Flying Gold Read online

  American Heavy Metal is Tiffani Ellis’s sanctuary, or at least it was before her dad died. Being in charge means her own dreams are firmly on the back burner. Now she spends as much time fixing problems as she does the cars she loves. She’s already struggling to find her feet; the last thing she needs is the man who broke her heart showing up at her shop with a car he doesn’t deserve to touch, much less own.

  Matt Adams left town, moved to the west coast and became a big shot. But his passion for cars never waned, and neither did his regret over how things ended with Tiffani. Now he’s back, his dream car in tow. He’s gearing up for a big race, he needs help and he knows exactly where to find it.

  Tiffani won’t turn down a paying job, but working with Matt stirs up feelings best left buried. What was left behind them is irresistible, but it doesn’t take long to realize that a few hot nights will never be enough. Sex is easy, but forgiveness is not...

  Don’t miss Hard Chrome, the first book in the American Heavy Metal series, available now from Vanessa North and Carina Press!

  One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

  This book is approximately 56,000 words

  Also available from Vanessa North

  and Carina Press

  American Heavy Metal

  Hard Chrome

  Reporting In

  High and Tight

  And don’t miss the next title

  in the American Heavy Metal series,

  Salvaged Steel,

  coming soon!

  Also available from Vanessa North

  The Lake Lovelace Trilogy

  Double Up

  Rough Road

  Roller Girl

  Blueberry Boys

  Summer Stock

  The Dark Collector

  Hostile Beauty

  The Short Strokes: Collected Stories

  Rigged

  A Song for Sweater-boy

  Off Limits

  Content Warning

  Flying Gold deals with topics some readers may find difficult, including workplace harassment.

  Flying Gold

  Vanessa North

  To Mark

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Salvaged Steel by Vanessa North

  Excerpt from Summer Stock by Vanessa North

  Chapter One

  Tiffani

  The storm door at Tegan’s house slams shut behind me with a creak and thwack, and crisp winter air bites my skin and fills my throat with a thick lump of longing. I can’t stay in Tegan’s house, under soft glowing lights, listening to her and Tyler being so damn normal while Tanner stares at all of us like we’re some kind of science experiment she can figure out if she just applies herself.

  I can’t stay, and I can’t go home.

  I wish I were the kind of person who could get roaring drunk and forget things, but alcohol does the opposite to me—I turn in on myself like the folds of a paper airplane that ain’t never gonna fly. And I always remember.

  I should go home.

  The cars lined up in Tegan’s driveway could be an advertisement for the shop: Tanner’s black Camaro all low and sleek and pretty and perfect; next to it, Tegan’s perpetually mid-restoration GTO—the one that runs, not the parts car—looking fast and mean as hell even without a hood; lastly Tyler’s orange El Camino, the brunt of so much teasing, with his hibiscus-flower seat covers and Mardi Gras beads hanging from the mirror.

  I stride past them all to my black M3 and climb inside, turn the key in the ignition, and throw it into Reverse, claustrophobia setting in as I turn onto the road that will take me to the house I don’t want to face.

  At the stop sign on the corner I tug the elastic out of my braid and comb my fingers through my hair.

  As I round onto the state road, with its twists and turns up into the mountains, I crank the music up and lower my window, letting the wind whip my hair back from my face.

  Where I’m supposed to turn onto the old Mill Road, to the house where I grew up, the house where I took care of my dying father, the house where I’m supposed to sleep, I whisper a prayer, downshift, and lower my right foot to the floor, the sign shrinking into nothing behind me as the engine roars.

  Sorry, Dad.

  Matt

  “God brought you here, son. Thank you.” The old man claps his hands over mine, his eyes bright with fervor and tears. “I know you’re going to take good care of her.”

  Her. The car. Her.

  She is a beauty. When I found the Chevelle’s listing on Craigslist, I thought it was too good to be true. One owner. A lifetime in a garage. Low miles. The kind of car people wrote hard rock songs about and photographed with bikini-clad women, all oiled bodies and teased hair. It was an icon, and I wanted it.

  Here, in the tepid sunshine of a Georgia winter afternoon, her soft gold paint glows and I have to admit, she’s perfect. A dream car. My dream car. And at a price I’m embarrassed to say I don’t even blink at, my heart and eyes hungry the moment I lay eyes on her.

  “I have to get back to Atlanta,” I say apologetically as the old man stares longingly at the car he’s pampered for half a century. “I hope your wife’s treatments go well.”

  He nods, patting the pocket where my cashier’s check promises that whether they go well or not, they won’t bankrupt him this month. Then he hands me the keys. “God bless you, young man.”

  His words echo in my ears as I drive away, and guilt eats at me. I’ll never have to sell something important to me in order to make sure someone I love gets healthcare. Is that the measure of having made it in America now? Not the golden statue on my mantel in my house.

  Is success simply being free from being terrorized by medical bills? And why do I feel guilty instead of grateful?

