Moving Violations Read online

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  Moving Violations

  McGee Matthews

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 McGee Mathews

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  First paperback edition April 2019

  ISBN 978-1-0907-9742-1 (paperback)

  DEDICATION

  For Chris.

  You start walking your way, I’ll start walking mine.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter l7

  Chapter 18

  Chapter19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wrote my first novel thirty years ago and rewrote it for almost five years. The last paper copy is gone, the computer files incompatible with any current machinery. The universe is better for the loss of that effort, but it did teach me a great deal about myself. For over twenty years my wife has nudged me to consider writing again, like water torture but well intended. Thank you.

  None of us write alone, and I would not have taken another shot at writing without the love and support of the Tuesday night Skype group: Claire Britain, Anna Riley, and CJ O’Hara. I remain grateful for you helping me to learn and polish the craft, reading my best and worst efforts, and whispering to keep going because it’s a process.

  My friends who took the time to beta read literally cross the country: Tigger Redwood, Sherri A. Dub, Helen Hall, Karena Chambers, Heather North, and Andrea Smith. It takes a village, and your insights helped me as a writer and more importantly as a person. Thank you for your friendship.

  Those in the writing field who lifted me up are led by Cherry Adair and her Plotting by Color and the Butt In Chair Challenge. She is a treasure for the romance community. Harper Kincaid, Mary Boland-Doyle, M. Jane Collete, Rhiana Caley, and all the other classmates, you don’t know how close I was to tossing in the towel when you brought me into your fold.

  Chapter 1

  Amy Gilbert swung the bat, the yellow rubber softball recoiled with a metallic clink against the gleaming blue aluminum. The evening air was warm for a Michigan spring, and without any breeze, the humidity was crushing. Wisps of dark hair escaped her ponytail and stuck to her forehead. Sweat seeped around the stitches of her batting glove. Willing to do, or spend, whatever it took to break her batting slump, she eyed the next roll of the pitching machine arm and watched the yellow ball arch to the batter’s box. Her feet slid on the concrete and another ball flew foul.

  Robin Barberg spit out a sunflower seed shell. “You’re dropping your shoulder.”

  “Am not.” She now regretted letting Robin talk her into another evening apparently wasted at the batting cages. The problem was her old bat, not her swing.

  “You are too, and you’re not turning your hips soon enough.”

  Amy turned to look at Robin. They’d been best friends since they met in middle school. “Are you going to keep hassling me?”

  “It’s my job to call you out on your shit. Hands across first, then rotate with the swing.” Robin popped a seed in her mouth. “Ball.”

  “What?” And then the rubber ball hit Amy on the back. “Son of a bitch, that was a ball! I thought pitching machines were supposed to throw strikes.”

  Robin spit out a shell. “Nope. There’s a ball once in a while. You don’t want to get in the habit of hitting every pitch.”

  Amy turned just in time to hit the next pitch, sailing the ball right back at the machine.

  “You’d be out; can’t hit it to the pitcher. Have you been golfing?” Robin accused her.

  “No, well, just the driving range with Cheryl.” Amy watched the next hit fly in an arc over the machines.

  “Cheryl at the car dealership or tight skirt Sheryl?”

  Amy turned to face Robin. “Dealer Cheryl. Just work stuff.”

  “Says you. She’s hunting after you.” Robin picked a piece of shell off her tongue. “Are you out of quarters yet?”

  “I have enough for one more round.” Amy dropped the coins into the blue box, and when the indicator glowed inside the plastic bubble, she pushed the round start button. The machine across the concrete lot made some clicking noises, and the arm rotated and pitched the ball. Amy swung and whiffed the ball.

  “Now you’re stepping too far back. Will you stop trying to crank it and just hit the damn ball?" Robin popped more sunflower seeds in her mouth.

  “Your spitting is almost worse than the cigarettes.”

  “My new lady wants me to quit. It’s killing me.”

  Amy leaned back as the pitch arrived, popping the ball in a solid hit. “The redhead or the basketball player?”

  “Both of them.” Robin laughed. “Neither. She’s a new waitress.”

  “You shouldn’t date at work. It gets too messy.” Amy grinned at her friend.

  “Easy for you to say.” Robin stuck out her tongue. “Besides how would you know? You work with all family.”

  Amy laughed. Robin worked as a cook at Denny’s, and Amy had worked at the Gilbert and Son family garage since she was old enough to see over the hood of a car. Her grandfather started the station some fifty years ago. “Yeah, I really would be kissing my sister.” She made a barfing face. She chipped a ball over the machine. “I must say that some pretty fine-looking ladies bring their cars into the shop.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but you won’t actually talk to any of them. I really think you need to get back on the horse. Put yourself out there. Start looking. The right person could be right in front of you and you wouldn’t notice.”

  Amy shrugged. “I don’t have the moves like you do. I think I should take it slow.”

