Lennox

by Dallas Cole

  LENNOX

  By

  Dallas Cole

  Lennox

  Copyright © 2016 Dallas Cole

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Luminos Graphics

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  To my very own tattooed, muscled, loving man. And my MR2. This book wouldn't have been possible without either of you.

  Chapter One

  Elena

  I like uncomplicated things. Numbers. Machines. A car looks complicated, but it’s really not. It’s a beautiful, straightforward system of gears and tubes and pistons all working together. I know every part and how they’re supposed to work. If I want them to perform better, then I know just how to tune them, just what brand to plug in. I can see right when they’re about to give out, and I can soften the blow. Take good care of a car, and it’ll take good care of you.

  People are a little bit tougher. Right when I think their system’s working as it should—that’s when it all goes to hell.

  “Elena, djevojka, watch where you leave the toolbox!” Drazic, my uncle, kicks at the soles of my Docs. “Slide on out of there.”

  I finish tightening the lug I’d been fastening into place and shove my way out from underneath my latest work of art: a deep purple 1973 GTO. V8, all new nitro system, kickin’ bass, and enough wild horses to leave all those jackasses from the upstate crew choking on the dust.

  I stand up from my work sled and peel off my heavy gloves. “What do you think?”

  Drazic’s grin splits through his weathered, deeply tanned face. “I think Nash better know how lucky he is. You got brains, beauty, and you can soup up a beast like that?” He lets out a low whistle.

  I roll my eyes and swat him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry.” I remind him often. “This baby should be ready in time for next week’s race, if Nash can log some practice hours in it.”

  “Yeah, if I can pry him away from you.” Drazic shakes his head. “Gotta pay the bills first, djevojka. The crew can’t run without our point man.”

  “Please. I know how important the trials are. Rattle the upstate boys, right?” I grin back at him and fiddle with the end of my ponytail. “You needed something?”

  “Just a question on the books. You log those invoices from last week?”

  My smile fades. I follow Drazic into the cramped office of Drazic Muscleworks and sit down on an empty corner of desk space while he rifles through a stack of papers. “Finished up this morning,” I say. “They should all be there. But, um, I wasn’t sure about some of—”

  Drazic’s gaze slides toward mine, and I stop talking. There’s no threat behind it, but I know enough not to say anything more. Drazic’s my dad’s brother. He followed my parents to the US from Croatia, and he’s been my legal guardian since I was eight. I owe my life to him—no exaggeration—and I know he’d do anything for me.

  Would, and does. That’s why I don’t ask where all the money comes from that keeps the shop afloat and his crew out of debt. It kept me out of the foster system, or worse. The least I can do is keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.

  “But you logged them all,” Drazic says.

  I nod and stare down at the ground.

  “Shit.” Drazic snaps the file folder shut. “Okay. It’s okay. It’s no problem. We’ll just—pick up some extra work. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  But I know damn well what the ledgers say. Numbers and cars—they don’t lie.

  The front door bells jangle, and in walks Nash, shoving his shades up into the mussed blonde peaks of his hair. “Elena? D? You here?”

  I bounce off the desk and rush out to greet him. “Hey, baby!”

  Nash sweeps me into his arms. The hard line of his muscles presses through my thin tank top as he cups my face in his hands. “Missed you, angel.”

  “Missed you, too.”

  He lowers his lips to mine. He kisses like a shot of Nitric Oxide, all hot and cold racing through my veins.

  Nash is about as uncomplicated as they come—one of the reasons I love him. He races hard, fights hard, and fucks hard. I never have to worry about him when he’s out with the crew, and he never has to worry about me. I grew up drooling over Nash, but he was a perfect gentleman—didn’t dare look at me until I turned eighteen two years ago, and he was sure Drazic wouldn’t kill him. Of course, Drazic will still kill him if he ever treats me wrong. But I don’t think I have to worry about that.

  “Look at you. All sweaty and oil-stained.”

  I blush. “Sorry. I was working on your baby.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He nuzzles his ear against my neck. “It’s hot.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Nash grips me by the hips and hoists me onto the front counter. I spread my legs, pressing him between my knees, and sling my arms around his neck. He’s wearing his brother’s black leather moto jacket and a gray V-neck T-shirt that’s straining to contain his cut physique. With a slick grin, he kneads his hands along my thighs.

  “You know,” Nash says, lowering his lips to my ear, “if your uncle weren’t here, I’d bend you over the hood of that GTO and show you just how hot I think it is.”

  “And ruin the wax job I just put on it? I don’t think so.” But I grin and pull him closer.

  Drazic clears his throat. “Nash?”

  I drop my arms as Nash steps away, doing his best—and failing—to look contrite. “Hey, boss. I brought the gear you wanted.” He thumbs toward his truck in the parking lot.

  “Thanks, brother. Let’s bring it in.” Drazic plucks his aviators out of the collar of his work shirt and slips them on. “You heard anything from Cyrus or Jagger yet this morning? We really need to run trials.”

  Nash groans as we all head out to the parking lot. “I don’t expect to see Jagger for a few more hours. Not after the shit he was stirrin’ up over at the bar last night.”

