Regardless of what’s at home, I do exactly what I want to do. Maybe for the first time ever. I simply lie down in bed with a beautiful woman and don’t give a second thought to anything but what I want and what she wants.
In her bed, in her arms, I feel that little bit of freedom welling up.
* * *
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Erica moans in her sleep. For a former soldier, judging by the picture I saw in the living room, she’s shit for waking up for reveille. Is that even a thing still? I’ve got no idea beyond what I’ve seen on television.
Admittedly, as a rancher, I’m always up with the sun. But it’s a bit hard to rise and shine for me too this morning.
Mostly because we last fell asleep about two hours ago. We spent the night dozing and then waking up to fuck again.
Last night was like Olympic-level sport fucking.
Erica is amazing, insatiable, a revelation.
I need carbs and Gatorade this morning to refuel and recover. And probably some of the udder balm we use on the cows for my dick. Not that I’m complaining in the least. Hell, I’d go again right now if only she’d wake up.
I press a kiss to her forehead, letting her drift off one more time as I get up, pull on my underwear, and hit the kitchen. I’m a shit cook for the most part, but there’s one thing I know how to make from scratch. A quick rustle through her cabinets and fridge provides all the supplies.
“What’s that smell?” a sleep-roughened voice says from the pile of blankets in the middle of the bed. For a tiny thing, she takes up the whole bed herself, damn near lying diagonal and spread-eagle. I didn’t mind at all because she was half draped over me that way.
“Pancakes. Coffee.”
“Shit. If this is a dream, don’t wake me up. It’s too good to end yet.” One eye peeks over the covers, and she looks at me skeptically, as though I’m going to disappear before her very eyes. Well, eye because just the one has opened.
“Not a dream. But if you don’t move your ass, I’m going to eat your pancakes.”
“Nightmare” is the mumbled reply, which makes me chuckle. But she does get up, making a pit stop in the bathroom. She comes back out in fresh cotton panties and nothing else to sit down at the table. “Looks good.” A blink follows. “Scratch that, looks great. I don’t remember the last time someone cooked me breakfast.”
My chest puffs up at that. Either there hasn’t been anyone warming her bed in a while or they were assholes who bailed. Or she kicked them out, more likely. But I’m here, still here, which feels like a damn accomplishment with this woman.
“Haven’t cooked for anyone in a while. Shayanne and Mama Louise do the cooking at the ranch, mostly.”
It just slips out. Normal conversation, sharing tidbits with a stranger. Okay, definitely not a stranger if I know how hard she likes her hair pulled and what she sounds like when she’s ready to come. But I’m not usually one to share . . . anything.
Erica takes it in stride, having no idea that my walls just cracked a little bit. “I met Shayanne, and she mentioned Mama Louise. Is that your mom?” A big bite of pancakes goes into her mouth and she moans obscenely. “Ohmigod, these are so good.”
I smile at the compliment before answering her question. “No, Mama Louise is a Bennett. They own the ranch I work for.” I don’t tell her half of it used to be my ranch but I had no way of saving it from the debt Dad put us in when he died. It doesn’t matter now anyway, since that’s all water under the bridge. Murky water for sure, but done and over with. And we’re all good now working with the Bennetts. Working for them.
And I’m patching over that wall crack with a few dabs of hope and shut-the-fuck-up.
“I figured you would be more of a morning person being military, or is this lazing about a rebellion against those sunrise mornings?”
She freezes, suspicion on her face.
I point with my fork. “Picture over there. Emily doesn’t strike me as the guns and boots type.” A small tease and she relaxes again.
“I went into the Army shortly after high school. Those boot camp mornings were hell, but that was the easy part.” She shrugs and adds, “After basic, I went to Virginia for advanced training. I was lucky, posted stateside the whole time, with pretty regular hours. I came home a couple of years ago to run the shop when Dad retired.”
“And now you get lazy Sunday morning brunches specially made for you,” I conclude with a smirk.
She finishes her pancakes, putting away as many as I do and using more syrup than a sugar-starved toddler. She takes our empty plates, washing them in the sink. “What are you doing today? Need me to drive you home?”
