past, from so long ago, against him still? Really – it was Summer who was the ho. The town slut. She was the one trying to bring back bad feelings and poor rumors to make herself feel better and I was giving her that power, up until dinner the other night.

Pushing the thought aside since Brock was nowhere anyhow, I moved on looking at and sorting through the applications. I put some in a yes pile, a maybe pile, and a hell no pile. If you can’t spell your own name right on your job application, you’re out. If it is so riddled with typos that I can’t tell what language it’s written in, it’s out. If your only reference is that you work on your mom’s car, you’re out. And never do I ever want to see the word cutesy names for the spouse as a reference again. EVER.

*****

The next morning, armed with the most massive cup of coffee the hut would give me, I sat down to begin interviews. Holy shit. Since when did it become okay for men to talk to and treat women in this manner? Not just that she would be the boss but the fact that they thought complimenting her legs or breasts or eyes was something that added to their acceptance at the job, it was so completely wrong. Men need lessons on how to treat women.

By the end of the day, in jeans and a ponytail, nothing even remotely suggestive (as if that would even be a reason for bad behavior) I had hired a total of one person. One.

I think I interviewed 20. That was such bad odds I couldn’t even begin to think about how tomorrow would go. Those women on “Spin and Grin”, I’m starting to feel sorry for them. They have just the same skill base as the men but have to do it in skimpy clothing and suggestive positions. And, if you ever pay attention, they STILL get hurt less than the men do.

I walked home, slowly and defeated and called my dad hoping he could cheer me up. I told him about my day and his answer was not a good one. Apparently I should have expected this reaction. This meant tomorrow I was going dressed as Jabba the Hut. And holding a chain that I expected the men to want to attach to and do their work from. Ha!

Maybe I should lay off the wine.

I decided to move on to something that would absolutely make me happy. My car. I needed my ‘Cuda in front of my shop because when she was done, she was going to be a show stopping, draw people in, eye catching car. I needed to finish her ASAP.  Dad promised to have someone bring the car up the next morning, before my next disaster of interviews occurs. Something to cheer me up. I hang up the phone and take the rest of my wine to bed, drunk texting Seth that men suck and passing out.

Turns out drunk texting that to a gay man lands you some funny answers. Seth kills me. In quick response I had “Yes they do… brilliantly. Often like a shop vac if you’re lucky. Most of them swallow too. It’s good to be gay…” So I started my morning with a laugh and formulated a new plan of action for my interviews.

I got up, showered and found the only “power suit” that I owned. I put my hair into a severe knot at the top of my head and added sensible heels. I hardly applied any makeup, just powder and mascara before heading out for coffee.The guy at the coffee shop that I talked with every day actually snorted when he saw me.

“Rough night?”

“More like rough job. Apparently a woman cannot be a boss with any power. I hired one- ONE – person yesterday. So, today, I’m going for bossy and mean. Now, give me my coffee slave!”

He laughed and grabbed me a coffee to go while wishing me luck. I nodded before heading down the street to the shop. The men were already outside working on the new sign. My sign. My shop. My dreams. I smiled so big, and then I saw the man waiting with the ‘Cuda dad had delivered on time.

What the fuck was Brock doing hanging on the side of my car, looking like he stepped out of a magazine, modeling both clothes and cars. He sauntered over to me, like he knew the effect he had on me and was going to play it up to the best of his abilities, and handed me a stack of paper.

“So, I’m here to apply for a job. I’m pretty sure you’ll find I have exceptional credentials and meet all the certifications. Can we go inside and discuss this?”

Turning to head in and leaving me with my mouth wide open catching flies, he sat at the desk and waited for me to catch up to his latest devious move. Regaining my composure, I headed to the desk as well and sat across from him.

“Pardon the question babe, but, what’s with the getup for interview days?”

Yeah. If only he knew.

“So, let’s just say men have no manners and I would rather hire stray dogs.”

He laughed. “That bad huh? Well, since I’m hired, I’ll stick around and see if they stay in line and we can actually come away with a working shop today, yeah?”

