Rough Edge

by Landish, Lauren

  She snorts at my dig at her husband, but he is the most playful of any of us. Hell, even Cooper has told him he’s immature when James gets to pranking us. “I like him silly and doing stupid shit. Keeps me on my toes and makes the day fun. But I don’t think that was your question, now was it?”

  I hum under my breath, some tune Bobby’s been picking at on his guitar that’s already gotten in my head, trying to decide if I should back out of this conversation. Hell, James does stupid shit, so why not me too?

  “Shay’s country, through and through. She’s always been like that, a tomboy more into dirt and animals than anything stereotypically girly. Katelyn is basically the opposite, all feminine and frilly. And you . . . you fall somewhere in the middle.”

  I pause and she interjects. “I have no idea where you’re going with this, but I can’t wait to find out.” She’s nearly vibrating in anticipation of my spilling my guts, something I literally never do.

  This is such a bad idea, but I force the words out anyway. “You do this.” I gesture to her muddy clothes, bedhead hair that was braided and forgotten hours ago, and bare face. “And then, you get all dolled up too, in fancy outfits and makeup and stuff. How do you flip-flop and still feel like yourself? Doesn’t it feel fake?”

  Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Wow, there’s a lot to unpack there, but thanks for the armchair psychoanalysis and observation.” She fidgets with her braid now that I’ve drawn attention to it.

  “Never mind, sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I try to backpedal, hating that I made her uncomfortable because that wasn’t my intention.

  But she’s thinking, formulating an answer. “No, it’s okay. I know what you mean . . . kinda . . . or I think I do. They’re both me, the gritty vet version and the fancier stuff too. Just different sides, if that makes sense? I grew up in the city, didn’t fall in love with this kind of life until college. My brother thought I was nuts when I said I wanted to be a livestock vet. He’d never seen me without a manicure, much less with dirt under my nails. But it just fit, you know? I’m still that girl, but just this one too.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder dismissively. “Everyone’s got different facets like that. I mean, Shay has been known to dress up in actual heels and a dress before, and Katelyn dresses down in sweats and stuff. But I don’t know if that’s exactly what you mean, is it?”

  She’s picking at the edge of the tape holding me together, or at least holding my lips closed. I huff out in annoyance, but it’s a front. I started this and I’m gonna finish it. “I met a woman—”

  She squeals and kicks her feet in the floorboard, making the truck slow down suddenly. Luckily, when I look behind us, Vincent hasn’t so much as shifted in his sleep in the hay. Sophie points at me, her finger dangerously close to my nose. “I knew it. Is this about the woman Katelyn saw you with at the bar? I knew there was more to that than you were saying.”

  “There was. I met her earlier that day, at the mechanic shop,” I admit slowly. Sophie’s brows jump hopefully as she realizes where we’re heading now, but I shut that down with a glower. “At the garage, she was different—like one of the guys.” I leave out that I wanted to fuck her against the nearest flat surface, something I’ve never felt about any guy I’ve ever known. “But an hour later, she’s prancing around and girling out and flirting.”

  Sophie dances in her seat, her butt wiggling around like a happy goat. “I like it! Sounds like someone’s in-ter-est-ed!” She ends on a singing, drawled-out note.

  I shake my head, examining my dirty hands and remembering Lil Bit’s clean ones. “Nah, not like that. It was just confusing, you know? I’m a no-filter, what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy. I was trying to make sense of it, for science.”

  “For science?” Sophie snorts. “Let’s start here, Mr. Psychoanalyst . . . you are the furthest thing from a was-ee-wig guy and you know it. Hell, you play it up when the mood suits you.” She looks over, waving her hand over me like I did to her. “This says redneck cowboy. Rough, tough, stoic, and quiet. You have literally growled at strangers at the grocery store, and people are scared of you because you have a reputation as a brooding asshole.”

  “Thanks.”

  She backhands my shoulder. They weren’t compliments. “On the flip side, you’re trying to figure this woman out. You’re aware, watchful, and observant like Brutal is. And not that you’d let anyone know it, but you’re smart as a whip. What was the last book you read, Brody?”