  Robin said, “I saw Deb at the Lounge last weekend. She didn’t frickin’ wait.”

  The breakup had not been mutual and Amy was still wounded. “Shit, she didn’t wait until we broke up.”

  “Now she’s playing for Emily’s team. They might beat us with her bat.”

  Amy slung her bat in the bag and ripped off her glove. “Are you trying to encourage me, because right now it seems you are already blaming me for the loss we haven’t even had yet.”

  “Hey, I just want you to get your head clear. You just need to hit a single and I’ll clean it up.”

  “Just don’t pass me on the baseline. This ankle is still bothering me.”

  “If you’d wear shin guards or something you wouldn’t keep getting hurt.” Robin opened the door to the batting cage as Amy stepped toward her. “Or you could bend your ass over and use the fucking mitt to catch the ball.”

  Amy grabbed Robin and rubbed her head. “Noogies. Thanks, I needed some company.”

  Robin laughed. “Always
. I’m supposed to meet someone. I can cancel. Let’s get some nachos. I’m buying.”

  “Nah, I have to get to work early or my dad will lose his shit. Go have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Amy sat her gear bag in the back of her Jeep, unlatched the door, and slid into the seat. She put the clutch in and let the vehicle roll forward until it just touched the bumper of Robin’s new sports car, a 1986 yellow Corvette.

  “If you hit my frickin’ car, I’m going to kick your ass.” Robin glared as she unlocked her door.

  Amy gave her the finger, and cranked the key, popped it in reverse and squealed the tires out of the parking lot.

  Robin screamed, “Asshole.”

  Amy gunned the engine at the gate when Robin finally got to the exit of the park. Robin just waved as she peeled out and left Amy sitting at the curb. Amy smiled. She and Robin met during a victorious dodge ball game in gym class. They’d been competing with and against each other ever since. No one would describe Robin as refined, but she was good people. When she heard that Amy and Deb split up, the first thing Robin did was to borrow a truck and help Amy move into her house that very night.

  Amy smacked her steering column. She had been with Deb for almost three years, she was sure she was ‘the one’ but Robin had never liked her, considering her snobbish. One thing was for sure, the game tomorrow was going to suck. Amy pulled into the driveway between her parent’s house and the Gilbert and Son Garage and killed the engine. She could see the television glowing in her parent’s family room from the driveway.

  Banging the screen door open, Amy entered the kitchen and lifted the lid to the crockpot on the counter. “It’s just me, Ma.”

  Her mom called from the living room, “If you’re here only for the food, use a plastic bowl. You have too many of my dishes already.”

  Amy scooped several ladles of chili into a glass bowl. “Okay. Good night mom, I’m heading over. See you in the morning.”

  “Good night, honey. And bring the bowl back clean.”

  Amy crossed the lawn and climbed back into her Jeep. She drove down the block and around the corner to Robin’s house and turned off the key. Balancing the chili bowl, she unlocked the back door to the American four-square style house, cleverly named for the four-square floor plan of both the first floor and the second floor. It wasn’t ideal living so close to her parent’s place, but Robin’s rent was cheap and she could maintain her delusion of maturity. She could also score food if she could catch her parents' meal times. She made pretty good money but was usually broke, and moving back home would have been a full step backward in her journey in adulthood. Her cat striped greeted her with indifference, remaining prone on the kitchen table.

  “Good evening. Sorry to disturb your siesta.” She grabbed Meow and headed up the stairs.

  Amy moved around the few boxes in the spare room with her foot, dropping the cat onto the highest, placing the bowl on the lowest. She sat on the folding chair and flipped on the TV. Deb may have all the furniture, but she owned the electronics. A low hum filled the room as the surround sound speakers came to life. Amy scarfed the chili while watching MTV. Maybe she should just skip the game tomorrow. It was bad enough to deal with the sympathetic looks of the women on her team without knowing they would rather still have Deb on their roster. Well, at least her bat. Amy reached into the nearby mini fridge and took out a Bud Light. Twisting it open, she flicked the top toward the trash bin, hearing a satisfying plink as it hit.

  After finishing the beer, she wandered into the bathroom for a shower in the Chicago tub with a curtain strung around a circular shower rod. The hot water came in intermittent waves, like her anger and her resolve. She scrubbed the dust out of her hair, deeply breathing the fresh scent of the soap. She left her clothes on the floor and slid between the new, fresh sheets. Meow sat on the foot of the bed like a sphinx and stared at Amy.

  “Hey, if we were still at Deb’s you’d be banned to the kitchen. You are not sleeping on the other pillow.”

  Meow seemed to understand and curled into a ball. Amy stared at the ceiling, listing to the clinks and knocks of the hundred-year-old house. She thought about Deb, the softball game tomorrow, and then back to Deb. The ticking of the clock eventually sent her to a restless sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Amy stepped into the shower, too impatient to wait for the hot water. She shivered as she shampooed her hair. Life was pretty much what you made it. And she hadn’t made it anywhere. The only job she’d ever had was working for her dad. The water gurgled and a hot blast steamed into the tub. Amy leaped out before she was scalded.

