Fighting for Flight

by J. B. Salsbury

  “Then why are you cleaning your kitchen?”

  Because this is different. And the reason why it’s different kept me up all night. Every time I closed my eyes all I could see was her face. I would have brushed it off as a simple case of the I-wanna-screw-yous, but if that were true, I’d be picturing some other part of her anatomy. Not her face. Or the aquamarine color of her eyes, so unique, I had to fight from getting lost in them. Not the way she chewed on her bottom lip when she was thinking. And certainly not the way her cheeks turned pink when I touched her.

  “I’m cleaning my kitchen because it’s dirty.” I wipe down the counters for the second time.

  “Did my knee to the head do this to you? You got some kind of brain damage that turns you into a pussy?”

  “You’re hilarious, you know that?” Sarcasm laces my voice.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve got to go. See you at training.”

  “All right. Let me know how your date goes.”

  “You never quit.”

  “That’s what she said.” His laughter sounds through the earpiece and I end the call.

  I shove my phone in my back pocket and head to the living room for a last once-over.

  This is ridiculous. I haven’t gotten all stirred up over a girl since Samantha Salazar in the fourth grade. I did everything to get that girl to like me. Even changed the way I dressed, only to find out later that she was looking for someone to do her math homework. And I did for an entire school year before I figured it out.

  That’s the thing about women. They know what they want, and they use their pretty faces and hourglass figures to get men googlie-eyed and panting. Then they shred them of their pride, time, and bank accounts. I’ve seen it happen a million times, and I’ll be damned if I allow that to happen to me.

  Raven’s probably no different. She practically radiates innocence and vulnerability. It’s an act, I’m sure. A girl who looks like her can’t be all that innocent. Just because she acts like no girl I’ve ever known before doesn’t mean that she’s not the worst of them.

  Shit. Why did I invite her to my house? That certainly wasn’t the plan when I went to the garage. I thought I’d have the Impala towed there and it would sit until Guy got around to it.

  Then I saw her: The way she walked out of the garage all rolling hips and sex. Her coveralls tied at her waist, and tight tank top that hugged her delicious curves. I had to cross my arms over my chest to keep from reaching out to trace the dip of her collarbone. A groan rumbles in my chest at the memory. She makes being a car mechanic sexy. Hell, she’d make collecting garbage sexy.

  Her silky, dark hair was pulled up to expose her gracefully long neck. Every time she turned to look at Guy, I could see the hint of a black tattoo where her neck flared into her shoulder. The urge to run my tongue along the gentle slope of her throat, to feel her fluttering pulse beneath my lips and taste her olive skin overwhelmed me.

  Yeah, this girl’s trouble.

  I need to work her out of my system, just like all the other girls I’ve been with. After sex, I’m done. I totally lose interest. I may have to find a new mechanic, but at least I won’t lie in bed every night having fantasies about getting to know her better. Wait, what? Getting to know her better? I don’t think I’ve ever fantasized about a woman completely clothed before.

  Holy shit, Blake was right. I’ve turned into a pussy.

  I’m shoved from my thoughts by the sound of music blaring. Is that . . . Johnny Cash?

  I creep to the door and check through the side panel window. A jet-black Chevy Nova with a white ragtop and white-wall tires stops in the circle drive right in front of the door. Sweet ride. Sweeter driver. Time for my game face.

  Raven sits, gripping her steering wheel. Her mouth hangs open as she stares at my house. One side of my mouth lifts into a smile. She likes my place. A rush of warmth engulfs my chest. What in the hell is the matter with me?

  Minutes pass before she moves out of her car. She leans into her still-open door. I rake my eyes over the contours of her perfectly round ass. She’s wearing hip hugging, low slung jeans with a rip in the knee and a bright blue tank top. I smirk when my eyes land on her shoes: black, low-top Chucks.

  She’s sexy in a way that lacks self-awareness, which only makes her sexier. Women in this town are overly aware of themselves. I know there are exceptions. But what are the chances that an exception who looks like a rule is about to push through my walls? Walls? I mean, house. Dammit.