And so it ends. She’s kicking me out now. But she offered a ride, and I’ll take those extra minutes with her. “That’d be great. Thanks. What do you usually do on Sundays?”
Her eyes tick to the microwave clock. “There’s a car show over at the high school today. I figured I’d hit that up, but it’s fine. I’ll skip it to take you over the mountain.”
I move to tug at my hat but find it’s missing since I’m sitting here in my underwear. I run my hand through my hair instead. “Or I could go with you?”
My head is literally on the chopping block here. Either one, or hell, maybe both, as I hold my breath.
“You don’t have to do that.” She sounds uncertain, nothing like the badass who swung a wrench at my head.
“I want to,” I decide. “Though before you agree to this, you should know that I will have to wear yesterday’s clothes. It will be the longest walk of shame in the history of mankind.” I get up and strut my way over to her, feeling no shame at all, to back her against the counter.
I kiss her passionately, tasting the pancake syrup still on her lips and tongue. Holding her cheek, I look into her eyes. “I want to go with you, Erica. If you want me to go with you. It doesn’t have to be a thing. We can just hang out.”
I’m testing her here and I damn well know it. I figured she’d kick me out, but she hasn’t. The opposite side of that coin is that she’s deemed us a thing now, one dick insertion somehow committing us to more. But maybe there are more than the two sides of a coin? Maybe it’s a multi-sided dice instead, with lots of options—like going to a car show.
Her eyes clear, brightening with a comeback a moment before her mouth lets it loose. “We can dab some motor oil behind your ears. It’s the only smell those guys would recognize and respect, anyway. We’ll even make it some of the special synthetic stuff so you’re fancy.”
Her playful wink is flirty.
Seriously. This ball-busting, wrench-attacking she-devil just winked at me after fucking me all night and declaring my pancakes the best ever. Or almost . . . okay, she ate them all, but that’s almost the same thing.
I feel like I just fell down the rabbit hole with Alice, but I’ll drink that damn rabbit’s tea everyday if it makes Erica smile like this and my dick this happily sore.
Chapter 10
Brody
Walking around the ‘car show’, as Erica called it, is basically like entering another world. There are gorgeously flashy cars lined up every few spaces with the doors, trunks, and hoods open. Some are old, some are new, but they’re all spit-polished and shined for the display. A few have owners perched in folding camping chairs by the hoods, ready to talk shop with anyone who happens by.
Which Erica does. A lot.
“What’d you do to this thing now, Ernesto?” Erica leans over a classic Chevrolet that I’d guess is ’50s-era. It’s only different to me than the other four old cars we’ve looked at because it’s bright turquoise with a white leather interior, complete with matching turquoise stitching in the seats and doors.
That’s me . . . there’s a red one, a white one, a black one, the other black one, and now a blue. Erica knows everything about them, though, bumper to bumper and inside and out. You can tell by the way she talks to the owners and appreciates every detail.
“Nothing too much
, Rix. You know me, keeping it all original. My girl’s just for show.” The dark-haired man chats Erica up about the differences in engine blocks and I get lost again. But they are in their element, bantering back and forth with one another as I stand by, hearing a version of Charlie Brown’s teacher from their conversation . . . wah, wah-wah-wah-wah-wah.
Ordinarily, I might be bored by a topic I know next to nothing about, but watching Erica shine like this is far from boring. She’s magnificent, drawing a crowd of three other old guys as she and Ernesto discuss something called an ‘SS’.
“Hell, Ernesto, don’t be too cocky. Not like that old thing’s got a 409.” Judging by the ‘ooh’ that goes through the guys, that’s a big insult. Ernesto flips the newcomer, a silver-haired guy in a Ford T-shirt, his middle finger. I decide I like Ernesto just fine.
“Screw you, Wilson. At least mine’s OEM, not a Franken-car of shit you found at the scrapyard.”
Even I snort at that, which draws the guys’ eyes all to me.
