It’s something . . . when he tells me his Tree House stout is delicious and I take a sip from his glass, agreeing that it’s pretty good, but not as good as the lager he brought over last week.
It’s something . . . when my hand naturally lands in his lap, cupping his thigh and tracing small lines along the denim but imagining it’s his bare skin beneath my palm.
It’s something . . . when he talks about his animals, and I remind him to be nice to Baarbara because she’s my favorite badass goat. And that’s something I never thought I’d have.
It’s something . . . when Brody kindly proclaims me to be an artist with engines again, like he’s decided that’s the best way to describe my dirty, work-with-my-hands-all-day job.
“Emily tells me that you do a little more than run a repair shop. Is that right?” Dan asks politely.
I scowl at Emily, but she shrugs like sharing my secret is no big deal.
It is.
Brody knows. Emily knows. And fine, all the guys at the track know. But the more people who know, the higher the risk becomes of Dad finding out. I do the mental calculations of how likely Dad and Dan are to run into each other. Dan already said he spends most of his days, nights, and weekends at the hospital, though I suspect what free time he does have is spent with Emily. Dad avoids doctors as if they’re death peddlers, so unless he happens to pop into Emily’s at the same time as Dan, statistically, their crossover rate is pretty low.
“I don’t advertise it.” It should sound playful and coy, but it sounds like a threat, which is honestly more my intention. “In fact, don’t tell many people at all . . . but I do custom car work on the side for a select group of car enthusiasts. Under the hood stuff, mostly, though I can outsource. I work on classics, newer models, nitrous add-ons, and specialize in getting the most horsepower out of every single engine.”
“Racecars?” Dan asks as a follow-up.
“Yes.”
I blink, realizing how good it feels to say all that out loud, to claim it semi-publicly. I’m not looking to shout it from rooftops or anything, but even the small step of speaking it to an outsider is powerful. Brody squeezes my shoulder, and I glance over to find him looking at me proudly. He knows what a big step this is for me too. His joy feels warm, like honey smoothing over the fizzy nerves and excitement of my own pride.
“Cool,” Dan says, not understanding the foundational shift that just occurred.
The waitress brings our dinners, which look and smell delicious. The burgers and chicken are fresh off the grill, steam still rising from them. Emily’s salad, because of course she eats vegetables, looks bright and lush. Brody cuts our sandwiches, re-plating them so that we each have a burger half and a chicken half. I grab an onion ring from his plate to munch while he does the work.
And dinner is relaxed and comfortable, chatting about this and that.
Emily tells the story of how we switched places for a test one time in middle school, which would’ve gone well except while I was covering her math test, she had to do a surprise pop quiz in my history class. She got an A and I got a D, which warranted further questions and staredowns from Mom and Dad until we confessed. In the end, we both got Fs for cheating. I’ve heard the story dozens of times, told it myself half of those, and still, I smile at Emily, remembering those days when everything was so easy. I find myself missing that straightforward effortlessness of youth that we all lose as we grow up.
Emily pulls her napkin from her lap, laying it beside her bowl of rabbit food. “Excuse me for a moment.” She stands, and both guys lift out of their seats like gentlemen. I shove another fry into my mouth. “Ahem.” Emily clears her throat, and I look up from my internal debate of fry versus onion ring. Emily tilts her head toward the bathroom, the universal sign of ‘come with me.’
I know the female code of always going to the bathroom in packs. Hell, of going everywhere in packs for safety. But in the middle of dinner, in the middle of the restaurant, when there are onion rings to be had? Because I’ve decided they’re the better option of the two, for tonight, at least.
She blinks slowly at my lack of hop-to-it-ness. “Rix.”
“Excuse me, apparently,” I tell Dan and Brody. Okay, and maybe the onion rings too.
Emily locks our arms at the elbows, already gushing as we walk into the bathroom. “Oh, my gosh, Rix . . . I love him! And so do you! I never thought you’d beat me down the aisle, but there are like bluebirds of fucking happiness singing all around you two.” She’s dancing around the bathroom, nearly banging her swinging hands into the paper towel dispenser as her fingers flit around like . . . birds, I think they’re supposed to be?
