Lennox
By
Dallas Cole
Lennox
Copyright © 2016 Dallas Cole
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Luminos Graphics
To my very own tattooed, muscled, loving man. And my MR2. This book wouldn't have been
possible without either of you.
Elena
I like uncomplicated things. Numbers. Machines. A car looks
complicated, but it’s really not. It’s a beautiful,
straightforward system of gears and tubes and pistons all working
together. I know every part and how they’re supposed to work.
If I want them to perform better, then I know just how to tune them,
just what brand to plug in. I can see right when they’re about
to give out, and I can soften the blow. Take good care of a car, and
it’ll take good care of you.
People are a little bit tougher. Right when I think their system’s
working as it should—that’s when it all goes to hell.
“Elena,
djevojka
, watch where you leave the toolbox!”
Drazic, my uncle, kicks at the soles of my Docs. “Slide on out
of there.”
I finish tightening the lug I’d been fastening into place and
shove my way out from underneath my latest work of art: a deep purple
1973 GTO. V8, all new nitro system, kickin’ bass, and enough
wild horses to leave all those jackasses from the upstate crew
choking on the dust.
I stand up from my work sled and peel off my heavy gloves. “What
do you think?”
Drazic’s grin splits through his weathered, deeply tanned face.
“I think Nash better know how lucky he is. You got brains,
beauty, and you can soup up a beast like that?” He lets out a
low whistle.
I roll my eyes and swat him on the shoulder. “Don’t
worry.” I remind him often. “This baby should be ready in
time for next week’s race, if Nash can log some practice hours
in it.”
“Yeah, if I can pry him away from you.” Drazic shakes his
head. “Gotta pay the bills first,
djevojka
. The crew
can’t run without our point man.”
“Please. I know how important the trials are. Rattle the
upstate boys, right?” I grin back at him and fiddle with the
end of my ponytail. “You needed something?”
“Just a question on the books. You log those invoices from last
week?”
My smile fades. I follow Drazic into the cramped office of Drazic
Muscleworks and sit down on an empty corner of desk space while he
rifles through a stack of papers. “Finished up this morning,”
I say. “They should all be there. But, um, I wasn’t sure
about some of—”
Drazic’s gaze slides toward mine, and I stop talking. There’s
no threat behind it, but I know enough not to say anything more.
Drazic’s my dad’s brother. He followed my parents to the
US from Croatia, and he’s been my legal guardian since I was
eight. I owe my life to him—no exaggeration—and I know
he’d do anything for me.
Would, and does. That’s why I don’t ask where all the
money comes from that keeps the shop afloat and his crew out of debt.
It kept me out of the foster system, or worse. The least I can do is
keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.
“But you logged them all,” Drazic says.
I nod and stare down at the ground.
“Shit.” Drazic snaps the file folder shut. “Okay.
It’s okay. It’s no problem. We’ll just—pick
up some extra work. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
But I know damn well what the ledgers say. Numbers and cars—they
don’t lie.
The front door bells jangle, and in walks Nash, shoving his shades up
into the mussed blonde peaks of his hair. “Elena? D? You here?”
I bounce off the desk and rush out to greet him. “Hey, baby!”
Nash sweeps me into his arms. The hard line of his muscles presses
through my thin tank top as he cups my face in his hands. “Missed
you, angel.”
“Missed you, too.”
He lowers his lips to mine. He kisses like a shot of Nitric Oxide,
all hot and cold racing through my veins.
Nash is about as uncomplicated as they come—one of the reasons
I love him. He races hard, fights hard, and fucks hard. I never have
to worry about him when he’s out with the crew, and he never
has to worry about me. I grew up drooling over Nash, but he was a
perfect gentleman—didn’t dare look at me until I turned
eighteen two years ago, and he was sure Drazic wouldn’t kill
him. Of course, Drazic will still kill him if he ever treats me
wrong. But I don’t think I have to worry about that.
“Look at you. All sweaty and oil-stained.”
I blush. “Sorry. I was working on your baby.”
“Don’t apologize.” He nuzzles his ear against my
neck. “It’s hot.”
“Yeah, right.”
Nash grips me by the hips and hoists me onto the front counter. I
spread my legs, pressing him between my knees, and sling my arms
around his neck. He’s wearing his brother’s black leather
moto jacket and a gray V-neck T-shirt that’s straining to
contain his cut physique. With a slick grin, he kneads his hands
along my thighs.
“You know,” Nash says, lowering his lips to my ear, “if
your uncle weren’t here, I’d bend you over the hood of
that GTO and show you just how hot I think it is.”
“And ruin the wax job I just put on it? I don’t think
so.” But I grin and pull him closer.
Drazic clears his throat. “Nash?”
I drop my arms as Nash steps away, doing his best—and
failing—to look contrite. “Hey, boss. I brought the gear
you wanted.” He thumbs toward his truck in the parking lot.
“Thanks, brother. Let’s bring it in.” Drazic plucks
his aviators out of the collar of his work shirt and slips them on.
“You heard anything from Cyrus or Jagger yet this morning? We
really need to run trials.”
Nash groans as we all head out to the parking lot. “I don’t
expect to see Jagger for a few more hours. Not after the shit he was
stirrin’ up over at the bar last night.”
“You were at the bar with Jagger last night?” I ask,
somewhat surprised.
“Yeah, as his DD. I wasn’t drinking, of course.”
“Well, yeah,” I say. Nash never drinks when he might have
to drive later. Not after what happened to his brother, who also
happened to be his best friend, three years ago—killed by a
drunk driver.
