The Hierarchy of Needs (The Portland Rebels #2) by Rebecca Grace Allen Page A

junk in case it became useful someday.
    None of it ever did.
    They’d done better since Connor built them a website a few years back, but it still felt like a sinking ship, even when they could boast of employing some of the best mechanics in the area. Customers were more interested in saving a buck than going to experts who actually loved cars.
    Then again, loving cars wasn’t part of Dean’s job. He oversaw the labor, made sure the right parts got delivered and kept everyone in line.
    Assistant managers and future owners didn’t have the luxury of loving things.
    He pushed through the employees-only entrance and made his way across the floor to the door with a shiny gold sticker, the word “Management” stamped out in black. Chuck Trescott looked up from his desk when Dean stepped inside.
    “Look who finally showed,” he said.
    With deep creases around his eyes and what was left of his hair gone almost completely silver, Chuck was a preview of what Dean could expect to look like in twenty years, except worse and probably with a different set of worries packed onto his shoulders.
    “Sorry.” Dean flopped onto a chair that had seen better days and glanced at the pile of bills on his father’s desk. “What’s on tap for today?”
    “Got some work orders for you to write up. A few inspections on a couple of wrecks too. Give me the lowest estimate you can.”
    Dean stifled a frustrated sigh. It didn’t matter how much they low-balled the numbers. The insurance companies were the ones telling the clients where to go.
    “You know we can’t compete that way, Dad,” he said quietly.
    The comment went without an answer.
    “Taking out the claims adjusters will bring in more customers,” he added. “A lunch once a month, or even sending a basket of chocolates, and we’ll be on the reps’ preferred lists.”
    A gray eyebrow of warning was raised in Dean’s direction. “We didn’t have to wine and dine anyone to get work in your grandfather’s day, and we’re not doing it now.”
    No reply was necessary. Dean had tried to fight this battle before.
    He escaped his father’s glare and studied the photo of his grandfather on the wall. Sepia, faded at the edges, in an old wooden frame. He was standing in front of the building they were sitting in, back when it was new.
    He looked happier than Dean had ever been here.
    Fifty years ago, his grandfather had founded the shop on the idea of dealing fairly and honestly with their customers. Of creating real person-to-person connections, building relationships that lasted. It was why Dad refused to play the game with the insurance companies, insisting it was unethical to cut costs in exchange for steady work. But without the claims reps sending clients to their door, they had nothing setting them apart, other than the family name. They were barely even computerized.
    “Hey, did you look into that virtual assistant bookkeeper I found?” Dean asked. “She was pretty reasonable. Ten bucks an hour.”
    “I didn’t have time.”
    The “time” line was bullshit Dean had heard before. Dad was resistant to new technology, from search engine optimization on the website to software that would help with tasks and organization. Even convincing his old man to move the management system from a list he kept in his head to a whiteboard on the shop floor had taken a shitload of effort.
    The entire situation was getting exhausting.
    “We did get a possible new customer,” his father said. “A guy called about a ’71 Plymouth Barracuda he’s acquired. The front end needs a rebuild but he wants vintage parts.”
    A small flare of excitement pitched in Dean’s belly.
    “We offering classic car restoration now?”
    Normally they only fixed up modern vehicles after collisions. Taking on jobs like this—real high-end customization on the kinds of cars he loved—was part of what Dean had hoped for when he signed his life over to his father.
    “Don’t count on it. I’m only