Mic Mechanic 2 Novels & Stories

“Fine.” Shielded by the feminine contraption, Donald sloshed up the driveway and looked into the window. A large-bellied, balding man in his mid-forties lay on his back under a propped-up BMW, a wrench in one grease-covered hand and a flashlight in the other. The single bulb above the car afforded little extra help. Donald rapped on the dirty window. The mechanic craned his neck to see if the sound was a figment of his imagination. His shaggy brow furrowed and he wiped it with the back of his hand. An oil streak joined the existing many.

💦Under the Hood 💦 “God, please tell me you can fix it today.” I stood in the garage bay of the auto shop, arms crossed under my breasts, wearing a tight white tank top and tiny denim shorts that barely covered my ass. My car was smoking earlier, and I was desperate. The mechanic who walked out from under a lifted truck wiped his hands on a rag and looked me up and down slowly. Damn. He was tall, muscular, covered in grease and tattoos, with strong forearms and a dirty white tank top that clung to his broad chest. His name tag read Mark.

After a second Dillon snapped back to the moment. "Uhh... y-yea I'm good. I'll deal with it later. Just slow down and don't have a screwdriver bayonet stickin' outta yer bag next time, yea?" Dillon said shortly. He needed out of this nightmare yesterday. The mechanic looked at him and gestured to him to follow. "Nah, follow me, I got stuff to take care of it. It'll only take a sec, c'mon," The mechanic said over his shoulder as he picked up his tool bag.

“Fine.” Shielded by the feminine contraption, Danny sloshed up the driveway and looked into the window. A large-bellied, balding man in his mid-forties lay on his back under a propped up BMW, a wrench in one grease-covered hand and a flashlight in the other. The single bulb above the car afforded little extra help. Danny rapped on the dirty window. The mechanic craned his neck to see if the sound was a figment of his imagination. His shaggy brow furrowed and he wiped it with the back of his hand. An oil streak joined the existing many. “Who’s there?” he hollered.

Her vulnerability still tugged at the edges of his thoughts, an unwelcome presence in his usually detached demeanor. The mechanic's skilled hands worked with precision, addressing the issue that had caused the car to break down earlier. Mace watched him with a critical eye, ensuring that the repairs were performed to his high standards. Despite his cold exterior, Mace had a reputation for being meticulous when it came to his possessions, and his car was no exception. The night air was filled with the soft hum of the mechanic's tools and the occasional muffled curses as he encountered a stubborn bolt or a recalcitrant component. The repair work proceeded efficiently, and it wasn't long before

***** ~Time skips After 5 minutes, a black Maserati halted in front of me. I saw Henry waving at me making me chuckle at his childishness. "Get in, let's go" He unlocked the door. I got inside. "When did you came? And who's car is this?" I asked him while putting on the seatbelt. "First answer- Around 7. Second answer- This car belongs to the Miller Co. but I got a call from your overprotective husband. He had ordered me to be your chauffeur. So, I will be the one driving you to the venue"

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” He worked fast with tools from his truck. I watched his hands move—strong, capable, stained with black streaks. After twenty minutes he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Good enough for now. Follow me to the motel up the road. I know the mechanic there. He’ll fix it properly in the morning.” I hesitated for only a second. The highway stayed deserted and night was falling fast. “Okay. Lead the way.” I climbed into his passenger seat. The cab smelled like motor oil, leather, and something warm like cedar. Jax drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. Country music played low. Silence stretched for a few miles before he spoke.

A massive garage door was rolled up, revealing three bays where mechanics in grease-stained coveralls were shouting over the roar of an air compressor. I walked into the small, dingy front office. Mr. Miller, a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard and hands permanently stained black with grease, was leaning over a cluttered counter. "Can I help you, kid?" he grunted, not looking up from a clipboard. "I'm here for the Honda Civic," I said, my voice sounding small in the chaotic space. "Tamine Jordan. It was towed here this morning." Mr. Miller flipped a page on his clipboard and sighed. "Right. The Civic. Alternator was shot to hell. Belts were cracking, too. It’s a miracle you made it thro

He led me to a place in the back where there was a lift and some tools that he gathered. “What is all this?” “Well, I hoped you knew your way around a mechanic shop by now…” Steele smirked as he stood back, letting me look at it all. “Smartass.” I muttered, but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. “This is an engine to that corvette. It blew a few months back and no one has had time to work on it.” Steele pushed an engine that was hanging off a lift to me. “Basically, everything in here is broken in some way. I placed cards on the driver’s seat, but they all need attention.”

The side, caved in as if crushed by a giant. But I didn’t just see mangled steel. I saw her body being thrown. Her head hitting. The scream she couldn’t give. I closed my eyes for a second, breathing deeply. Then I turned to the mechanic. "I want a full report. Now." The man, in a greasy jumpsuit and gloves, nodded and grabbed a clipboard. "We’re almost done, Mr. Salvatore." I looked at Paolo, who understood immediately. He took two steps forward, staring down the mechanic.