  I shake my head, trying to force the man’s grim expression and haunted eyes from my vision, focusing instead on the black ribbon of highway stretching in front of me as I cruise back to the city where I was born—the one that will be my home for the next ten months. My phone rings on the seat next to me, and I fumble to answer it and press the speaker button.

  “Adams.”

  “Matt, you cold-hearted motherfucker, where’s the whiskey?”

  A laugh rips from my chest as my best friend’s voice fills the front seat. Maybe having Trent housesit was a bad idea, but it was better than putting all my shit in storage for the next year, and it gives him somewhere to live while he looks for his next gig. “Did you check behind the sofa?”

  “Did you put it there?”

  “Naw, man. But if you’re looking for whiskey at—” I glance at my watch and do the math “—two in the afternoon, I’m guessing you left it somewhere in the wee hours of the morning. Clean the mess before Sara comes on Wednesday.”

  “I don’t get it, brother. Why do you bother cleaning befo
re your housekeeper comes?”

  “Because I pay her to dust my Oscar, not pick up after overgrown frat boys.” Unemployed actors.

  “Welp, whiskey’s where you said it was. Talk to you later.”

  “Wait, Trent—”

  But he’s already hung up. For the best, as I merge onto I-285 and traffic creeps to a standstill. I sigh, fumbling with the ancient stereo in search of something to engage my brain.

  We creep forward, each mile a small victory as the drive-time DJs talk over the end of every song. I hate that. The sun hangs low in the sky, painting it red and reflecting off the cars in front of me to create a glittering blanket over the highway. Pretty, though sitting through Atlanta rush hour is a high price to pay for the sight.

  The car in front of me inches forward, and I move to do the same, but the car shudders, and the engine stops.

  Shit. My immediate thought is that I stalled it, but this is an automatic. I twist the key and wait for the engine to turn over. Nothing happens. A horn sounds behind me, and a car to my left glides in front of me. I try to start the car again.

  Nothing. Dammit.

  I smack the steering wheel once, then fumble around the steering column until I find the chrome button for the flashers, and I pick up my phone.

  “Siri, find a tow company near me.”

  I pick the first number offered up and call to explain my location to the good ol’ boy who answers the phone. Then I put the car in Neutral, open the car door, and step out to push, turning the wheel to the right and cursing under my breath. At least I’m in the right lane.

  A car pulls over behind me, flashers blinking. I glance over my shoulder as a guy in a baseball cap and a Georgia Tech shirt puts his hands to the back of my car and gives me a brisk nod. He shoves as I steer, and we manage to get the Chevelle onto the shoulder.

  “Thanks, man.” I offer my hand for a shake, but he just waves and climbs back into his own car, driving off now that I’m out of his way.

  It takes an hour for the tow truck to arrive. The driver steps out of the truck, a big man in denim overalls with a red beard and a shaved head, and looks over my car in frank admiration.

  “Wow. She’s a beauty.”

  “Thanks—I just bought her. Thought she’d at least get me home.”

  “Ouch. That’s rough.” He hands over a clipboard. “I need your info, the delivery address, and payment method. Cash or credit.”

  I fill out my home address, then scribble my temporary apartment address into the margin. “Um, I don’t know where to have it towed to.”

  He appraises me with a raised eyebrow, and I wonder what he sees. I have no illusions about my looks. I’m ordinary bordering on nerdy. My glasses, which I’ve worn my whole life, are now trendy, but that’s more an accident of fashion than me being anything special to look at. And while I’d put my backyard mechanic skills up against anyone on set, out here on the side of the road, I have nothing to show for them.

  “Car shop?”

  Yeah, he’s got my number. “You know a good one?”

  He looks at his phone. “It’s after six, so they’ll be closed, but American Heavy Metal’s where you want her. They’re out of town a ways; I can deliver her in the morning.”

  American Heavy Metal. The shop name hits me with a jolt of nostalgia, and not the kind it was meant to evoke. Tom Ellis’s shop. Tiffani’s dad’s shop.

  The memories hit me like a swarm of angry bees, each with it’s own sting. Wide hazel eyes and a cleft in her chin that my thumb would ache to touch. Laughter. Kissing—hearts racing—against the front door of her house. Handfuls of dark hair and creamy skin. Studying in her room, my head on her pillow and hers on my stomach. Skipping school to drive her car fast. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Prom night, and all the epiphanies under her dress. Loving and laughing, driving fast and feeling invincible, untouchable. Love. Laughing. Graduation night. Betrayal. Crying. Mascara running down her face as she shoves me off the front steps. Her voice cracking under the pressure of hating me.

  Tiffani Ellis.

  I close my eyes and suck in a sharp breath. She hates me. But what are the chances she’s still in Royal? The smartest, kindest, prettiest girl in our class? No way.

  “Up in Royal?”

  He grins at me. “You know the place. And you even pronounce it right. I wouldn’t’ve pegged you for a Georgia boy.”

  “I grew up there. In Royal.” I scribble American Heavy Metal across the section asking for the delivery address and hand the clipboard back. “Used to date the owner’s daughter.” I fumble my credit card out of my wallet and hand it over.