“Uh, slow that roll. We’re dating, not getting married.”
Hands on my shoulders, her nose is suddenly inches from mine. “Yet. Mark my words . . . he’s The One for you.”
I blink, the argument on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t voice it. I won’t lie to her again. I place my hands on her shoulders, copying her pose and intertwining our arms in a knot. “Don’t freak out. I need you to stay calm, okay?”
She nods, biting her lip with bright eyes.
“He might be The One . . .”
Her squeal is loud for a split second before her hands slap over her mouth, her eyes going so wide I can see the whites.
“For later,” I finish. “I’m not ready for that, still have the shop and the custom work, and he’s got his family and the animals. We’ve got stuff, Em. And literally just admitted to giving a shit about more than bumpin’ uglies a week ago. Slow down.”
Her light dims, but I can see that spark of romantic hope still burning inside her. “But one day?”
“Maybe.” It’s all I can give. All I know for sure is that when I wake up, I reach for him. When something good or bad or funny happens at the shop, he’s the person I want to tell. When the workday is over, I want to collapse into him and be the place for him to fall into too. And when I go to sleep, I want to do it in his arms, preferably with his dick still inside me after we fuck each other stupid.
That’s romantic, right? The sum total is, I’m sure of that much, at least.
Emily claps a few times, ridiculously overexcited compared to what I just admitted to. “Okay, let’s go back to dinner.”
I look around us. “Don’t you need to pee?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, now I do. Why’d you have to ask? You know I’m suggestible.” She walks toward one of the stalls, disappearing behind the door.
“You brought me to the bathroom. What else would I think you planned to do in here?”
“Gossip, obviously,” she huffs.
After washing and drying our hands, we make our way back to the table. Dan and Brody are talking comfortably, but I realize disappointedly that his plate is missing.
They stand as Emily and I sit, and then Brody’s arm goes around the back of my chair once again. His inky brow lifts as he points at my plate with his chin.
Two small, crunchy onion rings sit on top of my fries, the almost-overdone ones I love. He saved them for me.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
This man is everything I never knew I wanted, everything I never knew I needed.
Chapter 23
Brody
“Does it make me sound like a pussy if I say I’m gonna miss you?” Even as I admit it, I don’t really care about the answer. Okay, maybe a little, so I shove half a drowned-in-hot-sauce taco in my mouth in one go as if that’ll prove my manhood.
Erica grins, sucking queso off her index finger. Tacos for our last lunch before I leave for the market auction seems like one of my more brilliant ideas right about now. “Nah, I’m definitely missable.” My eyes track her tongue, which has snaked out to lick off any last bits of cheesy goodness. “Besides, pussies are inherently tough as a mother, hence the expression, and designed to take a pounding. You might be balls . . . all sensitive and fragile.” Her voice has gone soft and sad as she teases me.
“I’ll show you
sensitive and fragile,” I growl, grabbing at her. She laughs riotously, acting like she’s going to move around the breakroom table to dodge my hands, but I know she doesn’t move far enough away on purpose. She lets me catch her and pull her into my lap sideways. My cock, which is resting against her hip, decides to take notice and thicken in my work jeans.
A naughty smile plays at the corners of Erica’s lips before she leans in, kissing along my neck. “I’d rather you show me a pounding,” she murmurs against my skin.
“Fuck, Lil Bit. What are you doing to me?” I groan, not really complaining as she readjusts so that she’s straddling me. Unable to rip her coveralls off, my fingers dig into the flesh of her hips as hers pull at the strands of hair at the nape of my neck.
“Anything I want,” she moans back between nibbles. She takes my hat off, putting it on her own head backward the way I do when I eat her pussy out.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” I tell her, meaning every word. Her hair is in haphazard low braids, like she couldn’t be bothered to do more than a couple of twists on each side, and now it’s topped with my dirty hat. Her face is bare of makeup, as always, but it’s also free of any façade. She’s wide open—no walls, no distance, no shutters to keep me at bay from her true self. Her dark eyes are full of heated lust, but also sweetness and hope. And these coveralls are so loose, I could just slip inside to cup her breast. I know she’s got a tank top on underneath, but I can make quick work of that.