“Who’re you?” the no-409 guy scoffs. Ernesto called him ‘Wilson.’ He’s at least three, if not four, decades older than me, a good six inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter. None of those things matter to him in the slightest as he stands up tall to face me head on.
Ballsy old fucker. I can see where Erica gets it from if this is the crowd she hangs out with.
I stand up tall myself, out of respect to the old guy because the last thing a man like this wants is to be seen as too old to be a threat. And hell, for all I know, he’s a damn Clint Eastwood clone with dead shot aim and a gun in his back pocket. “Brody.”
I don’t offer any more than that, letting my one-word, people-suck attitude shine through, dark and ominous. Wilson grunts, his eyes locked on me as he talks to Erica. “Hey, Rix, where’s Reed? Usually see him car shopping around here with you. You two are always locked at the hip. ’Least he knows shit about cars.”
I let my lips spread slowly, danger in my eyes that a man like Wilson can see a mile away, even though I wouldn’t really hurt the old guy. Reed ain’t here, but I sure as shit am. Even if I don’t know about cars, I know a hell of a lot about Erica and am learning more every second.
I cross my arms over my chest, glaring at Wilson, who to his credit, glares right back pretty well himself. Erica smacks us both on the arms with dual fists. “Enough, assholes. Wilson, you know Reed might be around here somewhere, so if you want him to work on Sally, then keep running that trap. If you want me under her hood, shut the fuck up. And Cowboy, seriously? Don’t make me send you to the truck while I do business.”
My lips quirk as she scolds me like an errant kid, something that would have me bailing if it weren’t for the shit-eating grin I see in her eyes. But I also hear the reminder. This is her work, her livelihood, her passion, and I don’t want to fuck that up by pissing off Wilson, who sounds like a good customer.
Like a good little boy, I take her order this time. “Yes, ma’am.” She’s gonna pay for that later, but I think we’ll both like the punishment.
Wilson grumbles but agrees too. “I’m just fucking around with you, Rix. Sally’s got an appointment for new whitewall shoes this week still, yeah?”
Rix beams, having set us both in place without breaking a sweat. “Yep, tires should be in on Wednesday. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
That handled, she tells the guys to ‘fuck off,’ which seems to be their version of goodbye because they all answer in kind and throw her two-fingered waves.
It feels natural to take her hand in mine as we move down the row of cars, but I can feel those guys’ eyes on me as we walk away.
We look for a while, and she educates me on car culture, telling me details about every vehicle we approach like a fucking Wikipedia page. We get closer to the end of the row, doubling back to where the newer vehicles are. Seems the classics guys and the hot rod guys are two very different crowds, and never the two shall mix. Odd, seems like a car guy is a car guy to me, but what do I know?
Not enough, that’s what.
“So, what’s the deal with you and Reed?” I venture, well aware that she might rightfully tell me to mind my own business.
She looks around like Reed might actually be here, so I automatically do the same but don’t see him anywhere. Erica must not either because she sighs.
“We grew up together at the garage because our dads are friends. We dated in high school and Dad thought . . . hell, everyone thought . . . that Reed and I were going to get married.” She pauses, and I pray there’s a big ‘but’ coming. “I didn’t want that, not then, and not with him. So I bailed, took the easy way out and ran away to the Army. It wasn’t the only reason, but it was a big one.”
“And now that you’re back, he thinks you’re going to pick right back up where you left off?” I guess, which is a pretty easy leap given his alternating possessive and forlorn puppy dog behavior toward her.
Her nod is clipped. “There’s a lot of history there. We were each other’s first relationship, first everything. And I love him, but not like that, never like that. He’s a great friend, always was, and now, he’s a good coworker too, but that’s it. No matter what Reed, Dad, or Uncle Smitty think.”
“Or Wilson,” I add, glad that I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes here. Well, I’m sure Reed thinks I am, but Erica hasn’t been his in quite some time, by the sound of it.
She laughs and agrees. “Or Wilson.” Her face goes a bit blank in a blink, and I can see a guard dropping over her. “Listen, Brody. Last night was amazing . . .”
