SemiTough Luck: A Motocrossed Romance

by Jackie Barbosa

  Sylvia bites her lip, and the bolt of white-hot lust that shoots through me is as insistent as it is inappropriate. God, I have no business being cooped up in a car alone with this woman for three days. “I can’t impose—” she begins.

  Lucas waves his hand. “You won’t be imposing. We have plenty of space, and it’s only two days. Besides, if we’re going to recover your truck—if not the trailer—that’ll probably happen in the next day or two. It would be ridiculous for you to get to L.A. only to have to come right back to pick up your rig.”

  “You think there’s a chance of recovering it?”

  “Maybe not a high one,” he admits, “but it’s not zero. Mostly, it’s trailers—and their contents—that get stolen, not the entire rig, so it’s possible that’s all the thieves were really after. If so, they might have another truck somewhere nearby, and they’ll abandon yours when they transfer the cargo. If that happens, we should find it pretty quickly. If not, then we probably won’t recover it at all.”

  She sighs. “Well, if you do find it, I’d definitely want to be here when you did. So I guess I can wait a couple of days. But I still don’t feel right about staying here. I’m sure your brother wants to spend time with you and your family, not some random stranger he just met.”

  Oh, she’d be surprised how much I’d like to spend time with her. But probably not in a good way.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Lucas says. “Let’s talk about this in the morning. You look dead on your feet. Let me show you where the guest room is.”

  With that, he hustles her out of the room and up the stairs, leaving me alone to ponder all the ways this can go terribly wrong. Or terribly right.

  Three

  Sylvia

  In the end, I don’t really have a choice. I pretty much have to impose on the Carlsons for two days because, even when I get my shiny-new Visa card courtesy of FedEx, I won’t have an ID, and no motel or hotel will let me check in without providing proof that a) the card is mine and b) I’m old enough to rent a room. Without my driver’s license, I can’t do either one. While I may be almost twenty-nine, when I’m dressed in my work “uniform”—jeans, a T-shirt, and no makeup because why bother?—I’m often mistaken as ten or more years younger.

  And that means I’m taking Ivan up on his offer to drive me back to L.A. Unless my truck turns up first, of course.

  I’m not sure I want the truck to show up, though. And that’s weird, because I love that rig. I bought it four years ago and paid off the seven-year loan in three years by taking every freelance job I could get. The custom living area has a functional kitchen and a double bed that’s more comfortable than the one in the apartment I share with my two roommates. Although, I think I’ll be down a roommate unless Romy and I can find someone to take Lucy’s place. If her hottie motocross-riding boyfriend doesn’t pop the question before Christmas, I’ll be stunned.

  But I digress.

  Thing is, though, I’m kind of okay with losing my truck—and everything that’s in it, from my laptop computer to my favorite pair of boots—if it means I get to spend three days alone with Ivan Carlson. Oh, I don’t expect anything to come of it.

  Ha! “Come.” Doesn’t that word paint a picture?

  But those pictures are going to stay pictures, because there’s no way I’m going to embarrass myself by trying to seduce a man I’m occupying a small car with for three days. I mean, if I succeed and the sex is good, great. But if I don’t succeed, it’ll be embarrassing as hell. And if I succeed but the sex is not good and I don’t want to repeat the experience, things will be awkward as fuck for rest of the trip and potentially even dangerous.

  Now, I don’t think the sheriff—who’s definitely a decent guy—would suggest my riding several thousand miles alone with his brother if he thought there was an ice cube’s chance in a toaster oven that Ivan would even think about assaulting or harming me in any way. Part of the reason I believe I’m safe with Ivan is that I trust Lucas Carlson.

  But let’s face it—if you consent once, it wouldn’t be crazy for the guy to think you might consent again. And if you say no after saying yes but continue to be alone with the guy, the possibility that things will go sideways and scary is a lot bigger than zero.

  All of this means sexing up Ivan Carlson is out of the question. So why do I want to be cooped up in his presence for three days? And want it enough to hope my beloved truck doesn’t turn up somewhere nearby before Wednesday morning? All I can think is that it’s like watching an episode of Parts Unknown or Chef’s Table right before going into some dive diner for dinner. No, I’m not going to be eating anything as wonderful as the indescribably delicious dishes I’ve seen on those shows, but I have to get my appetite somewhere.