  She walks toward the door in a fluid way, as if her joints have been oiled. It’s the same way girls walk when they know they’re being admired. But Raven does it with no one around. Is it possible that she has no agenda? A slight breeze blows her long dark hair, and, at the moment, I feel like the dorky math nerd admiring the high school cheerleader from afar.

  With my thoughts on her along with my eyes, I reach for the door. I pull it open. She jumps back with a squeak, her arm raised to knock.

  “Wow, sorry about that,” I say lamely. “I didn’t know you were here. I was just going to check the mail.” I make a show of opening the mailbox.

  “Oh, no problem.” She actually looks embarrassed, which is funny considering the ass I just made of myself.

  “Did you find the place okay?” I hold open the door and motion for her to come in.

  She lowers her head in an attempt to hide her face with her hair. She doesn’t move fast enough, and I see a faint blush kiss her cheeks as she moves past me. The same blush that had me tenting my boxers all night.

  “Yes, thank you.” Her eyes go wide as we walk into the living room. “Oh, Jonah, your home is beautiful.”

  My pulse quickens at the breathy way she said my name.

  Her head tilts as she peeks around the corner into the kitchen. “Looks like fighting pays well.”

  Ah-ha! There it is.

  “You know who I am.” Not a question.

  “Of course, I do.” Her eyes roll to the ceiling then fix on mine. “You’re ‘The Assassin’.” She says my fighting name in an exaggerated announcer’s voice.

  Girls don’t usually tease me. And they hardly ever look me in the eye. I try hard not to smile, but her easygoing nature is infectious.

  “You’re a local hero.”

  My nose wrinkles at her overestimation of my status. “I don’t know about hero.” My lips turn up in a half smile. “Wouldn’t I need a cape for that?”

  A cape? Smooth. This girl makes me feel like a love-sick schoolboy without even trying.

  She quirks her lips and narrows her eyes in a way most women reserve for the bedroom. “Well, this is Las Vegas, Jonah.”

  God, my name sounds good on her lips.

  “In the City of Sin, we can use all the good guys we can get, cape or not.”

  She obviously doesn’t know my reputation. Many names have shadowed Jonah Slade, but good guy isn’t one of them. Usually I would think she was just trying to flatter me, but there’s a sincerity in her eyes that steals my breath.

  I stare into their blue-green depths. Her thick dark lashes flutter before her gaze drops to my lips. I swallow hard, resisting the urge to show her exactly what I could do to her with my mouth. Blood races in my veins, shooting south with a vengeance.

  “Is everything okay?”

  No, everything is absolutely not okay.

  “Yeah, of course.” I force myself to turn away from her piercing gaze. One more second locked in those eyes would have me worshipping at her feet, begging for just the tiniest taste of her perfect mouth.

  I need to pull my shit together, and fast.

  As much as my body craves her, I can’t seduce this girl. Sleeping with her will no doubt work her out of my system. But she’ll most likely get clingy and annoying like all the others. Something deep down whispers that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Having a girl like this begging at my door might be fun. I shake off the visual of Raven’s begging on her knees . . .
>
  The resulting groan has Raven’s narrowed eyes on mine. No, I can do this. She’s here to help me restore my car. Surely I can handle being around her without throwing her to the floor and ravishing every inch of her beautiful body. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

  ~*~

  Raven

  “How about a tour?”

  Yes, please. Anything to distract me from his eyes. They’re hazel, but not like any hazel I’ve ever seen. The brown is so light I can make out shards of deep green toward the pupils. The dramatic contrast makes it hard not to stare. “That’d be great.”

  It’s taking everything I’ve got to keep my voice level and my hands from shaking. Even my grin feels off. My only hope is that he’s used to people being nervous around him and doesn’t notice that I’m about to jump out of my skin.

