closed for @angstfactory jesse
Callouts weren't Dylan's favourite. He liked working in the comfort of Romano's, where he could usually be found with one hand in an engine and the other holding a cigarette, or perhaps a can of shit lager if the hour had gotten late enough. And even putting the comfort side of things away, he felt cursed with a baby face that often had clients questioning, when he arrived, if he could possibly have the necessary level of experience to deal with their issues. (Not to mention talking about his accent. Ireland might be his proud homeland, but jesus if he had to answer any more questions about where he was from he might burst.)
But it was his job, however reluctant he might be. So here he was, on the ranch, overalls on and scowl somewhat removed from his face as Jesse approached, although the cigarette was still tucked behind his ear, ready for him. "Got a call saying you had a truck that needed seeing to, or something?" He'd never dealt with the ranch before, and his eyes had a hint of curiosity as he looked around, having little experience on such a thing. Galway wasn't exactly overrun with ranches. He'd seen a few farms in his time, but this seemed wholly American.