  She dressed into her uniform of gray cotton pants and a button-down shirt to match. The shop logo was okay, but wearing her name on her chest seemed unnecessary in a six-person garage. It made her feel like a teenager working at McDonald’s. It was Dad’s rule, and everyone followed his rules. She pulled on her favorite boots, finally broken in to the point the leather was soft across the top of her foot, and also the point at which the soles had lost most of their tread.

  “Meow. Be a good girl.” Amy skipped down the stairs with a light step, and in less than a minute was parked at the rear of the shop. She crossed the parking area and entered the back door of the garage.

  She passed through the body shop and spotted her sister and her brother-in-law. “Hi Olivia. Yo Donny. How are two of my favorite people this fine morning?”

  Olivia stopped sanding. “Well aren’t you in a good mood?” She pushed a stray strand of reddish hair from her forehead.

  “Aimster. Glad you could find the time to join us.” Donny already had a paint suit on. Olivia had excellent taste. He was a gorgeous man. His azure eyes sparkled over his sculpted, dark beard.

  “Doesn’t take me as long to get my work clothes on,” Amy said.

  Don said, “Admit it. We look good.” He waved his hand down his body, his muscular frame evident under the thin fabric.

  “Dad’s gonna be pissed that you’re late again,” Olivia warned.

  “I’ve got a good feeling about today.” Amy kept walking. “See you at lunch?”

  She took the long hall along the parts storage room and opened the door that led into the main garage area. The ceiling was two stories, with open metal roofing visible between the girders. Eight stalls were arranged with four on one side, three on the other, and a tire mounting stall tucked in a corner.

  The quiet was broken as her sister cranked an air tool. “Good morning!”

  Amy waved. “Another day in paradise.”

  A Ford Lincoln sat in her preferred stall. She picked up the work order on her toolbox. Brake job. She kicked in the lift arms, engaged the hoist, and watched the car rise toward the ceiling. At a comfortable height, she stopped the movement and selected a socket for the air wrench. She had just taken off the last nut on the first wheel when her dad came up.

  “Morning, Sunshine. You skipped the bagels your mom brought in. Do you want any coffee?” Frank was still managing the garage, although he was nearing sixty-four. His silver hair was still combed into a pompadour, thick and full. His blue eyes matched the sky.

  Amy grabbed the tire and pulled it from the axle, dropping it to the ground with a bounce. “Nah, I just want to cruise through the day.”

  “Fine. More for me,” Frank said. “I got a guy coming to look at the shop later, try not to tear up the place too much.”

  Amy cursed under her breath. She watched her dad walk off, a slight limp on the left side, the remnants of a car crash years before. Maybe it was best to just sell the place. Maybe she could get out of turning wrenches. Everyone in her immediate family still worked there, and truth be told, could do every job related to automotive work. Her youngest sister Tina, the book worm, stood changing the oil on a small Toyota truck. Her mom ran the office with all the paperwork. Dad did whatever needed to be done, but he was slowing down. It had been a family business since grandpa opened the gas station in the thirties. Grandpa was the first Gilbert, an
d her father was the first Son. They phased out the fuel tanks before regulations demanded they pull them out of the ground and replace them. Although now focused solely on auto repairs, to Amy the shop would always be where she was closest to her grandfather. She could almost sense him, a rag in his back pocket, pumping gas, wiping windows and shooting the breeze. Could he really have been gone fifteen years now?

  Her mom stuck her head out from the office window. “Amy, phone call.”

  Amy cursed again, wiped her hands and headed to the office. “Hello?”

  The familiar voice said, “You took my jumper cables. They were in the garage.”

  “I did not. I work in a fucking garage. Why the hell would I need your jumper cables? Stop calling me at work.” She slammed the phone down. “Ma, don’t bother me if Deb calls. I told you.”

  “Excuse me, how am I supposed to keep all your friends straight, Miss Social Butterfly.” Her mother stacked some papers with an indignant look. “I have enough to do without screening your calls.”

  “You know darn well Deb was my girlfriend.”

  “I thought lesbians stayed friends.” She picked up her bagel. “That’s what they said on Oprah.”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Amy strode back to her bench. At her station, she cranked up the radio and heavy rock blared out across the garage.

  The rest of the day was uneventful, and Amy clocked almost ten hours on an eight-hour shift. That was her dad’s latest brainstorm. Instead of paying them all hourly, they went by the Chilton manual for the time that it should take for any given job. Should was the keyword. It was her personal goal to beat the time, but it didn’t always go that way. Today no bolts were frozen needing to be torched off, no screws stripped into place, and all the parts she needed had been delivered on time. She passed through the body shop, now empty, two cars sitting taped and ready for the morning. She slid into her Jeep with little energy for the night to come.