  And three days with Ivan Carlson is bound to give me a powerful appetite, which I can sate with someone safer and not quite as delicious.

  A girl has to have reasonable expectations.

  Speaking of my “uniform,” it’s the only outfit I have. Lucas’s wife, Megan, washed the entire pitiful ensemble this morning and brought it up to me before she left to drop their son, Noah, off for kindergarten and then take Ila to a Mommy and Me class. (The latter sounds like a fate worse than death to me, but Megan seemed excited about it. There’s no accounting for taste.)

  Now attired in jeans and T-shirt—and can I say how relieved I am that I was wearing the one with the Sublime logo on it yesterday and not the one that says Film the Police, because that would’ve been awkward…—I head downstairs in search of more coffee and a plan for the day.

  I’m not quite at the bottom when I overhear male voices from the kitchen.

  “—released yesterday. Call if you don’t believe me.” Ivan’s voice, gravelly and tight with frustration.

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Lucas answers. “I just want to be sure.”

  “Want to be sure I’m not lying,” comes the growling reply. “Because you’re not sure you can believe me.”

  Shit. This open-concept thing seems like a great idea until you realize it means there’s no place to have a private conversation.

  I halt on the last step, not sure what to do. Whatever the brothers are arguing about, I don’t want to walk in on it or let on that I’ve overheard them, but short of running back upstairs and hiding in the guest room until someone comes to find me, I’m not sure how to avoid either outcome.

  Oh, it’s not that I don’t want to know what they’re arguing about. I absolutely do. I’m nosy AF. But now doesn’t seem like a good time to insert myself into what’s obviously a very personal conversation.

  “It’s okay,” Ivan continues, his tone softening. “I get it. Call them. I wouldn’t believe me, either.”

  “No, no. I trust you.”

  “Fine.”

  Both men fall silent, and for a few seconds, the only sound is of plates and utensils clinking, possibly as they’re being loaded into the dishwasher.

  Deciding I might be safe now, I hop from the final stair to the wood floor with a thud I think will be loud enough to be audible in the kitchen. “I hope there’s still coffee left,” I call, further announcing my presence as I head into the dining room.

  Before I round the corner, Lucas’s head pokes out from beside the kitchen island. “Hey, there you are. Yeah, we’ve still got a couple more cups in the pot.”

  “Great.” My sigh of relief isn’t feigned.

  “Go ahead and sit.” He points to the stools on the dining room side of the counter. “I’ll pour you a cup. Black, right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” I hike a hip onto one of the designated seats and watch Ivan exchange an inquiring look with his brother. It’s so subtle, I wouldn’t notice it if I weren’t paying attention. Which I shouldn’t be. It’s just as rude as eavesdropping, even if that was an accident.

  As I suspected, they’ve been loading the dishwasher, and while Lucas pours me a cup of coffee, Ivan finishes putting in the last few items. If there’s anything hotter than
a big, well-muscled, slightly dangerous-looking man doing something as helpfully domestic as helping with the dishes, I’m not sure what it is. The fact that Ivan is clad in a pair of jeans that hug his shapely ass and thighs, and a black T-shirt that bares his bulging biceps doesn’t hurt, either. But the kicker is the way he gently nudges Chip, the Carlsons’ two-year-old chocolate lab, away from the open dishwasher door before closing it and then kneels down to ruffle the dog’s ears in response to its sorrowful puppy-eyed expression. Sure, the dog is adorable, but the way Ivan’s rough features soften with genuine pleasure as he pets the dog makes something in my chest tighten and ache.

  You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats animals.

  Lucas sets the mug of coffee on the island in front of me. “I talked to the desk sergeant while you were still upstairs, and a FedEx envelope arrived for you. I’m assuming it’s your replacement credit card.”