“Motherfucker, are you dumping me at the damn car show?” I interrupt, somehow both horrified and amused. And maybe a little turned on. Girls don’t dump me, not because I’m the dumper and not the dumpee, but because it’s always been a casual thing, nothing serious since I’ve been way too busy being a family man for brothers and sisters. Failing spectacularly at it, too, but that’s not really the point of her ditching me.
And damned if her trying to put a bit of distance between us doesn’t make me want to chase her. Shit, maybe I’m no better than Reed after all. One little taste and I’m addicted to Erica’s sour-sweet combo.
She doesn’t smile. “I want to be clear. I don’t have a lot of time in my schedule for this.” She moves a hand from her chest to mine. “I’ve got the garage and it keeps me busy. Like ridiculously fucking busy. So if you’re looking for someone to call and show up, be available for dates, and hell, take showers, shave, and put on dresses, I’m not that girl.”
I look her up and down slowly and methodically, letting her know I’m not missing an inch of her. Her hair’s back up in that knot on top of her head, the one I’ve realized keeps her long locks from getting tangled when she’s dipping in and out from underneath hoods, and her bare face puts her freckles on display. She’s wearing a Beartooth band T-shirt, a group I’ve definitely never heard of but judging by the shirt is apparently something to do with acid-tripping alien UFOs and snakes, a fresh pair of cutoffs, this time black with a bit of white paint spattered on them, and those steel-toed boots she already pushed me away with once before on her feet.
“I see you, Erica. Badass, beautiful, and way out of my league. If you’re looking to get married, sounds like you’ve already got an offer on that. But if you want to just hang out when we have time and see what comes up, I’m good with that.” I shrug, hoping it reads as casual. “Like I said, it doesn’t have to be a thing.”
I mean it. I really do. I’m not looking to get married either and am quite busy myself, actually, since we’ve got to get the cows to market soon. But I definitely wouldn’t object to spending what free time we do have together, preferably in bed, but at car shows if we have to.
Hell, maybe I’ll take her to the market auction when we sell the cattle. A bit of tit for tat. I listen to her talk cars with the guys and she can listen to me drone on about the price of cattle with the other ranchers. Something tells me she won’t find my cow knowledge nearly a
s sexy as I find her car knowledge, though.
She squints like she’s looking beneath my hood too, figuring out all my parts and pieces the way she does a broken-down car. “All right. If you say so. Just don’t come crying to me when you get your heart broken because I’m up to my eyeballs in transmission repairs and can’t suck your dick for a while.”
My eyes cross. Holy hell, this woman.
I growl, throwing my arm over her shoulder and pulling her to my side. “Show me some cars or something, Erica, or I’m gonna find the nearest deserted corner of this lot and let you do that now.”
She flutters her lashes before smirking. “What? Suck your dick?”
Goddamn it. I adjust myself in my jeans, looking for more room as they get too tight. Her dirty talk is brazen, like some curse-laden version of a weird love spell, but fuck, does it work for me. Or maybe it’s not the words. It’s just her.
Having won this round, she licks her finger and makes a tally mark in the air. “Oh, by the way, no fucking on school property. That’s probably a felony, don’t ya think? And wrong and gross even if it’s not.”
“Is a felony a deal breaker for you?” I tease back, an oh-shit look on my face.
“Seriously?” she hisses.
“Nah.” I laugh. “Got a misdemeanor charge for fighting once, spent a couple of nights sobering up in the drunk tank when I was younger, and definitely had some black eyes, but nothing felonious.” I don’t tell her that Dad was the primary giver of those black eyes. It’s not like it sounds, anyway. He was just raging. Hell, we all were raging. He took out his shit on me. I took out my shit on him. And now it’s done. “You?”
She knocks on her head like it’s a piece of wood. “Nope, not planning on getting caught, either.”
She doesn’t say she’s not planning on committing any felonies, I think with a smirk, wondering just where she’s thinking about fucking. She’s right, the school’s probably a bad idea, but there are some old dirt roads on the mountain, federal reserve land that no one goes on except the occasional ranger. We could definitely get up to something there . . . and most likely, not get caught.
Rough Edge Page 11