Clutch

by S. M. West

  I tilt my head back to gaze directly into his face. In the faint glow of the interior light, I make out his bottomless blue eyes, and they’re searching my face, searching for something.

  “I’m sorry. I was a jerk. Totally out of line. Would you please let me ride with you?”

  “You’ve got anger issues,” I blurt out, unable to hold back my criticism.

  Giving me a faint smile, he nods. “Yeah, I do. I’m working on it, but obviously, I’m doing a piss-poor job.”

  “That’s for sure,” I retort. “Get in the passenger seat, let’s go. I’m tired, and I’m sure you’ll be glad to be rid of me as much as I will be of you.”

  My words aren’t true. While his anger toward me hurt, I also like him. I’ve enjoyed his company, for the most part. This ride would have been a lot longer and lonelier had Silas not been here.

  His eyebrows arch in surprise at my comment, but he remains silent and walks around the car. As the inside light fades, the grease smudge on his cheekbone catches my eye. Without hesitation, I reach for him, my finger wiping at his warm, smooth skin. He stills, a groan escaping his lips as I lick my thumb and try again. It’s then that my movements stutter. Oh, God. I smeared my spit on his cheek.

  His eyes are now heavy-lidded as his hand wraps my wrist, stopping my movements. Our rapt gazes are fixed on each other. The silence is thick, the rapid thumping of my heart and my shallow breathing deafening.

  Breaking the tenuous moment, he removes my hand from his face and places it on my lap. “Thanks, Mom,” he croaks, clearing his throat as he opens the glove box. “Is there any sanitizer or wipes?”

  “Um, yes, here.” I hand him the small bottle. My voice is gravelly and strange, even to my ears.

  What just happened? Instead of him being grossed out by having my saliva on his face, we had this weird, brief connection—but now it’s gone. I’m tired; I must have imagined it.

  We slip back into silence and start driving. At first, the comfortable solitude doesn’t bother me, but the longer neither of us speaks, the more anxious I become.

  Opening the peanut M&Ms, I put a few in my mouth. I’m not hungry, but I need something to do, like driving isn’t enough. I scour my mind for something to say, something to fill the silence and put us back into comfortable conversation, but as fate would have it, another disaster unfolds.

  The car slows, sputtering and shuddering. Honestly, I can’t believe this. Why is this happening? Having no clue what’s wrong, I pull over and the engine dies, plunging us into darkness.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” I flip on my phone flashlight and try to figure out what’s wrong.

  It only takes seconds, and once I guess at the cause, nausea overwhelms me. My stomach twists as bile climbs up my tight throat. Silas is going to lose his shit.

  “We’re out of gas,” I whisper, staring at the gas tank indicator. Without a doubt, that’s the issue.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” He slams both hands flat onto the dashboard.

  I shriek and jump at his outburst. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Guilt coils in the pit of my stomach.

  I’m one hundred percent responsible; I should have filled the tank when we stopped at the gas station. Instead, I was so caught up in my road trip partner that my brain left the building.

  “That’s painfully obvious. Do you ever think?” Snatching my phone, he taps on the screen. “Dammit, no signal. We gotta call a local garage or something.” His furious glare causes a sharp jerk in my chest.

  Shrinking into my seat, I wish I could disappear. I bite down on my lower lip, trying to stop the trembling as the sting in my eyes and throat intensifies. Tears course down my face. Holding my breath, I struggle to stem my tears and get myself under control.

  It’s not only Silas and his nasty words that have brought my weeping on; it’s the culmination of the past two weeks—shit, the past few years—squeezing at my heart, shredding my pride. The growing pressure in my head forces me to gulp for air.

  “Fuck, seriously?” His harsh tone and apparent disdain jabs at me as I fall apart.

  “Fuck off,” I scream. “Get the hell out of here.”

  He jerks back as I lunge at him with my fists flying, aiming for any part of his body I can reach—his hard pecs, his defined biceps, his strong jaw. With each hit, he grunts, commanding me to stop. His hands cuff my wrists, bringing them together toward my chest. Yanking me to him, one arm around my back and the other tucked between us, he secures my fists.

  I slump and burrow into him, sobbing at how pathetic my life is. For once, why can’t luck be on my side? Why can’t things go my way?

  His hold is firm, his inviting masculine scent soothing. My rapid breaths and the pounding of my heart steady with the security of his warm embrace, despite the ache of his rotten words.

  “Shh,” he soothes, rubbing small circles on my back. “I’m sorry, I really am. We’re royally screwed, aren’t we?”

  He loosens his hold at my push, his soft beard brushing my forehead and a few strands of my hair catch. As we disentangle ourselves, he laughs, releasing my hands.

