The Banks Sisters 3 by Nikki Turner

Chapter 1
Everything Exotic
“It’s the fuel strainer, and I’d bet my cash on that.” Rydah, dressed in an
oversized blue Dickies work jumper, threw five one hundred-dollar bills on
the hood of the Maserati with confidence. Her hair was done, somewhat, in
two messy braids.
Jack, a newbie at Everything Exotic Repair, said, “You’re wrong, sweet
thing. I’m positive that it’s the fuel pump. I know these cars like the back of
my hand,” he bragged. Jack was a self-proclaimed genius when it came to
fixing cars, and he never wasted an opportunity to prove it.
“Just put your cash where your mouth is,” Rydah said, calling Jack out on
his cockiness. Laughter erupted throughout the shop, and the fellas gathered
around.
Jack, pride and ego on the line, dug into the back pocket of his dungarees,
fishing out his wallet.
Rydah quickly peeped that the wallet remained closed as tight as fish pussy.
“Man, put up or shut up,” she said, both chumping and finessing Jack all at
the same time. “My money is already on the hood. Alone.”
Jack pushed air into his chest. In true male chauvinist form, he said, “I ain’t
never let no broad talk me down off of nothing.” He pried the closed wallet
open, peeled out a handful of bills, and tossed it on the hood, matching
Rydah’s wager. “It’s your loss. I was only trying to save you some money,
sweet thing.”
The other mechanics shook their heads. They had seen it far too many
times.
Rydah released an audible chuckle of her own. “Next time, save your
breath. You’ll live longer.” Rydah felt bad for Jack. He had no clue as to what
he’d gotten himself into. “You got a lot to learn,” she said, “about cars and
women.”
The line in the sand had been drawn and crossed. There was only one thing
left to do—Rydah called for Mickey to settle the bet.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled “Ayeeoo, Michelob!”
calling her co-worker Mickey by his moniker.
Mickey was six foot three and thin as a whip, with big hands and feet. And
as usual, one of those huge hands of his was strangling the neck of a brown
Michelob bottle.
“You’re not suppose to have that on the work floor,” said Jack out of the
side of his mouth.
“No shit!” Mickey gave Jack a quick once over. “You got a lot to learn,”
said Mickey.
“I keep trying to tell him that,” Rydah added. “But he’s one of them dudes
that knows so much that he don’t know shit. Dumb like that.”
Jack paid Rydah the same attention that he would’ve paid to a stain in his
drawers—none. After all, she was a woman playing shop in a man’s place.
What did she know? Instead, Jack stood there, gazing at the beer bottle in
Mickey’s hand, giving a look that said “unacceptable in the workplace.”
Mickey felt the side-stare.
“It’s a psychological thing,” he said by way of explanation. “It’s filled with
water. The feel of the bottle manipulates my mind into thinking that I’m
having a cold one. It’s part of my AA recovery. I haven’t had a real drink in
more than ten years.”
Jack nodded his head. “I didn’t know AA allowed you to even be around
that type of stuff.”
Mickey informed Jack that it was his personal alcohol treatment program.
“I invented for myself,” he said.
“And it’s one that you shouldn’t bother to try to figure out,” Rydah said,
“Just let it go. It works for him, and been working for him for a decade now.
And that’s all that matters.” This time it was Rydah who nodded, but at Jack.
“Like I said, you’ve got a lot to learn around here.”
Jack continued to ignore her. Rydah noticed the shade but didn’t let it faze
her. She knew that the best way to get a man’s attention was through his
wallet.
“Mickey, we need you to look at this car to settle this bet for us, fair and
square.”
Mickey caught a glimpse of the pile of cash on the hood of the Maserati.
He took the Michelob water bottle to his mouth, took a sip, and shook his
head. Then he smiled at Jack. “Man, you let her get you, huh?”
Jack poked his chest out farther than it already was. “She didn’t get me. I
know these cars like the back of my hand,” he huffed.
“Well, your hand must be amputated, because your pockets are about to
come up short . . . real short.”
“The day a broad beats me at anything, let alone fixing a Maserati, I’ll eat
shit and die.”
“That’s a pretty funky way to go, but suit yourself,” Mickey said. “If Rydah
put her money down, trust me, there’s no ifs, ands, or buts. Don’t let the
estrogen fool you; Rydah knows cars like a gynecologist knows pussy.” To
Rydah: “No offense intended.”
“None taken,” said Rydah, knowing that Mickey wasn’t throwing shade.
Mickey continued, “If she says the car needs a blood transfusion, the only

Leonard Pokrovski - The Banks Sisters 3 by Nikki Turner (bigmoney.vip)