  “You were at the bar with Jagger last night?” I ask, somewhat surprised.

  “Yeah, as his DD. I wasn’t drinking, of course.”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. Nash never drinks when he might have to drive later. Not after what happened to his brother, who also happened to be his best friend, three years ago—killed by a drunk driver.

  Fortunately, the asshole—formerly a member of Drazic’s crew—got a hefty prison sentence for manslaughter. He’s been permanently erased from the crew’s collective memory. No one so much as thinks his name.

  Well. Okay. I do, sometimes. Only because I was young and dumb and never could get Nash’s attention back in those days. Okay—maybe it wasn’t Nash’s attention I was trying to get back then. But I am so, so over him. Uncomplicated boys who don’t pound shots and get behind the wheel of a four-ton hunk of steel—that’s my type these days.

  I grab a cardboard box out of the back of Nash’s truck and follow the guys through the shop into the storage room. “No, wait, djevojka, wron
g stack.” Drazic steers me toward the other corner. Oh. I know what that means—that I most certainly don’t want to know where this gear came from. I drop the box and step away, wiping my hands on my jeans.

  “Okay. I can’t take it any longer, Elena.” Nash drops off his boxes, then wraps his arms around my waist from behind. “Show me what you’ve done.”

  “You sure you’re ready? There’s a whole fuck-ton of power under that hood.”

  “I can handle it.” He nips at my earlobe. “Baby, you know I can handle it.”

  I laugh and arch my back against him. “I don’t know . . .”

  The bells jangle again, followed by a prolonged string of cursing.

  Nash sighs and drops his arms. “And that’ll be Jagger.”

  “Nash!” Jagger shouts. “Nash, dammit, where the fuck are you?”

  “Right here. Fucking chill.” Nash and I head out into the front of the shop. Jagger’s still wearing his wraparound shades and scrubbing at his buzz cut. One of his infamous hangovers, then. Jagger’s lean and lithe like a rock star, but he always parties far harder than he can handle.

  “Need some coffee?” I ask Jagger. “Aspirin?”

  “More like a fucking machete. Nash? Sit your ass down. We need to talk.”

  Nash sighs and hops up onto the counter. “Let me guess. That girl I dropped you at the motel with ganked your wallet . . .”

  “Shut up, man!” Jagger groans. “That was one time!”

  Drazic and I snort.

  “Stop laughing. I’m fucking serious.” Jagger leans against the counter for support. “I just came from Peg’s diner.”

  “Okay.” Nash folds his arms. “And?”

  Jagger draws a raspy breath. “Don’t fucking freak out, okay?”

  Nash’s smile is completely gone. When he speaks, it’s in a tight, terrifying voice I barely recognize. “What is it, Jagger?”

  I sit up straighter. There’s an instinct I’ve gotten over the past few years, from watching these boys race. Call it a sixth sense, call it whatever you want. But I know when a crash is coming, even before it happens. This electricity crackles through the air and everyone sucks in their breath, and then it all spirals to hell.

  That’s the feeling I have right now. And it makes me want to hurl.

  “Okay.” Jagger hunches his shoulders. “It’s Lennox.” He flinches. “He’s out of prison.”

  My heart pounds in my ears. Lennox. Oh, my god. “But it’s only been—”

  “Three years.” Nash’s fists are clenched at his side. His pulse throbs at the side of his throat as he stares straight ahead. “Three years, four months, and eighteen days . . .”

  I cup my palm around Nash’s thigh and rub it in slow, soothing circles. Even though I feel anything but calm inside. “It’s okay. It’s okay, baby. We can get through this—”

  “No.” Nash hops off the counter and stalks to the far corner of the room. “He killed my brother.” His keys jangle as he pulls them from his pocket. “He doesn’t get off that easy.”

  “Nash—”

  “I’ll fucking kill him myself.”

  “Nash!”

  I grab him by the arm, but he rips free of me. Jagger wrestles his arms back from behind, but Nash shakes him away easily, too. He’s a man possessed, his whole body coiled and ready to spring. I know that look in his eye—the one when he’s down a circuit and out for blood.

  He means it. He really fucking means to kill Lennox.

  “Nashville Thomas Graham,” Drazic shouts, his tone cold as steel.

  Nash freezes. He’s still seething, but as angry as he is right now, even he knows better than to defy Drazic.

  Drazic’s lip curls back, but his expression remains hardened, like a fortress wall. “It sucks. It fucking sucks, all right? But don’t you dare walk out that door.” He grips the edge of the counter and looms forward. “You’re going to do something you’ll regret. And the whole crew will pay for it.”

  Nash turns toward him, eyes narrowed to points. “So instead, Lennox doesn’t have to pay? Where’s the fucking justice in that?”

  “It’s not about justice. It’s about the crew.” Drazic folds his arms over his chest. “The last thing we need is any extra heat.”

  Something passes between them. A part of that world I’m not privy to. The late nights and long road trips, the money that comes from nowhere, the parts we get in the shop that are so far above and beyond what we should be able to afford.