  Shit. She’s right. That’s not exactly something I go around advertising. It’s not that I want people to think I’m stupid, but it’s not my job to avail them of their own preconceived stereotypes about ranchers. “Midnight in Chernobyl. It’s about the nuclear disaster there.”

  Her brows knit together even as her eyes widen. “What the . . . see? Nobody’s going to think some ranch riding cowboy like you is devouring stuff like that as light bedtime reading with a Jack Daniels nightcap. You’re this hard exterior, but there’s more to you, Brody. So much more.”

  We’re both silent for a moment, her words floating through the cab of the truck. I’m wishing I hadn’t started this conversation. I meant to figure out Lil Bit, not have Sophie figuring out all my pieces and parts. But I guess in a way, she did help me figure out something about Lil Bit, about how she can go from one extreme to another.

  “So you going to ask her out when we get to the garage? When do we meet her? She’ll have to pass the family test, and it’s damn near impossible to get our approval.” I wish I could say she was lying, but we are a persnickety and prickly bunch.

  Though I could probably roll in with just about anyone and they’d throw a parade in celebration. I don’t exactly go around advertising my one-night stands, so they are under the mistaken impression that I’m lonely.

  “Nah, it ain’t like that. Just for science, like I said.” I smirk, knowing Sophie’s well aware that I’m full of shit. I’m not exactly interested in Lil Bit, or at least not anymore, but I am still a bit confused how one version of her could have me rock hard and thirsty and the other could leave me so cold and uninterested.

  Sophie hums, not convinced in the least. “Science? Yeah, biology and chemistry. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.” She wiggles in her seat again.

  I return the shoulder backhand, though decidedly gentler than her smack.

  Chapter 4

  Erica

  “Rix, whatcha want me to do with the Toyota?” Reed yells across the garage even though the music is barely loud enough to hear. “It’s all done and ready to roll.”

  I don’t move from my perch beneath the truck I’m working on. Sighing, I bite out sarcastically, “Gee, I don’t know, Reed. If it’s all done, why don’t we just scoot it over to the side and use it as a place to take mid-afternoon naps?”

  “Okay then . . . guess I’ll go call the owner?” Reed is still asking, like there’s any other reasonable option.

  I hum agreement, never stopping work. But that’s nothing new. I’m always working. Twenty-four seven, three-hundred and sixty-five since the day I turned fourteen and Dad let me start working with him in the garage.

  Back then, I played tool bitch, fetching this and that only to return it to its proper place when Dad was done. And I watched, and I learned, and I fell in love . . . hard. With engines. Tinkering and tweaking and making them purr.

  I use the simmering frustration at Reed to crank the wrench a little harder, and it gives like I knew it would. The door to the break area opens and Manuel comes out, wiping his hands on a rag. “Where you want me, Boss?”

  That’s what I like to hear. Manuel’s ready to work, and once I set him on a course, he’s solid until the job’s done. Phone call to the customer and all.

  “Hit the blue truck next. Needs brake pads and rotors,” I call over my shoulder, keeping a mental tally of what we need to accomplish today.

  “On it.” Manuel’s voice is already disappearing from behind me, and a moment later, I hear the truck sta
rt up, pull into bay three, and then he gets to work.

  And all is well for a moment. Work being done, money being made, and grease on my hands. Life is pretty much perfect.

  It’s not the norm, a female running a mechanic shop, but running Cole Automotive is what I always knew I’d do, even before I started helping here. I used to listen to Dad talk shop with the guys and hang on every word, read Car & Driver instead of Vogue like other girls my age, and sneak out to the garage at home to work on the lawnmower engine for practice.

  At this point, I can hold my own against any penis-dragger who thinks he knows more about cars than I do because of his dick-birthright. I know everything there is to know about engines, even a few things more than Dad at this point.

  “Oh, my God! I met him! The man of my dreams.” Emily’s voice is loud and high-pitched, ending my moment of peaceful bliss as I work. I love her but she’s . . . a lot.

  Still under the truck, my voice echoes. “Again?”