  I lift the cup to my lips and blow on the hot contents before taking a sip. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ivan’s expression. He’s leaning against the counter behind his brother, watching me, his eyes dark, his gaze intense. The ache in my chest turns into a tingling flutter in my belly.

  I lick my lips and wish I hadn’t. Ivan looks away, and my breath comes a little easier. “Oh, that’s good. Any sign of my truck yet?”

  The sheriff shakes his head. “Afraid not. But my lead detective dug into VICAP this morning, and it appears you might’ve been the victim of a ring of tractor-trailer thieves working I-80 between Chicago and Cheyenne. Their usual M.O. doesn’t quite match, but he thinks there are enough similarities that it might be worth having you look at some of the photos of the suspects, see if you recognize any of them.”

  I nod. “Sure. How long will that take, do you think?”

  He shrugs. “A couple of hours at the most.”

  “Okay. Is there a Target nearby? Or a Walmart?”

  Ivan lets out a low chuckle. “In Keel? You must be kidding. This town’s not even big enough for a Piggly Wiggly.”

  “We don’t have Piggly Wigglies in Nebraska,” Lucas says dryly. “We have Hy-Vees. And the nearest one is in Grand Island. Where there’s also a Target and a Walmart.”

  Grand Island is almost fifty miles east of Keel. “Then I guess I won’t be walking from the sheriff’s station. But—” I gesture at myself, “—I really need to increase my wardrobe. Is there any place in town that’s inexpensive and has a decent selection?”

  The sheriff snorts. “Not according to Megan. She makes the drive to Grand Island for everything but milk and produce. But that’s a weekend trip. She can’t do it when Noah’s in school. I’d take you, but I’m on duty today.”

  “I’ll take you,” Ivan says.

  The flutters are back. “Are you sure? There must be something else you’d rather do with your day.”

  His eyes meet mine. For the first time, I can truly evaluate their color. Blue, but such a dark blue, they’re edging toward indigo. He grins wolfishly. “Not a thing.”

  Four

  Ivan

  “Thanks for doing this,” Sylvia says as she buckles her seatbelt.

  I try not to notice how the strap divides and emphasizes the generous curves of her tits. Uh, I mean breasts.

  Obviously, I fail.

  Determined not to act like a total dick, I drag my gaze up to her face. “It’s my pleasure. If I weren’t doing this, I’d be rattling around my brother’s house with nothing to do except watch TV and throw a tennis ball for Chip.”

  A grin lights her face. “Well, I’m not sure that wouldn’t be more fun for you than taking a woman on a shopping expedition, but it’s too late now.”

  Her amusement is contagious. “As long as you don’t ask my opinion about anything, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I don’t add, Because I’d rather spend time with you than my brother’s dog.

  “You mean you don’t want me to ask you whether or not something makes my butt look big?” she asks with a sly chuckle.

  I grip the steering wheel and back the car out of its parking space at the Keel County Sheriff’s Office as I consider how to respond to the question. I know she’s teasing. I also know her butt is always going to look big, but in the best possible way. The way that gives me a charge when I think of seeing it naked. Which I absolutely should not be thinking of. The last thing a woman in Sylvia’s situation needs is a complete stranger trying to get in her pants.

  “That,” I say sternly, “is a question no man in his right mind would touch with a ten-foot hockey stick.” I pull onto the main road and head for the highway entrance.

  “Fair.” She lets out a sigh and leans back in the seat, adjusting the air vents.

  “I can turn it down if you want.” I have the a/c on high. It’s only in the mid-seventies, but the sun is shining on my legs, and it’s hot. I can deal, though.

  “No, it’s good. I just don’t like it blowing right in my eyes.”

  We lapse into silence as I turn onto the I-80 east on-ramp and bring the BMW up to speed, which doesn’t take long. The engine hums nearly sub-audibly once I set the cruise control. “So, any news about your truck?” I ask.

  She shakes her golden head. “No, but it seems like the detective was right about who stole it. These same two women have stolen four other rigs in the past four months, and although the empty trailers have been recovered, none of the trucks has. The FBI thinks they’re emptying the trailers, abandoning them, and then driving the trucks into Canada.”

  “Two women?”

