Don't Need You - Lilian Monroe Page 0,87

I’m a mechanic. What does she expect? A fucking red carpet?

“I’m looking for Sawyer Montgomery.” Her voice is hard, yet musical. There’s a breathiness to it that makes my heart skip, and I curse myself for feeling its effects.

I clear my throat. “He’s not here.”

Her not-so-perfect eyebrows tug together ever so slightly. She takes a deep breath, letting her eyes sweep around the room. I don’t like the way she’s looking at it. Like she’s judging every inch of my domain with her privileged, uppity stare.

“You are…?” I cross my arms, staring her down. I keep my face impassive and puff myself up to my full height.

She may be hot, but my loyalties lie with Sawyer.

Rae Montgomery isn’t fazed. She barely spares me a glance, taking a step deeper into the garage.

“I’m his sister.” Pause. “And your new boss.”

I splutter, my tough-guy façade shattering in an instant. “You’re my what?”

She purses her lips, shaking her head and finally deigning to look at me again. “Believe me, Mr.”—her eyes flick down to my chest, where my name is embroidered on my overalls—“Benji. I bought this place, although I’m not entirely sure it was the right decision.”

“Harold Gilles owns this place.”

Rae snorts, throwing her car door open. “That’s not what the paperwork says. If you won’t tell me where my brother is, I’ll find him myself.” She pauses, one foot in the car as she stares at me across the hood. Her stare is withering. “And clean this place up. It’s a fucking pig sty.”

My jaw is clenched so hard I think my back teeth start to crack. My body’s vibrating.

Harold wouldn’t sell this place. He wouldn’t. He built this garage with his bare hands. I’ve worked here since I was fourteen years old, and he told me more than once he’d leave it to me when he was too old to run it. Even when I got my pilot’s license and started working at Woodvale Skydive on the side, I still kept my job at the garage.

This garage is my retirement plan. It’s my domain. This is my fucking kingdom.

Rich Bitch Rae doesn’t get to walk in here and turn that dream to ash. She doesn’t get to make Sawyer run for his life and tear up my carefully laid plans in the process.

“Is there a problem?” she asks, that scarred eyebrow raised in an insolent arch.

“You’re damn right there’s a problem,” I spit. “You don’t own this place. Harold wouldn’t sell. You can take your precious paperwork and shove it—”

Right up your perky, perfect, round, rich-girl ass.

She stares at me, waiting for me to finish.

Instead, I reach into my pocket for my phone. I dial Harold’s number as Rae slips into her car.

Her fancy, bright white Aston Martin purrs to life. I stare at her, vaguely realizing her car is about ten or twelve years old. Surprise registers deep in my brain—wouldn’t she buy herself a brand-new model every year?—but I’m too overcome with white-hot rage to truly acknowledge it.

My phone is at my ear and I hear Harold’s voice on the other side of the line.

Rae puts her car in gear without sparing me a glance. I watch her start backing out of the garage, her lips pinched into a pretentious line.

Harold says my name again—but before I can answer, the fancy, expensive Aston Martin splutters and spits, the engine dying right there on my pig sty of a garage floor.

“Benji?” Harold says in my ear. “You’re calling about the garage, aren’t you?”

Rae turns the key in the ignition and the engine struggles, whining and grinding and failing to turn over.

“Yeah,” I say, watching her falter. I can see the tension mounting in her shoulders, and even though I can’t see her face, I can imagine those lush, pink lips are pursed in an outraged, angry little pout. How dare her car not function properly?

Harold sighs in my ear. “They offered me so much money, Benji. It only just happened this week.” The old man pauses. “So much money,” he repeats softly.

“Didn’t know you could be bought,” I spit, wincing at my own tone. Harold doesn’t deserve that, but I’m angry and I want to lash out. He promised this place to me. Told me I was like a son to him.

And idiot that I am, I believed him. I thought he was different from my own parents. Different from every other person who walked all over me and then left. I thought he was the exception, not the