I grab the braids with one hand, pulling gently as I use my other hand to push her chin up. The exposed length of her neck begs for a mark, and I kiss and suck, testing her. “Can I?”
Her moan of agreement turns my cock to steel against her pussy. She pulls at the collar of her coveralls, sliding her tank top over too. “Not visible. It’s unprofessional.”
“Fuck professional,” I snarl, already licking my way down to where her neck meets her shoulder.
I kiss and nibble and suck, swallowing the taste of her skin. Her hips grind against me, her hands grabbing at my chest for leverage. Her short nails dig into my skin, marking me too, and I know that tonight, when I’m sharing a hotel room with Mark before the biggest day of our ranching year, I’ll appreciate the half-moons of her claim.
Suddenly, the door opens. “Hey Rix, Mr. Turner wants—Shit.” Reed freezes in the doorway of the breakroom, the horror on his face quickly morphing to fury.
Erica’s back goes straight and stiff, her walls erecting from one instant to the next as she climbs out of my lap. Standing tall, she glares at Reed, who’s moved on to grinding his teeth, not saying a word.
Erica snaps her fingers, prompting, “Mr. Turner wants . . .”
Reed drags his gaze from mine to Erica’s. “You, to talk to you.”
She adjusts her coveralls, but not quick enough to hide the bruising mark from Reed’s eagle eyes. I see it hit him like a punch to the gut, but Erica’s beelining for the door, focused on work. She tosses over her shoulder, “Play nice. Don’t get blood on the lunch table.”
With that, she’s gone, leaving Reed and me alone in the breakroom.
He glares at me, any pretense of politeness evaporating. He’d beat the shit out of me if he could, but we both know he won’t. One, because he can’t. I’m a big fucker, and even if he wanted to, he can’t take me. Two, he won’t hurt Erica that way. And that tells me more about him than anything.
He’s hurting and that Band-Aid needs to get ripped off like I told Erica ages ago. She’s been doing it, but not fast enough, not with enough yank. For all her blustering, she’s kind at heart. I am too, but I have no softness for Reed. Not when softness is cruelty.
“Guess I’ll have to play nice and not fuck you up for hurting her like that.” He’s spouting off about the hickey, knowing full well that it didn’t hurt her. But it hurt him. The too-fast rise and fall of his chest and the pain deep in his eyes tell me that much.
I lace my fingers together, putting them behind my head with my elbows and legs spread. It’s a show of force, that I’m totally at ease in what should be his environment, with him throwing threats.
“She was telling me to play nice. You” —I lift my chin his way— “are actually nice. Me, not so much.” I smirk and tilt my head, knowing the cocky arrogance will irritate him.
“Asshole,” he snarls.
“Meant it as a compliment.” Truthfully, it is. Reed is a good guy. He’s just a mouse caught in a wheel, and he doesn’t know how to get out. I’m gonna show him, though.
Band-Aid removal in three, two, one . . .
“I get it, Reed. You’ve had a vision your whole life. Whether it was yours or someone else’s doesn’t even matter anymore because it plays in your head like a favorite movie. Problem is? She ain’t watching the same one. She cares about you, she loves you, but not like you want. If it wasn’t me, it’d be someone else. But it’s not you, won’t ever be. You need to move on from her.”
He flinches, probably because she’s told me so much and also because it’s all true, and though he won’t admit it, not even to himself, he knows it. “Fuck you. You think you’re special? Nah, you ain’t nothing. And when she needs a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, I’m who she comes to.”
Time to hit the jugular. “Maybe so, because that’s what friends do for each other. But what about when she wants dick? It ain’t yours she’s going for, hasn’t been in a long time.” What Erica and I have is a lot more than dick, but it’s what he needs to hear to get it through that thick skull of his.