  My wry response isn’t meant to belittle her pronouncement of a happily ever after. It’s just that I’ve heard it before. Several times, in fact. Emily isn’t prone to giving her whole heart that readily, but she’s enamored with the idea of love and basically walks through life thinking it’s everywhere, all around her, free for the taking whenever she’s inclined.

  My cynical heart tends to disagree.

  Cowboy was free for the taking, a hushed little voice says, and my pussy perks up, agreeing wholeheartedly. Good Lord, he’d been something.

  Tall and broad and dirty. I know most women wouldn’t be turned on by filth, preferring their men clean-cut and showered, probably wearing khakis or a suit. I am not most women, and work-earned dirt on a sexy man is like my kryptonite, instantly flooding my basement.

  “He’s so hot and sexy and broody.” Her voice lowers on the last bit, which makes me laugh a little inside. Like she has to sound broody to describe it. “Why are moody assholes so addicting?”

  I duck out from under the truck, giving the shorthand version of a conversation we’ve had before. “It’s not. You’re just mental. FUBARed in the brain, Em.”

  I meet her scowl with a smile. “Rude, Rix. But you didn’t see him. He was so sexy, and we talked and flirted. Did I mention hot?”

  I use my screwdriver to clean the grease from under my nails. “Where’d you meet this one?”

  “Not this one, The One. And at the resort bar a couple of nights ago. I was just dancing around with the girls, and like the sea parting” —she mimes parting the Red Sea like she’s Moses of Morristown— “and there he was, watching me. He tried to play it cool, but Mama didn’t raise no fool, so I went on over to him.”

  “Is this the part where you fell madly in love with him?” I might not be the romantic type like Emily, but she’s entertaining when she gets like this. Which is relatively often.

  “No, this is the part where we flirted.”

  She delves into the details of their conversation, and I swear I mean to listen, but my attention is haphazard at best as I let my eyes check on Manuel, who’s working hard on the brake job, and then to Reed as he walks back into the shop and gets to work on a Dodge Viper that needs an oil change. I know he pulled that ticket because he wants to listen to that thing growl up close.

  I know because I was thinking the same thing. Reed and I might butt heads sometimes since he’s been here as long as I have and is basically the son Dad always wanted, but there’s one thing we agree on every time.

  Engines.

  Yeah, while Dad was training me to be his legacy at the garage, he was teaching Reed too. Reed is Dad’s best friend’s son, and we grew up together. Hell, I call Reed’s dad ‘Uncle Smitty,’ though we’re not actually related, but that’s what Dad told me to call him and I’ve just always gone along with it.

  But not the rest of the plans they have concocted.

  “And then he left with her, so I don’t know what that’s about.” Emily’s story is wrapping up, and though I haven’t been paying attention, this part catches my ear.

  “Wait. He got a text from one woman and then left with another, all while sitting there, flirting with you?” I repeat her own words in a harsh tone, hoping she hears how ridiculous that sounds. “Em, you know better than that! If he’s a player, you’re going to end up hurt. Even if he left this other woman for you—which let’s be clear, is disgusting and cheating and a myriad of other things that end in fucked up and wrong—he’ll do the same thing to you when he sees a greener pasture.”

  I’m not known for sugar-coating hard shit. Emily, however, is a believer in the power of love, gifted with a heart of gold, and sees the best in everyone and everything, even when they’re no-good, cheating assholes.

  “It wasn’t like that. It might’ve been his sister or something, I don’t know. What if it’s fate that we met? What if we’re meant to be?” Her plea for me to understand falls on deaf ears, and I wish I could get her to hear herself the way I hear her. Naïve, charming to a fault, and so full of goodness, it makes my teeth hurt.

  We couldn’t be more different if we tried. For her every softness, I’m sharp; her sweetness, I’m bitter; her trusting nature, I’m cynical to the point of jaded. For as rough as I am, she’s baby’s butt smooth. I’m dirty and greasy, and she’s clean and prissy.

  I raise one brow, glaring at her in disappointment. “Then you’d meet when you’re both single.”

