Becoming Rain: A Novel

“Why the hell did R&S just drop a ’78 Corvette in our parking lot?” Miller hollers, bounding through the office door like a grizzly bear about to attack.

“Because I asked them to.” R&S, the auto body shop we refer all of our clients to, finished with the car early and offered to bring it here for no charge. I wasn’t going to say no to that.

“Last I checked, we don’t run a storage lot.”

As much as I want to match his angry tone, I temper mine with a smile, knowing my lax attitude will get under Miller’s skin more. “I forgot to tell you: I’m expanding our business.”

“Oh really . . . And does Rust know about this?”

“He knows what he needs to know.” I pause. “Relax. I’ll have it off the lot by the end of the day.”

I get Miller’s signature nose flare in return, and then his voice drops to a low hiss. “Rust has been very clear about that coming to this doorstep. This garage runs one hundred and ten percent clean. You need to get it off this property now or your uncle will have your head.”

Miller seems to have jumped to the conclusion that I’m into something below board. Quite presumptuous of him. I could save him all this stress and just tell him the truth—that the car is a legal side project I’ve been working on with my friend Jesse for some extra cash.

Cash that I can say I’ve earned.

I’m more curious about what Miller knows of Rust’s “other” business. Is it more than I do? I know so little that it wouldn’t be hard. But it pisses me off to no end that this fucking asshole might know something that I don’t.

I lock my hands behind my head and grin. “Nope. I don’t think I will.”

Miller doesn’t waste another second, charging for the phone. He lifts the old-school receiver up and points it toward me in warning. “Don’t make me call Rust down here.”

I shrug. “It’s almost lunch. I wouldn’t mind grabbing a bite with him.”

A sneer curls his lips as he punches the keys with his fat index finger. I don’t even bother to hide my eye roll as he glares at me, earpiece jammed against the side of his head. “Rust, Miller . . . you need to get down here . . . It’s urgent . . . About what?” He shoots another scowl at me. “Your nephew, that’s what . . .’kay.” He slams down the receiver.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have anger-management issues?” It thrills me to no end that I can actually say that now. For the year that I was working in the garage, Miller rode my back every day, making my life hell. Now that Rust has moved me inside, making my future position as manager and eventual owner of this garage all the more obvious, Miller can’t get away with the same crap. But he still tries.

“I’m actually going to enjoy watching him hand your ass to you.”

“What is it exactly that you have against me, Miller? Is it that I’m younger? Better looking? Smarter?”

“Have you ever actually worked a day in your life?” he snaps back.

I pretend I don’t notice that the tension in the office has grown to choking proportions as I sort through invoices and answer customer calls, ignoring him. When I spot Rust’s navy Porsche Cayenne pull up outside the window twenty minutes later, I throw a lazy salute and stroll past Miller, glad to get away from him.

I find Rust standing with Tabbs and Zeke, two of his longest-standing mechanics here, hovering over the classic, his fingers sliding across the killer paint job that R&S completed for me.

“Hot damn, Nurse Boone!” Tabbs bellows, using the stupid nickname they slapped me with one week into working here. “This for you?”

I fish the keys out of my pocket. “Why? You wanna buy it?” One turn of the key has the engine purring low and steady. Not loud enough to drown out the bell that announces Miller barreling out the door. With groans, Tabbs and Zeke head back to their respective work to avoid his wrath.

“Is this what that loan was for?” Rust slides his sunglasses off to level me with bright blue eyes that match mine.

I nod. “Picked it up for three G’s. The widow just wanted it out of her garage. Had it restored to original spec.”

“Who did the work?”

“Who do you think?” Rust knows Jesse. He used to work at the garage too.

“He’s still around?”

I level a stern glare at my uncle. “Only for these types of projects. And only through me.” Rust knows what I’m talking about without me having to say it out loud. Jesse’ll never get mixed up with the likes of Rust’s “business associates” again. I wouldn’t want him to, after what he’s been through.

Rust’s hand finds his chin, giving it a thoughtful scratch. “You keeping it?”

“Nah . . . though I could definitely use a new car.” It’d be an upgrade from the ’07 Mustang GT convertible I’m driving now. The first car I ever bought myself, that leaks when it rains. Rust’s strange like that; on the one hand, he spoils me with things no twenty-four-year-old could possibly need, like a Rolex watch and gold cufflinks. But the basic necessities, like a roof and transportation? He makes me work for those. Before he handed me keys to the swank condo that I now live in, I was sharing a shitty apartment with Jesse. I think it’s a life lesson—to make me see what it’s like to struggle like a normal person so I’ll work harder to avoid it.

“I talked to Sully already. It’s going on the block this Saturday. Should be able to make a solid return on it, given it’s an anniversary model and the mileage is low. And I’m lining up two more deals like this as we speak. May need you to front me some cash, though.”

Rust’s brows spike but he says nothing. Sully is his associate, an auctioneer who sometimes helps sell cars for RMT. I don’t know if it bothers Rust that I went behind his back, but I’ve gotten to know Sully pretty well. And, other than his bankrolling the loan for me, I wanted to do this without Rust’s involvement.

I stifle my smile as Miller ambles over.

“Miller . . .” Rust gives a single nod.

The big man jerks his chin toward the car. “I warned him to get it out of here.”

Rust’s lips twist in thought, his eyes shifting between Miller and me. Deciding something. “If Luke says it’s fine, then it is. I trust him not to do something stupid.” Slapping my shoulder, he adds, “Smart investment. These are the kinds of things I want to see.”

Finally. Rust’s praise doesn’t get thrown around often. I don’t miss the grumble of annoyance from Miller. Rust chooses to ignore it, instead turning his attention to the white Audi RS 5 turning into the lot.

“That’s an awfully new car to bring here,” he muses.

“Probably still under warranty,” I add. Why would someone bring a brand-new Audi here and not straight to their dealer? There’s one not ten miles away.

The car rolls to a stop and a pair of pink heels appears from the open door.

“Never seen her before,” Miller mutters as a young brunette climbs out. I wonder if she even knows she has a warranty. Miller takes two steps toward her, but Rust’s words stall him. “Luke, why don’t you find out what she needs.”

I smile. There’s a rule around here—Miller is the only one who talks to the new customers.

Until now.

“Gladly,” I say, heading toward her.