  While he gives me a guided tour of his home, I take an unguided tour of his body. As extraordinary as his house is, my gaze is repeatedly drawn back to him. His towering frame is even taller than I remember. His thick arms are round in all the right places: t-shirt sleeves pulled taut around his biceps. As if it were sculpted from marble, his body is all muscle cuts and hard edges. His smooth sun-tanned skin is without blemish, except for the glorious bursts of colors that coat his arms from his wrists to beneath his shirt. I wonder how far they go? Over the bulk of his shoulders to his corded back to—

  “Raven?” The sound of my name pulls my attention.

  “Hmm?”

  He’s standing at a huge sliding glass door, smiling as if he’s in on a joke I missed. “I lost you for a minute. Am I that boring?” His rugged physique is all man, but his boyish dimples and bright smile make my head swim.

  “What? Oh, no, it’s just I’ve never been in a house this big before.” I make a show of casting my eyes to the rafters. Wow, this place is huge. I should have paid more attention. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  A tiny grimace touches his face for a moment before it disappears. What did I say? I’m grateful to see his easy grin return.

  “Oh, well then, let’s get to the best part.” He holds his hand out for me to take. “Shall we?”

  I stare at it before my own lifts from my side. And like the bug that flies helplessly, drawn by the bright blue light that is Jonah Slade, I place my hand into his.

  Not giving me a moment to soak in the contact, he turns and walks out the door. I’m not used to being touched, especially by someone like him, and it takes me a second to find my legs. I stumble once, thankful to catch myself before he notices.

  We pass through his huge backyard. I see a pool in my peripheral vision. I would look directly at it, but I’m unable to drag my eyes away from our clasped hands. His hand is huge. Mine seems so small in comparison. His touch is strong and gentle at the same time. He could crush my bones with a flex of his fingers, but there’s a security in his hold that feels safe. I’m smiling like an idiot. Great.

  We stop at a large building off to the side of his house.

  “Here we are.” He swings open the door and leads me in.

  There’s no light, but the smell has my eyes roaming the dark. He drops my hand. I pout at the loss of his touch until he flicks on the lights.

  I suck air on a quick gasp. “Oh my goodness, Jonah.”

  Three

  Raven

  My mouth hangs open. I breathe in deep. The familiar smells of gasoline, oil, and rubber calm my nervous stomach. I’m in my sanctuary.

  Jonah’s garage looks like something out of Car and Driver magazine: The diamond-plated chrome and black metal cabinetry polished to a shine. Rows upon rows of drawers in different widths probably hold every tool imaginable. The floors are covered in a slick, gray coating that is so clean I could eat off it. He wasn’t kidding when he said I’d have all the tools I need. There’s even a BendPak hydraulic car lift.

  “This is amazing,” I whisper to myself, feeling completely relaxed and at ease. “Why do you have all this stuff?” My eyes continue to take in the surroundings.

  “Hobby. I like fast cars, like to fuck around in here. Problem is I don’t have time to learn the ins and outs.”

  “I could teach you.” The words fly on a knee-jerk reaction. I scrunch up my face and sink into my shoulders, fighting my chagrin. I glance over my shoulder and find him staring at me.

  His answering grin sends my gaze across the garage. I can’t look at him when he’s smiling at me like that.

  It’s then that I notice the truck he drove to the shop yesterday. I take a closer look. Walking around it, I study each component from the Pro Comp forty-inch tires to the RBP custom grille. I swear the thing looks like it’ll growl.

  Stepping deeper into what’s at least a ten car garage, I see a gunmetal gray beast that makes my heart rate kick double time.

  “That’s a ’68 Camaro.” I tell the car. Jonah steps to my side from behind me.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he nods. “I didn’t fix her up. Bought her from a guy in Arizona.”

  I walk around, trailing my finger along her flawless gray paint. “What’s she running?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, and his eyes are dark in a way that I feel deep in my belly. “572 big block.”

  I whistle low. “That’s freaking spectacular.” I’d do almost anything to get under the hood and fire this baby up. I bet she roars like—

  Something sinister demands my attention. My arm shoots towards it, my finger pointing in accusation. “Harley Blackline!” My voice echoes through the space, allowing me to hear the embarrassing high pitch of my outburst. I’d care if I weren’t so utterly beside myself with Jonah’s collection.