He was so taking over my dream. Okay, well, he was also a part of my dream, no matter how much I didn’t want him in it, but he was so taking over. I nodded. “Okay, you’re obviously hired. And yes, I need your help. Help me weed the jackoffs from the actual workers. Please.” But because I couldn’t be that conforming to him, I rolled my sleeves all the way up my arms, showing all the deep, red, raw cuts that were just starting to heal on them, with the older silvery ones underneath. I saw his eyes close slowly and a grimace cover his face. Yeah dude. You better feel that. You helped cause that. I know he thought he knew…but the new ones were so much more.

If just my arms made him cringe, then I couldn’t wait to show him the rest of my body. My thighs and stomach. But really, should I be ashamed? Should I really be ashamed of the bulges and rolls that even the running doesn’t get rid of? Should I worry about the row after row of scars on my inner thighs that I caused by cutting myself so deep that they will forever be red-lines, like a tigers’ stripes. But you see, tigers are strong. They are one of natures most feared creatures, capable of killing an animal twice its size. Their stripes are unique to themselves. No other tiger will have those stripes. They form as they grow, so, in effect, they are earned as well. I too, earned these stripes.

My stripes were just like that. Instead of seeing them as proof of my weakness, of my breakdown and inability to handle my life, I chose to see them now as evidence of my strength. See, scars don’t form on the dying. The dead cannot scar, only the living can. So, I am strong. I, like the tiger, took down something bigger than I was, and survived. And yes, I have scars and evidence from it, but it was a beauty to me. My stripes meant I was strong. My stripes meant I survived. If he had a problem, if he ever got the chance to see me naked again, that was his issue and not mine. I was going to accept my body. Starting now, with my sleeves up and interviews going.

*****

It turns out having a man, not just any man, but a super alpha protective man, at your interviews helps with the process…a lot. By the end of the day I had shaken hands and been called Ms. Steele instead of “babe” or “honey” or some other variation of the word. And best of all, we had a fully hired well-rounded staff that I felt confident in. Thank God for brooding men and power suits. Hillary Clinton knows her shit when it comes to keeping men in line…except for that pesky Monica Lewinsky issue.

After the last interviewer left Brock stood and started to walk around the shop, as if he was making himself at home and taking notes as he went. By the time he finished, I was standing with one hand on my thrust out hip in an act of impatience. He laughed.

“You’ve done this perfectly. I love how you won’t have to send out for paint. It also makes me want to reconsider some of the painters we hired. I want the best.”

Excuse me? “You want the best?”  My head shook, like I was going to impress the importance of this conversation with head movement. Whatever. “You have no say in who is or isn’t hired. In fact, you’re fired. See ya never!”

I turned and held the shop open for him to walk out and I could lock up. He just stood there and smirked. “Not going anywhere babe. Told you we weren’t done. Told you that you were mine.” With that the corner of his mouth lifted and he walked across the front room towards me. When he got to me he grabbed the keys from my hand, held my hand to pull me out the door and locked up.

He then proceeded to walk with me, holding my hand, all gooey couple like, to my place. Which I wasn’t too certain I liked him knowing where it was. He seemed to sense that, “Not too hard to figure out where you live when you lead like a horse pulling the wagon. I haven’t made a single move- you brought me here.” He full on smiled with that one. And he was right. I did. I even wanted him here.

How did I become this scared woman, this little girl in a shell, hiding from the world because of the simple words of stupid people who weren’t worth my time? How did I allow myself to become so wrapped up and scarred by the world? The world shouldn’t matter in my day to day life. I need to live for me and only me. If I’m happy then the world is fine. If I’m not, the world still continues just the same, only I think I am worth it stopping for. I’m not. No more. I am no more the scared little girl who lets fear out through her cuts and lets it dictate her life. I’m so much more now. I own my own shop, I have my own degree, I have a new and caring best friend and an old and messed up one, and maybe, if I’m lucky and he’s luckier, I have a boyfriend. Maybe.

I watched him fumble with the keys to the front door before he finds the correct one and lets us in, kicking the door closed behind him in that way that only a man can pull off. He threw the keys on the little table by the door, grabbed me gently and backed me into the wall. When he kissed me, it was like starting over. It was as if I could finally breathe again. Like I had been slowly suffocating and was completely unaware that I needed him to survive.  He kissed me until the air I found was suddenly lost and again I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t miss the air. I wanted more him, less air. When he broke the kiss and licked at my lips I moaned. “See you at work tomorrow, gotta get the shop ready and you and I are working on the ‘Cuda this week. It’s gonna be finished. You and me. Lock the door behind me.” And then he walked out.