  “Well, they’re the only ones who’ve been caught on security cameras anywhere. There are probably more people involved, but no one knows who they are. The women have been…well, getting friendly with truck drivers. Their M.O. is for one of them to invite the guy to a nearby motel room for the night. She snags the guy’s keys while he’s sleeping and hands them over to the other woman, who drives off with the truck.”

  “That’s…pretty clever,” I say, unwillingly impressed by the scheme. “But I’m assuming that’s not what happened to you. Uh, not that I’d hold it against you if it was.”

  “Ha, no. I was an even easier target for them. One of them just followed me into the women’s showers at the truck stop, cut through my lock with a pair of bolt-cutters, and then made off with my purse and my truck. I bet they were thrilled not to have to do the nasty with some stranger for once.”

  “How do they know it was the same two women? Security footage?”

  “Yeah, but also as soon as I saw the photos, I recognized both of them. I didn’t see them at the truck stop in Keel, but I ate dinner at another truck stop with them in Wyoming the night before last. I noticed them because they were the only other women in the place. That’s when they must have chosen me as their next mark.”

  “So, do the cops know anything about them? Names? Where they’re from?”

  She shakes her head. “Doesn’t seem like it. But at least the company I was hauling the trailer for and my insurance company can’t say I was careless or made any mistakes that led to the loss, so they can’t hold me responsible. I can’t think what I could’ve done to avoid it, other than never leave my truck, which isn’t practical.”

  “Yeah, seems like it was just tough luck.”

  Silence falls again, and I think about turning on Spotify but then realize taste in music is a subject we probably ought to discuss if we’re going to spend three days same car. “So, you must like Sublime.”

  Sylvia blinks in confusion at the change of subject, glances down at the logo on her T-shirt, and then looks back at me. “Who doesn’t?”

  “People who’ve actually listened to the lyrics of ‘Santeria?’” I answer, though I keep my tone light.

  Her lips twitch at the corners. “Yeah, I gotta admit, the words are pretty creepy. But the music…” She shrugs. “Hard not to love the music.”

  I nod in agreement. “So what else do you like?”

  She frowns as she considers the question. “I
can’t think of any kind of music I don’t like except death metal and anything by R. Kelly. Everything else is in bounds.”

  “No favorite bands? Besides Sublime, I mean.”

  “Oh, sure. Let’s see. Slightly Stoopid. They’re seriously a childhood favorite. Oasis. Beyonce. Childish Gambino. Classics like the Stones, Led Zeppelin, and the Beatles are always good. And I like a lot of classical and jazz and blues stuff too. But then, I’m pretty slutty when it comes to music. If it’s got a good beat and the artists are, as far as I know, not criminals or assholes—or at least dead criminals or assholes--I’ll listen to almost anything.”

  “Slutty?” I chuckle. “My mom always used to say she had ‘catholic’ taste in music to mean pretty much the same thing, but they don’t sound like the same the same thing at all.”

  Sylvia smiles. “Catholic, huh? You aren’t actually Catholic, are you?”

  “Oh no. Strictly cultural Christian here. We did the Christmas tree and Santa Claus and the Easter eggs and Easter Bunny, but that’s it. I don’t think I even knew what Christmas was about until I saw the Charlie Brown Christmas special when I was seven or eight. You?”

  “Lapsed Catholic. All the guilt, none of the redemption.”

  Since I can’t think of a response to this statement, I switch on the sound system, fairly confident my playlist won’t cause any serious rifts between us, which is a relief. The first song Spotify queues up is “All the Stars,” and I tap the steering wheel in time with the opening beat.

  Sylvia lets out a whoop and smacks my arm—not hard, just in excitement—but I’m so startled, I damn near steer us into the ditch alongside the interstate. “Oh my God, I love this song!”

  I jerk the car back into the center of the lane before glancing over at her. Her eyes are closed, and she’s lip-syncing the lyrics with a blissful expression on her beautiful face. I can imagine her looking like that after sex—relaxed and euphoric at the same time—and I want to be the one to make her look like that so badly that I have trouble catching my breath for a few seconds.