  “You into bikes too?”

  “I’m into Harleys. I don’t know how to ride them, but the power behind these babies deserves anyone’s admiration.”

  He chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll take you for a ride sometime.”

  Go for a ride on the back of a Harley with Jonah Slade? His magnificent body between my knees, hands resting against his six-pack abs?

  Yes, please. “Okay.”

  He hits me with his megawatt smile that has me fighting to breathe. “Come on. The Impala’s over here.”

  I follow behind Jonah, my eyes firmly planted on the way his jeans move with every stride of his long legs as he leads me to the back of the garage. He stops and I almost slam into his back.

  I step around him and there she is: the ’61 Impala. Her classic blue paint still shimmers in places, like an old woman who insists on wearing her red lipstick. This old girl isn’t going down without a fight. I study every inch of her frame, and assess how much work needs to be done. There’s surprisingly very little bodywork outside of a couple rust spots and a dent.

  “Oh, Jonah, she’s beautiful.” I check out the wheel wells, notice the window rubbers all need to be replaced, and make a note to order new taillight covers.

  I pop the hood and lean in to take a peek. The engine needs new motor mounts, all new belts, and a good cleaning. It could be replaced with something bigger, but this isn’t a muscle car. This car is for cruising. I need to take it apart piece by piece to see what can be salvaged and rebuilt. A moan from behind me cuts through my thoughts.

  With a twist, I squint over my shoulder at Jonah standing a few feet from my back. My position, bent beneath the hood and reaching into the back, has my bottom out and up and right in Jonah’s line of sight. His eyes are firmly planted and my face ignites.

  With a speed I didn’t know I was capable of, I straighten up and look to the floor, hoping to hide my embarrassment. Being in this place, my mind focused on the project, I almost forgot he was there. Almost.

  “Sorry, I um . . .” I have no words. The heat from my cheeks crawls down my neck.

  “Do you like rap?” He turns to nearby countertop.

  “Huh?”

  “Music.” Jonah plugs his iPod to a space-age-looking dock and hip-hop beats fill the room.

  I nod to his back. I
’m not a rap music fan, but, at this point, I’d agree to anything that takes the focus off of me.

  “Come over here and I’ll show you where everything’s at.”

  I exhale a breath. Thank goodness he didn’t make that more awkward than it was.

  After a short guide to his available tools, we get to work. I get into a zone and concentrate on the build. He asks questions, eager to learn the process. We talk about our jobs and friends, falling into comfortable conversation.

  A few hours into breaking down the engine, we take a break. Jonah grabs a bottled water for me from the mini fridge. Its diamond-plated chrome covering matches the cabinetry. Fanciest garage I’ve ever been in, no doubt.

  I work to unscrew the cap from my water. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been working out every day, letting your friends kick your butt, and taking any fight you can get, all for a big ugly belt?” I attempt to summarize the UFL 101 lesson Jonah gave me.

  His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. “They don’t kick my butt.”

  Laughing at his defense, I struggle with the welded-shut water bottle.

  He motions for me to hand him my water. “Here, let me.”

  Unscrewing the stubborn thing with ease, he hands it back.

  “I loosened it for you.” I drink deeply, hoping the cool water will quell my pounding pulse.

  “Of course, you did.”

  “Okay, but really, the belt is ugly. What do you do with it once you get it? Do you, I don’t know, wear it out to dinner or around the house? Do you, like, model it for your billboard ads?” Judging by the faint pink coloring Jonah’s face at the mention of his ads, I bet he gets teased often.

  “Maybe a black and white layout of you and your belt on a sandy beach for, say, a protein shake billboard?” Sucking both my lips between my teeth to hide my smile, I watch in fascination a shy Jonah. He recovers quickly and narrows his eyes on me. I’d worry that I’d offended him if it weren’t for the humor lighting his face.

  “Ha, ha, ha. Very funny,” he drawls.

  “What? You do model, don’t you?” I tease doing my best Derek Zoolander face.