  She sighs grumpily, deflating. “Not like I’m going to see him again, anyway. I didn’t even get his name and the bartender wouldn’t give it to me. He said he didn’t know it, but I could tell . . . he knew.” She points at her eyes like she could read this bartender’s mind.

  “You didn’t even get Dream Guy’s name and number, Em? Shit, he might as well be a figment of your imagination then. Maybe you did dream him up.”

  “Nope, and we’re going to the resort bar for a drink tonight after you close up the shop.”

  The laugh pops out of my mouth before I can stop it, sounding like a loud bark. “No fucking way am I going drinking at the resort.” Coming from my mouth, ‘resort’ sounds like ‘hell’ because to me, it basically is. Fancy and expensive, and not my couch with a cold beer.

  “Come on, Rix.” It’s not begging, but more teasing encouragement because she knows she’s going to get her way. She always does, but I have to at least put up a fight to maintain appearances. And because maybe this will be the time I will get out of doing what she wants. Because the resort? Fuck that.

  Before I can say no a little more clearly, something along the lines of ‘fuck no, never gonna happen,’ Emily’s phone rings.

  “Oops, I need to take this. Back in a sec.” She’s digging her phone out of her tiny purse—what does she keep in a bag that small, anyway—as she hustles toward the breakroom, disappearing behind the door.

  Reed meets my eyes. “If you’re getting drinks tonight, I’d be happy to drive so everyone stays safe. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.” He might as well try sticking a flag in my ass, claiming me as his. Just one big problem with that . . . I’m not.

  “We’re not getting drinks, and even if we did, I don’t drink to be impaired, you know that.” I can put away my fair share of beer, having earned my alcohol tolerance the hard way . . . in the military against guys twice my height and width, with livers to match. But I’m responsible, always.

  Reed shrugs. “Offer stands anytime, Rix.”

  I smile, just a little one, because it’s hard to be mean to someone when they’re being that nice, but I also don’t want to lead Reed on. I know he’s onboard with our dads’ grand idea and is patiently waiting for me to come to my senses and marry him.

  Which isn’t going to happen. Ever.

  An old brown midsize truck pulls into the lot. “Incoming,” I warn Reed and Manuel. You never know what type of job or what type of person is going to pull up, and I love that moment before I find out. Maybe it’ll be an engine repair or something easy like an oi
l change? Maybe it’ll be a little old lady who needs help or an asshole I can overcharge with the ‘putting up with you’ service fee?

  The old truck has seen better days and seems to be hauling . . . a goat in the back? Not the weirdest thing I’ve seen around here, but definitely not a common sighting, either. It comes to a quiet stop, so not brakes, and the engine sounds smooth, so not that either. The passenger door opens and then slams shut on the far side.

  As the truck pulls away, I see him.

  Cowboy.

  Damned if he didn’t piss me off the other day when he brought Bessie in. I had almost taken his head off with that wrench, not just brandishing it, but a bare breath away from swinging it at him. I’m not usually that jumpy, but he’d scared the bejesus out of me by touching my shoulder. But he hadn’t been the least bit scared of me. No, I’d been holding that tool to his neck, his huge hand wrapped around my tiny wrist, and he’d almost smirked about it, his lips temptingly full in the middle of a day’s worth of scruffy beard growth. Like I’d surprised him, and more importantly, like he liked that.

  For a moment, the air had felt charged like we were unexpectedly caught in the middle of foreplay. I’d almost kissed that look right off his smug face right then and there just to shock him even more. Hell, I’d wanted to see those brown eyes open wide in surprise and then close as I kissed the shit out of him. I’ve never had that type of instant reaction to someone before, though I’d hid it pretty well with snark and venom.

  He’d pissed me off even more when we were chatting each other up. Though I’ll never admit it, later it occurred to me that he had been the highlight of my day. Sparring and glaring, neither of us backing down, had been exciting. And he’s hot, not like some cute bad boy Emily has deemed her flavor of the month but in a barely restrained, molten lava way. The fire inside Cowboy isn’t like a warm bonfire you want to snuggle up to. It’s fiery and destructive wildfire you know will scorch you to ashes, but you can’t help but want to touch it anyway.