The next day
By ten o'clock in the morning, I have grease under my fingernails, oil on my coveralls, and Tucker has already told me three times that I'm ‘doing it wrong.’ By noon, he's admitted I was right. I consider that an excellent start to the day.
"You look entirely too pleased with yourself," Tucker mutters, peering down into the open engine between us.
"I am,” I chirp.
"You've been here three hours. You shouldn't be correcting me yet."
I grin. "I'm not correcting you. I'm reminding you.”
"That's called correcting, kiddo.”
"It's called helping, old man.”
"It's called being a pain in my ass."
I beam at him. "See? We're bonding already."
A bark of laughter echoes across the garage, and Mayhem strolls over carrying two coffees and the smug expression of a man who's been watch