I heard him wait until the click of the lock and walk down the steps. Then I went and watched through the blinds as he walked back to the shop, all the way until he was out of my view. Then I stood there longer imagining I could still see him.

I don’t think he was talking of just the car when he said that it was going to be finished. I think he meant this back and forth, cat and mouse game that apparently had been going on since high school. I think he meant that this was it for him and he was claiming me whether I was on board or not so I had better get on board.

Was I ready for this? For him? To really open myself up and try for real? I’ve never really done that. Even before with him, I was guarded. I wasn’t open. He saw the cuts but he didn’t know
about
them. Now, he knew. He more than knew, he experienced. And he was still trying.

As late as it was I sat down to call my therapist, who kindly took my calls no matter what time it was. She reminded me, just as she always did, that I was enough. I was always going to be enough. I. Am. Enough.

We finished the phone call and I went to the mirror, stripped down and stared. Again.  I stand naked in front of it, again. Like I do nearly every night, only tonight felt different. It felt, cleansing. It felt like both an ending and a beginning at the same time. The scars, so red and fresh, raw, that used to be the only things I saw, now fall silent to the pale skin and curves. The upturned rise of my breasts and the mostly toned skin on my stomach. All areas with scars, but the scars don’t seem to even faze me anymore. I study myself in the mirror. I have a pudgy tummy, and thicker thighs. I wish my arms were thinner and didn’t wave for me. But really, it was alive still, after all I had done to it to try and stop that. It deserved a prize, this body of mine.

I run my fingers over the raised welts of the scars, new and old, like saying goodbye to an old friend. A friend who was no good for you, that you knew you had to let go but was still painful to do so. And I did. I said goodbye to the scars. To the girl who cut them. To the boy whose insensitive words had more effect than he ever could have dreamed possible.

People don’t realize the effect their words have. We’ve been taught that words are just that, words. We sit, behind keyboards, where we think we are safe and no one knows us and we type. We type nasty things. We type mean things. We cheat, we lie, we cause hurt and pain and we think there are no consequences because it’s not us. And it’s just words. And no one knows. So, we do it again. And again. Until we have not only scarred others with our words but ourselves as well because we no longer recognize the person staring at us in the mirror.

We think, would I really have said that if the person was in front of me? Of course I would, I’m the shit. I say what I want and mean what I say. But it’s all bravado. We all know the truth. Words hurt. And in hurting others we are trying to even out the hurt other words have caused us. It’s a vicious cycle. One I am choosing to end. Now.

I run my fingers over the last of the scars, saying a quiet goodbye, and get dressed for bed. After washing up, I type out a quick text to Brock, a simple “Thank you’’. It’s not much, but he will get it for what it is. And that
is
enough.

I fell asleep to happy dreams that night.

Brock

What a day. When I offered to tow the ‘Cuda up to the new shop, I had no real plans but I’m so glad I came. There are some pretty big assholes in the car world that aim at the women, and the women can do circles around their crappy work. I could only imagine how bad the day before had been. Even with me sitting there, staring at them like the ex-con I was, exuding bad vibes, they still made comments that weren’t even suitable for drunks at a bar.

Eventually though, we managed to get it done and hire a pretty damn elite staff. We even already had clients ready to go for the grand opening next week. One week to prepare and I was going to use it to not only get the shop to the top, but to win back Teagan all the way. To prove she was it for me and I was it for her since I was the stupid kid who ruined everything. Who now knew the power of his actions, his words, his emotions. I was new and was going to prove it to her this week.

Starting tomorrow, the new staff would begin setting up and building their stations, finding their specialties and getting ready for opening week. What a week it would be if I had my way. I had some favors called in and I really hope they came through for me. This shop was something special, not just because of Teagan but because of what it was. 

  Whereas other shops did restorations along with regular maintenance, this shop was purely restoration. All Teagan wanted was to rebuild. We were going to make our name in the resto world as the top. I could see it already. We had the crew and Teagan and I, not to brag, but really, we were amazing. I had the Super Bee I had recently finished coming to be a showcase for the opening week to show off my work and my goal was to get as far as we could with
Phoebe
this week and show off work as it went. People would be able to see us in action and see how the work was done. It was kind of brilliant.