As a single mom in a small town, there's only one thing I want. Another baby. When all the roads to getting what I want lead to dead ends, I turn to one of my best friends for help.
In my mind, Trent Castillo is the perfect baby daddy. He has good g...
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Bruce left last week, and this week, thanks to the social media posts and the article in the paper, we've had steady bookings. Even next week already has a number of slots taken with regular service appointments.
Overall, May isn't looking too terrible, and I'm feeling a tiny bit of hope about the future. There's a chance I can make a go of this.
It helps that I have Mia's endorsement tucked into my back pocket if things slow down or don't continue on a steady increase. She did warn me that if she told people she only uses me to look after her vehicles, that I'd probably draw a more national and international clientele. Lucrative, but not exactly the small-town experience I'm hoping to keep going here.
For now, I really want to keep my focus on establishing good relationships in town, making the locals feel like they can trust me.
Around town it's been a mixed bag of reactions with some people making shady comments to my face while others offer heartfelt congratulations about getting my life turned around. I figure anyone who hasn't said anything that's gotten back to me is reserving judgement, waiting to see if I'll fuck up or make a go of it.
Brett's working the late shift on Thursday, and my mom has left for the day. Brett's just tidying the shop before we close up when a BMWX1 pulls into our lot. It's a flashy canary yellow, which isn't to my tastes, but my curiosity is piqued. I haven't seen the vehicle around town.
When the driver's door opens, it takes me a beat to clock who steps out. Dan Ramouli. I'd heard from Grady that he'd taken over the gas station across town, so I'd avoided filling up there, stopping in for any reason.
"Brett," I call into the shop. "I need you to be present for this conversation, if you don't mind."
My mother is still doing the booking, but whenever a client has a complaint or question, I'm the one who deals with it. Last week, an irate customer got me cornered outside my office and started throwing my past in my face after my mother left for the day, and Brett suggested that a second person floating around might make at least some people less likely to let loose. For those who are truly unhinged, I'd have backup.
In Utica, Earl handled all the forward-facing client relations, and I never really considered how people who weren't happy, no matter what we did, were appeased.
Brett saunters into the reception area, and he pretends to be organizing things along the wall when Dan comes in.
"Trent Castillo," he crows as though we're old friends rather than borderline enemies. He sold me out to the cops when we were kids to make sure he got away without jail time. "How's business?"
"It's been fine," I say. "I think Hutchinson across town can probably help you with whatever you need."
"He can't, actually," Dan says, strolling around the reception, looking at the artsy car paintings on the walls. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"
