March 2. 2015
Franklin Smith was the perfect fiancé. He was at the top of our class at Stanford and had been recently accepted to Harvard Law. But Spring Break our senior year of college changed everything. He went back home to New Jersey and never returned. At his funeral I discovered a guy I never knew. His secret past. And a twin brother, Fisher, I didn’t know existed.
I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face
when I see a run-down double-wide at the end of the driveway. The house, if you
can call it that, has definitely seen better days. And those days weren’t in
this century. The place is surrounded by old trucks in various states of
disrepair along with piles of engine parts everywhere.
After I park the little Hyundai I hop out
and stretch my long legs. I normally don’t do well in compacts, even with the
seat back as far as it will go. This car is no exception.
As I look around for signs of life all I
see are a few mangy-looking stray cats milling about, no doubt searching for
rats or other varmints who will serve as their next meals.
Then I hear the faint sound of tapping.
Followed by an “Oh, No!”
I guess it’s not just me and the cats here.
I head toward the area from where the exclamation emanated.
An old truck that looks like it hasn’t been
driven since the 1950s is behind another truck maybe from the 1970s.
There’s a man with the entire top half of
his body underneath the hood of the older truck, obviously trying to fix it.
All that’s visible as I approach is his bottom half, in tight-fitting Denim and
black work boots.
I clear my throat, hoping to get his
attention, but I get a rather annoyed “Just a minute” instead.
After sixty-two seconds pass I clear my
throat again. “It’s been over a minute. Sixty-three seconds to be exact.”
He laughs. One that sounds familiar. Too
familiar. His laugh sounds just like Franklin’s. A shiver runs through my
entire body in response.
When he extricates himself from the hood of
the car and turns toward me my knees buckle and I nearly faint.
The man grabs me just before I hit the
dirt. Once he has me upright I notice that the brand new white silk shirt I’m
wearing is now covered in grease.
“This can’t be happening,” I utter as I try
to remember if grease can be removed from silk.
I quickly remove my stash of sanitizer
wipes from my pocketbook and get to work trying to remove some of the grease
from my shirt.
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” the
man says.
He looks just like Franklin, but a
disgustingly filthy version of my fiancé.
Every inch of the guy is covered in
grease and dirt. It’s like my worst nightmare come to life.
One of the few things I hate more than being
disorganized is being dirty. I will do almost anything to avoid becoming soiled
in any way.
The guy’s eyes search mine as if he’s
trying to figure out what I’m doing standing in front of his old truck in the
middle of nowhere New Jersey.
“Here,” I say as I hand him two of my
sanitizer wipes to clean his grimy hands.
“That’s not going to work either.”
I hand him one additional wipe. “Better?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I have
special grease remover in the house. My hands are never completely clean, but
I’m used to it. I’ve been a mechanic all my life.”
“Your voice,” I mutter. “You sound just
like him. You look like him too. It’s unbelievable.”
“Like who?”
“Franklin.”
“I should. He’s—um—was—my twin brother.”
I feel my stomach start to knot. “He told
me he was an only child.”
The guy lets out a cynical laugh. “I’m not
surprised. When he left Old Town he left all of us behind. A hot shot lawyer
and fancy politician doesn’t need a twin brother whose a mechanic hanging
around his neck. Better not to have a brother at all, I suppose.”
“He really is gone?” My voice cracks again.
It’s starting to get annoying.
“He was gone a long time ago. When he left
for Stanford he didn’t look back. But he is dead, if that’s what you mean.”
His face looks pained. Grubby and wounded.
As it finally starts to sink in that
Franklin, my Franklin, really is
gone. I can feel my entire body start to shake. And before I know what’s hit me I’m crying.
Me, Chloe Woodford, the girl who never
shows any emotion, is blubbering like a child. “I just—don’t—understand—it,” I
say between snivels.
“What?” Franklin’s brother whispers.
“Any of it.”
“Can you tell me what you’re going here?”
I hold up my left hand, hoping he’ll take
note of the 1.2 carat diamond engagement ring that Franklin bought me.
