Revved To The Maxx

“Hey, Maxx! Yo, where you at?” a voice yelled.

We broke apart, staring at each other. I set her down, and before I could say anything, she turned and hurried to the office. I heard the door slam just as my one o’clock appointment showed up.

“There you are,” my next customer, Tim, said, walking through the garage door.

“Hey,” I responded, hoping I sounded fairly normal. I walked around the Camry so the car separated us, praying my erection would diminish and my breathing would slow. All I could think of was if he had been five minutes later, he would have walked into a whole different scenario. One he wouldn’t forget.

I glanced past his shoulder and saw Charly headed down the hall, no doubt to go work in the storeroom. It was good planning on her part. If I kept looking at her, I was going to rid of Tim, shut the garage door, and have her.

Out of sight, out of mind—right?

I ignored the chortles in my head.I made it through the afternoon, staying busy with customers. I even followed protocol, typed up the invoices, collected payment, and left the information on the desk for Charly. I didn’t want to have to listen to another one of her “I told you” lectures.

I pulled down the overhead door just before four, not wanting to be around in case anyone showed up with an emergency. I was tense, my body still taut from earlier.

I decided to go and work out rather than heading into the house. Rufus followed me to the converted barn, lying down in the wide entranceway after I rolled open the large wooden doors.

One side of the barn was storage. Things from the house my parents had left, some of the boxes I had packed of their possessions and brought back after they had passed. There was some furniture, boxes of papers, and extra things from the garage. There was now a large empty spot where the Camry used to sit, covered and protected. My bike was parked beside the doors.

The other side, I’d turned into a workout area. I didn’t need a lot of fancy equipment. I had my weights, a treadmill, and a fitness trainer that did the job of several pieces. There was a shower in the corner for after I finished my workouts, some speakers for music, and a small fridge for cold water. After warming up and doing a full set with the weights, I turned on some music and hit the treadmill, finding my rhythm and forgetting everything else.

Until Charly walked in.

Her hair was a burst of fiery red with the sunlight behind it. It hung well past her shoulders in a mass of curls. She was wearing those damn cute shorts again, her legs looking trim and shapely. I narrowed my eyes at what she had on over top of the shorts but kept my pace.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

She glanced down as if she didn’t know, then fingered the denim sleeve. “I found these in a box in the storeroom! Aren’t they great?”

I held back a groan. At one point, my father had denim shirts made for the garage with the logo on them. It had silver snaps instead of buttons and was faded and soft from years of washing. I had forgotten they even existed until now. The old logo was stitched over the pocket, giving it the retro look Charly said was so popular.

But the mechanics never wore them over a tank top with the tails tied up, exposing a sliver of stomach.

My steps faltered a little. “You aren’t wearing that getup in the shop,” I grumbled, forgetting my earlier rule about keeping my voice neutral.

She pursed her lips. “Yowsers—what a prude. Spoken like the elderly curmudgeon I imagined you to be, Maxx.”

“Not a chance, Charly,” I warned.

She shrugged, not caring what I had to say on the subject. Then she tugged on the fabric knot. “Will you rip them off if I try?”

I almost face-planted. With a curse, I hopped off the treadmill and wiped my face with a towel.

She didn’t wait for a reply, instead wandering to the other side of the barn. “Wow, there is a lot of stuff here.”

I grunted, unable to get the image of peeling that shirt and shorts off her body and having my way with her again.

She stopped, staring at the motorcycle parked by the doors. “Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a Harley guy?”

“One of my faves. I had a Ducati.” I paused. “But I don’t anymore.”

She ran her hand along the gleaming paint. “It’s beautiful. You did the restoration work?”

“Yes.”

She admired it, touching the chrome, checking out the multitoned black frosted paint and the custom airbrushing detail. She ran her hand along the hand-stitched leather seat.

“It’s a 1983 HDFXRT,” I offered.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, then moved on farther into the barn. I watched her with interest, wondering what else would catch her eye. I liked watching her move.