  He raises his eyebrow again, studying me, and yeah, I know I’m no prize, but once upon a time, Tiffani Ellis loved me, and that fills me with equal parts pride and shame.

  “No shit, local boy. Well, then you know they’ll take good care of her. Write your phone number on here, they’ll call you when they take possession. You need a ride?”

  “If you can drop me off just inside the perimeter, I’ll call an Uber.”

  I sit in the cab of the tow truck while he loads up the car, texting my PA and letting him know I’ve been delayed. My fingers fly over the touch screen, then still.

  Tiffani Ellis. Maybe, after all these years, she’ll accept my apology.

  The thought is terrifying. I never deserved her kindness or her love, but I don’t know if I’m man enough to face her wrath. But my stupid heart can’t help beating faster at the thought of seeing her.

  When I try to picture what she would look like now, I draw a blank, my imagination filling instead with her seventeen-year-old face, red under her freckles, streaked with tears and mascara.

  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll have a chance to make a new memory of her face to replace that one before I go back to California.

  If she’s even still in Royal. And why would she be?

  Tiffani

  Duke’s lift is empty when I roll into the shop at eight a.m., giving me a rush of mixed feelings. Since he and Tanner broke up—idiots—he’s been ornery as a molting rattlesnake and she’s been a blank-faced, cheery caricature of herself. The empty space at the lift next to me means a lull in the tension in the shop and god knows we need it.

  “Hey, Tiff.” Tegan stops by my lift on her way to the locker room. “All right, lady?”

  I nod, organizing the tools I’ll need for the job ahead on top of my toolbox. “Just fine.”

  “Where’d you go last night?”

  “Home.” Liar.

  “I called the house phone.”

  “I had the ringer off. I was tired.”

  “Uh huh. Tanner fall for that line?” I look up to see her arms crossed over her chest, a disappointed scowl on her pretty face. I’m caught. “Don’t bullshit me, Tiff.”

  “I went for a drive in the mountains to clear my head. Why didn’t you try my cell?”

  “Because I wasn’t calling to talk to you. I was calling to see if you were home. I’m worried about you.”

  “Jesus, I’m fine. Everything is fine. I’m sorry I didn’t stay for dessert and Scrabble. I’m an introvert, you know?”

  “Were you racing?”

  At least I don’t have to lie this time. “No. Just driving.”

  “Okay.” She taps on my toolbox and looks over her shoulder. “Okay. I believe you.”

  I turn back to my tools and she disappears into the locker room. My phone lights up with an incoming text. I unlock it and read Duke’s message.

  Gotta help the twins rescue some pups. Fucking Clifton.

  My heart sinks. Duke’s stepfather hasn’t been out of jail for dogfighting very long, but it’s safe to say he isn’t rehabilitated. If he’s keeping dogs again, it ain’t because he likes company. And Duke’s teenage sisters are just the kind of idealistic do-gooders to want to try to save their dad and t
he dogs too, despite the fact that Britney’s pregnant and Kayla should be in school, and neither of them should be poking the bear.

  Be careful, I text back.

  “Tiff, we’ve got a tow coming in, can you take it?” Tanner appears at the end of my lift, twisting her hands together.

  Like I have any choice.

  “Yeah, I guess. How bad is it? I can’t push it in here without help.”

  She doesn’t answer. I look over my shoulder and she’s staring at Duke’s lift, her face twisted up like she’s about to cry.

  “Tanny.” I shake her shoulder. “It’ll be fine, I promise.”

  She nods, her eyes clearing. “Right. It’s a Chevelle SS, early seventies. Apparently some rich fucker in Atlanta bought it, then it broke down as he was sitting in traffic on the way home.”

  I roll my eyes. If I had a dollar for every time some rich fucker bought himself a muscle car without having it checked out by a mechanic first—well, I’d have more than a few dollars anyway. “Of course it did. Okay, I’ll bring it in. We don’t have a free lift, though. If it won’t come in the shop on its own, we’re going to have to park it until Duke gets here.”

  “Okay. Tow truck driver called about five minutes ago. Said he’ll be here in twenty.”

  “No problem. When he gets here, send him out back in case we can’t get it in the shop right away.”

  She slips away and I return to my work, cranking the volume on the Bluetooth speakers on Duke’s toolbox and singing along.

  A quarter-hour later, I’m keeping an eye on the clock for the tow truck when Tanner bolts through the shop and out the back door like the devil’s on her heels. “Tan?”

  She runs back into the shop, white as a sheet. “Tiffani!” The panic in her voice is unmistakable. I drop my wrench on the toolbox and meet her by the door.

  “Whoa.” I catch her by shaking shoulders. “What’s up?”

  “Duke’s hurt. He’s in the hospital. I’ve got to—” She gags like she’s going to throw up, and even though my own panic is clawing at my chest like a wild creature, I grab her hand and put pressure on the inside of her wrist to calm her nausea.