“Nice rock. So you’re rich. I figured that
out before you flashed the bling. But it still doesn’t explain what you’re
doing here.”
“Franklin is—um—was my fiancé.” I try to
speak with as much dignity as I can muster, but the words still feel like
they’re getting caught in my throat.
When he slams the hood of the truck closed
I nearly jump out of my skin. I’m raw and on edge and the loud noise sends me
reeling.
“I should have known.” He waves a hand up
and down my body. “You fit every requirement he could ever want in a trophy
wife. A tall, beautiful blonde. Model thin, but still has a nice rake. Your
family obviously has money. And you go to Stanford, right? So you’re not dumb.
You’re the perfect package. You would have made the ideal politician’s wife.”
“You’re not a very nice person,” is nearly
all I can manage to say. “I lost my fiancé.”
“And I lost my twin brother. So what’s your
point? There’s no law that says I have to be nice.”
I’m
not sure what to do. I don’t like Franklin’s brother. I really don’t want to be
around him and his filth, but I’m not sure I have any other options. I need
answers and at least he’s giving me some, even if I don’t like the message or
the messenger.
My mother is a shark is sheep’s clothing.
And she always told me you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. That
might be a cliché, but I’ve always found it to be true. I decide to up the
charm a few notches to see if I can entice Franklin’s brother to tell me more.
“So you’re a mechanic?” I bat my big blue
eyes at him. “Do you work at a garage?”
“This is it.” He motions around the yard,
which looks more like a junkyard. “I’m a mobile mechanic.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
He removes a business card from the front
pocket of his jeans and hands it to me. I try to grab it in such a way that I
don’t have to touch the grease stained finger prints all over the outer edge.
“Are you afraid of getting dirty?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“You seem to have an aversion to it.”
“I don’t like it. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid
of it.”
I examine the card: Fisher Smith, Mobile Mechanic and then a phone number.
“I’m Chloe Woodford, by the way, in case
you’re interested.”
He just nods. And doesn’t
really give me a clue whether he’s interested in knowing anything about me or
not. But I soldier on because there are a lot of things I still want to know about Franklin. And in order for me to
get the information I want I need to try to warm Mr. Iceman up a little bit.
“So do you drive around and fix people’s
cars?”
He laughs. “That’s a small part of my business.
The local sheriff is a buddy of mine. He refers anyone who breaks down on the
side of the road. I work with local farmers, who need help with old trucks or
even tractors or farm equipment. I also work on dirt bikes, race bikes, ATVs.
If it has an engine I can fix it.”
Holding up the card I ask, “How’d you get
the name Fisher?”
“My dad loved to fish. It was one of his
favorite pastimes.”
“He doesn’t fish anymore?”
He shakes his head. “He died when Franklin
and I were twelve. I guess he never told you that either.”
“Nope. How did he die? He must have been
pretty young.” As soon as I ask the question I immediately regret it.
Especially when I see the look on Fisher’s face.
“Shot gun suicide.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s
just…”
“Franklin didn’t tell you much, did he?”
I let out a single, cold laugh. “He told me
a lot. I’m just realizing that most of it wasn’t true. Your dad didn’t work on
Wall Street either, did he?”
Now Fisher is the one who laughs. “Is that
what he told you? Dad was a mechanic. Taught me everything I know.”
USA TODAY Bestselling author Dakota Madison is known for writing New Adult and contemporary romance with a little spice and lots of heart. She likes to explore current social issues in her work. Dakota is a winner of the prestigious RONE Award for Excellence in the Indie and Small Publishing Industry. When she’s not at her computer creating spicy stories Dakota likes to spend time with her husband and their bloodhounds at their home outside Phoenix, Arizona. Dakota also writes under the pen names SAVANNAH YOUNG, SIERRA AVALON and REN MONTERREY.
Wedding Haters
Melissa graduated from the University of Central Florida with a Bachelor’s Degree in Communications; she has always had a love for writing. An avid journal keeper, she fulfilled her dream with her debut novel, An Event To Remember . . . Or Forget.