His hands curl into fists, but he holds his ground, booted feet rooted to the floor. I stand slowly, making no sudden movements, cross my arms over my chest, and look him in the eye.
“She loves you, but not like that. I swear to fuck, I’m not being an asshole here. I really am trying to play nice. Because you’re important to her, but so am I.” The weight of that is heavy, but it’s a responsibility I welcome. A reminder that I can handle so much more than what I’ve been shouldering recently. That I’m good at it, even if seems like I’m stumbling around aimlessly.
“What the fuck ever, man. Just don’t fucking hurt her or I will fucking kill you.” He points a finger at me threateningly. He might be tied with Erica and me on the record number of curse words in one sentence.
“Let’s be honest. I’m not going to hurt her. When and if this ever implodes, it’ll be me left broken and hurting.” The similarity to how Reed feels right now is painfully obvious to us both. “Luckily, I’ve got brothers with the balls to tell me to tape my shit together, build a bridge, and get over it.”
It’s silent for a long second, the tension thick, and I realize that I might have to actually fight this fucker. It’ll break my longest streak of not punching someone since elementary school. Not that I take particular pride in the number of fights I’ve been in. It’s nice not having swollen, bruised knuckles, but if that’s what it takes, I’ve never backed down. And I won’t start today.
Reed kicks out, shoving a chair my way. It screeches along the floor but I don’t react. My arms stay crossed. My feet stay still. But the growl in my throat won’t be stopped.
Luckily, Reed spins and stomps back out the door to the garage. I shake my head as I watch him go, sadly wishing that he would listen. But he can’t hear the truth yet. He’s not ready to give up and chase a new dream. I get that, having been forced into that situation myself, but it really is for his own good. He deserves to be happy . . . with someone other than Erica.
Alone, I clean up our lunch mess and throw the leftover tacos in the refrigerator for Manuel and Reed. He might be mad, but no one turns down free food. Especially not tacos this delicious.
Once I get it all picked up, the door opens again. “Seems that went well.” Erica’s sarcasm is sharp, her lack of surprise dry.
I shrug. “No bloodshed. Winning.”
She shakes her head, a smile playing on her lips. “Fuck, I’m gonna miss you.”
I sweep her up in my arms,
our bodies pressed together with her on her steel-toed tippy toes. “I’m gonna miss you too. Two days, Lil Bit.”
Two. Whole. Fucking. Days. Without her.
I don’t know how it happened, but I don’t know if I can handle being apart from her. And yeah, I’m well aware that makes me as sensitive and fragile as . . . fucking balls. Whatever.
The goodbye kiss is almost worth it, though, with her trying to climb into my skin with me and our tongues tangling together. I swear I can taste her soul, sour and sweet and prickly and kind, all at the same time.
I hope that I’m wrong, that my fears are just ghosts. I’d be broken if Erica’s ever done with me. If that ever happens, I might make Dad’s decline after Mom seem like a positive coping mechanism because I would destroy the world for her. And like Reed, some fucker telling me to move on would be like pissing into the wind. Ill-advised and messy as fuck.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I promise her. But really, I’m promising myself.
Chapter 24
Erica
“Let’s get to racing, boys!” Ed calls out. He dropped the ‘and Rix’ years ago because I’m simply one of the guys.
There’s a rousing round of hollering, which Ed allows for long enough to flip to the correct page on his clipboard. “Up first, we’ve got Jerry versus Wilson. Good matchup . . . Chevy versus Ford. You two knuckleheads ready?”
They’re already bowing up, good-naturedly mouthing about how good they are and how the other one is craptastic behind the wheel. I know which is going to win because I built both engines and know exactly what they can do. The driver makes the most difference, of course, but the guts under the hood matter, all things otherwise equal.
So though Ed officially forbids betting, my money’s on Wilson because his car’s got a little more horsepower and he’s willing to push the boundaries to coax every single bit of power out of that engine. He’s basically crazier than Jerry with the engine to back it up. I flash two fingers at Ryan, our secret bookie, and he nods. He manages to keep it all straight, who bids what and on whom. I don’t know how, but he’s never been wrong, not a single time.
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