  Nash sags forward, submitting to Drazic. “Fine.”

  I rush toward him, and he slings an arm over my shoulder. “Come on,” I tell him gently. “Let’s go sit down.”

  “Jagger.” Drazic beckons to him. “Let’s you and me go for a ride.”

  Nash lets me lead him into the office while Jagger and Drazic head out to give us some privacy. I shut the door and draw the blinds, then grab him a soda from the mini-fridge. He stares at it for a moment, then reaches into the bottom desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of Jack. I smile sadly and hold my hand out for his keys—our unspoken ritual, every time a member of the crew drinks. Nash hands them over and takes a long gulp.

  “It’s just not right.” He works his jaw back and forth. “Troy should’ve never gotten into that fucking car with Lennox.”

  I pull him into my arms and let him rest his head against my chest. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

  “I mean, the least Lennox could’ve done was kill himself instead of his passenger.” He shakes with a dry laugh. “Such a fucking waste.”

  I rub Nash’s back. I can hardly believe it’s been three years now. Seems like just yesterday, Troy was goofing off with the rest of the crew, hot-shotting it around hairpin turns like he didn’t fear God, the Devil, or anyone in between.

  And Lennox—God. Three years since Lennox was there, the steady, calm voice in our drivers’ ears, guiding them right past the competition. Lennox was my rock. My shoulder to cry on when I was just a dumb kid, lonely and awkward and completely clueless as to why nobody in my high school wanted anything to do with me.

  Lennox cared, though. Lennox always wanted to hear what I had to say. Whether I was running my motormouth about cars or the dipshit high school boys or even my uncle, he never made me feel like a kid. He always acted like I mattered.

  And then one night, when the rest of the crew was on a job, and Lennox stayed behind—

  I swallow audibly. I’ve tried so hard to lock that night away. After Lennox got Troy killed. After I hooked up with Nash. But I guess no one and nothing stays locked up for good.

  I cup Nash’s face in my hands and tilt him toward me. His hazel eyes are shot with red; his jaw’s clenched so tight he could bite through iron. “It’s not right,” Nash says. “He doesn’t get to just walk away.”

  I kiss Nash’s forehead and close my eyes. Nash needs me—now more than ever. My feelings about Lennox don’t matter in this moment. Any goodwill he’d built with me was erased the moment he got behind that wheel. I need to support Nash, keep him safe, keep him from doing something fucking stupid that’ll hurt both him and the crew.

  That’s my job here—always has been. The boys make a big flashy mess on the circuit, and I clean it up behind the scenes. Replace the transmissions they chewed up. Turn their messy finances into neat columns and rows. Dress and nurse their wounds.

  Nash tips his head back and kisses me, slow at first, then fiercer, hungrier. His lips are salty with his frustrated tears. I slip my hands beneath his jacket—his brother’s jacket—and under the hem of his shirt.

  Nash bites my lower lip, hard. He looks up at me with his teeth bared, like he’s something feral. “I need you,” he breathes. His fingers ease open the fly of my jeans. “I need you.”

  “I’m all yours.”

  He stands up, shoving me off of him, and stalks toward me. Normally, I love it when Nash is aggressive like this. But there’s something dark in his gaze, something I’ve never seen before. Well, Nash has every right
to be angry. I’m angry for him. Angry for the whole crew.

  As he backs me against the office wall, I close my eyes and melt into his heated kisses. I work the front of his jeans open and grip his cock. He’s completely hard. Nash groans softly as I stroke him, and bites down on my shoulder.

  Nash pins me against the wall and shoves down my jeans and panties. He slides inside me in one smooth thrust and hoists my legs around his waist. Usually, he’s all sly comments and teasing when we fuck. He coaxes me along with him. But this is blind, frantic sex. I hold onto his muscled back and pull him into me as he squeezes his eyes shut.

  He feels amazing—like always—but I can already tell I’m not going to come. I tense around him and lose myself in the rhythm and his heat.

  “Fuck.” He thrusts once more, and shudders as he comes. “I—I’m sorry. You didn’t—”

  “It’s okay.” I force a bright smile as he eases out of me. “You can make it up to me later.”

  “Yeah.” But he’s already looking away as he wipes himself off with a tissue and tugs his pants back up.

  “Nash.”

  He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. I shrink back against the wall. Like he’s a cornered animal, and I’m afraid to make him lash out. I shake my head. No. My Nash isn’t like that. He’s the easiest, most uncomplicated guy in the world. It’s why I love him.

  But I’ve never seen this side of him before.

  “Nash. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.” I hear my voice waver, and hate myself for it. “Promise me you won’t go looking for—for him.”

  Nash runs his fingers through his hair. “I won’t. I already promised Drazic. He’s right—it’d only make things worse for everyone.”

  He’s not meeting my eyes. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold.

  “But trust me, if that shitbag knows what’s good for him . . . he’ll stay far, far away from the crew. From the races.”

  Lennox staying away from races? That doesn’t sound at all like the Lennox I knew.

  But the Lennox I knew would’ve never driven drunk, either.