OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

two.

AS SOON AS Reagan entered the repair shop, formally known as Wilson's Auto Repair to the good people of Olympia, she heard the sound of Daryl Hall and John Oates singing 'Rich Girl' over the shop's overhead speakers. She made a face, hurriedly switching through radio stations until Robert Plant's voice was serenading her and the rest of her coworkers. Even the guys out in the garage, clad in their work suits, noticed the change in music and peered in through the glass windows.

Naturally it would be Reagan standing there, acting as if nothing had happened. She hadn't yet transitioned them to the likes of Mudhoney or Dinosaur Jr, but at least they could all live contentedly with Led Zeppelin while they worked.

Reagan approached the counter which she stood behind all day, freezing in motion as she took notice of the bouquet of store-bought flowers sitting in her work space. They were the mixed kind, consisting of everything from daffodils to sunflowers.

She walked towards them slowly, treating them more so like a bomb rather than just a nice gesture. She touched the petal of one of the sunflowers and tried not to groan aloud. If he was trying to be discreet, he had definitely failed.

Reagan tucked her hands in the back pockets of her blue jeans and strutted out into the garage, flinging open the glass door that separated her from the real gritty work that took place outside. She was met with a chorus of hellos and good mornings, although she was technically not supposed to be in the area.

She walked up to a bright red 1988 Toyota Corolla that sat propped up on car jacks and had a pair of legs sticking out from underneath it. With the toe of her boot, she kicked the roller seat that the legs hovered over knowing she needed no other means of introduction.

Tommy Wilson slid out from beneath the Corolla, looking affronted to have been disturbed. A smear of grease was on his cheek, but not even the physical flaw could deter away from his good looks. When he saw Reagan standing over him, her arms cocked at her hips with her hands still in her back pockets, he broke into a smile.

"And good morning to you as well," he jested, sitting up and tugging on Reagan's pant leg.

"Don't get grease on me. And hey, thanks for the flowers."

Despite Tommy's face being darkened with a sheen layer of muck after having laid beneath the filthy underpart of a car, the blush that bled into his cheeks was very obvious. Reagan smiled and then turned on her heels, walking back towards the interior of the shop. Tommy leapt up to his feet, scrambling after her.

"Who said they were from me?" he protested, grabbing the swinging glass door before it could create a barrier between them.

"Who else would get me flowers?" Reagan laughed, rolling her eyes.

"I'm sure there's a guy here with a crush on you, Reags. Trust me."

Reagan looked earnestly into Tommy's eyes, pleading with him to confront the truth. It wasn't any other Wilson's employee that harbored a crush on Reagan. It was all Tommy.

"So . . . you?"

Tommy scoffed and looked away, pretending that her allegation was ridiculous even though it really was not. Besides, he had so blatantly given himself away. His face was still flushed.

"Tommy, I think the flowers are sweet," Reagan insisted. She hopped up on the counter, a pastime that was only allowed when the boss was not around. She glanced at the bouquet next to her and smiled.

Tommy hesitated, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't holding a wrench. He looked bashfully at Reagan, finally willing to meet her eyes.