Fortunately, the asshole—formerly a member of Drazic’s
crew—got a hefty prison sentence for manslaughter. He’s
been permanently erased from the crew’s collective memory. No
one so much as thinks his name.
Well. Okay. I do, sometimes. Only because I was young and dumb and
never could get Nash’s attention back in those days. Okay—maybe
it wasn’t Nash’s attention I was trying to get back then.
But I am so,
so
over him. Uncomplicated boys who don’t
pound shots and get behind the wheel of a four-ton hunk of
steel—that’s my type these days.
I grab a cardboard box out of the back of Nash’s truck and
follow the guys through the shop into the storage room. “No,
wait,
djevojka
, wrong stack.” Drazic steers me toward
the other corner. Oh. I know what that means—that I most
certainly
don’t
want to know where this gear came from.
I drop the box and step away, wiping my hands on my jeans.
“Okay. I can’t take it any longer, Elena.” Nash
drops off his boxes, then wraps his arms around my waist from behind.
“Show me what you’ve done.”
“You sure you’re ready? There’s a whole fuck-ton of
power under that hood.”
“I can handle it.” He nips at my earlobe. “Baby,
you know I can handle it.”
I laugh and arch my back against him. “I don’t
know . . .”
The bells jangle again, followed by a prolonged string of cursing.
Nash sighs and drops his arms. “And that’ll be Jagger.”
“Nash!” Jagger shouts. “Nash, dammit, where the
fuck are you?”
“Right here. Fucking chill.” Nash and I head out into the
front of the shop. Jagger’s still wearing his wraparound shades
and scrubbing at his buzz cut. One of his infamous hangovers, then.
Jagger’s lean and lithe like a rock star, but he always parties
far harder than he can handle.
“Need some coffee?” I ask Jagger. “Aspirin?”
“More like a fucking machete. Nash? Sit your ass down. We need
to talk.”
Nash sighs and hops up onto the counter. “Let me guess. That
girl I dropped you at the motel with ganked your wallet . . .”
“Shut up, man!” Jagger groans. “That was
one
time!”
Drazic and I snort.
“Stop laughing. I’m fucking serious.” Jagger leans
against the counter for support. “I just came from Peg’s
diner.”
“Okay.” Nash folds his arms. “And?”
Jagger draws a raspy breath. “Don’t fucking freak out,
okay?”
Nash’s smile is completely gone. When he speaks, it’s in
a tight, terrifying voice I barely recognize. “What is it,
Jagger?”
I sit up straighter. There’s an instinct I’ve gotten over
the past few years, from watching these boys race. Call it a sixth
sense, call it whatever you want. But I know when a crash is coming,
even before it happens. This electricity crackles through the air and
everyone sucks in their breath, and then it all spirals to hell.
That’s the feeling I have right now. And it makes me want to
hurl.
“Okay.” Jagger hunches his shoulders. “It’s
Lennox.” He flinches. “He’s out of prison.”
My heart pounds in my ears. Lennox. Oh, my god. “But it’s
only been—”
“Three years.” Nash’s fists are clenched at his
side. His pulse throbs at the side of his throat as he stares
straight ahead. “Three years, four months, and eighteen
days . . .”
I cup my palm around Nash’s thigh and rub it in slow, soothing
circles. Even though I feel anything but calm inside. “It’s
okay. It’s okay, baby. We can get through this—”
“No.” Nash hops off the counter and stalks to the far
corner of the room. “He killed my brother.” His keys
jangle as he pulls them from his pocket. “He doesn’t get
off that easy.”
“Nash—”
“I’ll fucking kill him myself.”
“Nash!”
I grab him by the arm, but he rips free of me. Jagger wrestles his
arms back from behind, but Nash shakes him away easily, too. He’s
a man possessed, his whole body coiled and ready to spring. I know
that look in his eye—the one when he’s down a circuit and
out for blood.
He means it. He really fucking means to kill Lennox.
“Nashville Thomas Graham,” Drazic shouts, his tone cold
as steel.
Nash freezes. He’s still seething, but as angry as he is right
now, even he knows better than to defy Drazic.
Drazic’s lip curls back, but his expression remains hardened,
like a fortress wall. “It sucks. It fucking sucks, all right?
But don’t you dare walk out that door.” He grips the edge
of the counter and looms forward. “You’re going to do
something you’ll regret. And the whole crew will pay for it.”
Nash turns toward him, eyes narrowed to points. “So instead,
Lennox doesn’t have to pay? Where’s the fucking justice
in that?”
“It’s not about justice. It’s about the crew.”
Drazic folds his arms over his chest. “The last thing we need
is any extra heat.”
Something passes between them. A part of that world I’m not
privy to. The late nights and long road trips, the money that comes
from nowhere, the parts we get in the shop that are so far above and
beyond what we should be able to afford.
Nash sags forward, submitting to Drazic. “Fine.”
I rush toward him, and he slings an arm over my shoulder. “Come
on,” I tell him gently. “Let’s go sit down.”
“Jagger.” Drazic beckons to him. “Let’s you
and me go for a ride.”
Nash lets me lead him into the office while Jagger and Drazic head
out to give us some privacy. I shut the door and draw the blinds,
then grab him a soda from the mini-fridge. He stares at it for a
moment, then reaches into the bottom desk drawer and pulls out a
bottle of Jack. I smile sadly and hold my hand out for his keys—our
unspoken ritual, every time a member of the crew drinks. Nash hands
them over and takes a long gulp.