  “I’m sorry.” My lips wobble as I flatten my hands on his solid upper body.

  “Shh,” he murmurs, his finger gently touching my lips.

  His rumble vibrates from his chest into my palms and down to my belly. My tongue darts out, grazing his finger on my mouth. Blinking back the dampness in my vision, I sigh at the tangy flavor of his flesh, shuddering as I swallow the taste of him.

  His hand moves to cup my cheek, each sweep of his thumb eliciting quivers along my spine. His lips land on mine, sharp and hungry. His beard tickles, intensifying the tingles from within. Sliding his hand to cup the back of my neck, with a squeeze, he pulls me nearer. My eyelids flutter closed.

  Lost to the sensation of his tongue licking my lips, I moan into his mouth. His arm tightens around me, his fingers dig into my hip, and I don’t want to ever come up for air. I could stay like this forever, lips locked with Silas Palmer—not the famous rock star or the irate man, but sweet, sexy Silas who’s sucking on my tongue like candy.

  Kissing Pansy is different. Better. Not what I’m used to. I make it a rule not to kiss groupies—it complicates things—but on the rare occasion where I’ve had too much to drink, been lost in the moment and gone in for a kiss, I’ve regretted it. Usually, the woman wants to eat me alive, consume me, and not in a good way.

  This kiss is different. She knows how to kiss. It’s soft and teasing. She tastes like milk chocolate and peanuts, sweet and savory. I want to devour her. As I bring her closer, her breasts graze my pecs, and she moans into my mouth, her hands digging into my shoulders. I’ve got you.

  I should pull away. I was a major asshole to her, letting my temper get the best of me yet again. It’s not her fault I was dumped on the side of the road or that I’ve got all this anger bottled inside me. Months of keeping your mouth shut when you should speak up will do that to you, not to mention the other shit from my past that only brings me rage.

  My dick’s hard, straining against my zipper at having her in my arms, but this can’t go anywhere. She’s vulnerable. She was just crying in my arms, and I was consoling her. Truthfully, I’ve wanted to kiss her since she stared me down on the road, and now that I have my chance, I don’t want to let up. I’m going for broke.

  I anchor my hands to her hips and lift, our lips fusing as she willingly climbs onto my lap. Her legs straddle me, knees folded under her at the sides of my thighs, and as she sinks into me, a groan slips out.

  Needing to touch her further, my hands roam her collarbone, her skin silky and warm. Threading her fingers through my hair, she yanks me deeper into her mouth. Succumbing to her wet warmth, my eyes close. Our matching sighs mingle and fade.

  Flashes skitter across my closed eyelids, distracting and dragging me from my Pansy-induced haze. Confused, I blink a few times. Pansy pulls away, breathless, and her voice sounds conf
used.

  “Silas?”

  Flickering red, blue and white beams of a police cruiser illuminate the interior of the car like a nightclub. Her eyes are huge, and her mouth’s open in surprise.

  “What the hell?”

  A cop raps his hand forcefully on our window.

  “Oh, my God,” Pansy says, her voice shaky.

  Opening the door, she climbs out. Keeping my hand on her hip, I step out and pull her close. We peer at the cop standing less than three feet from us, his hand on the holster of his gun. He’s a big guy, easily six foot four, and wide.

  “Hands where I can see them. Sir, step away from the lady.” His voice is a deep baritone, authoritative.

  While I’m reluctant to let her go, it’s not wise to argue with a police officer. We step apart and make sure our hands are in front of us, easily visible.

  “Who’s the owner of this vehicle?”

  “Um, it’s my sister’s car,” Pansy responds, her voice uneven and small.

  “License and registration, ma’am.”

  She stutters, “U-Um, they’re in the car.”

  Nodding, he instructs us to walk to the front of the car, telling me to place my hands on the hood. Standing back from us, he looks on keenly as she retrieves her identification and hands it to him. Then, speaking to me, he says, “Your identification, sir.”

  “It’s in my front pocket.” I cautiously fish it out of my jeans and send a prayer of thanks; finally, something is working in my favor. I’m fortunate to have my driver’s license; at least I had that on me when I was tossed.

  We silently obey as he instructs us to stand with our feet shoulder-width apart. He pats us down, and while he’s rough and quick with me, he takes his sweet-ass time roaming his hands over Pansy’s body. I practically swallow my tongue to prevent myself from losing my shit. Finally, he goes to the cruiser, not once taking his eyes off us.

  Glancing at Pansy, I try to catch her eye, but she refuses to face me. Her head’s glancing down at the hood. I want to say something to reassure her that everything will be fine—after all, we’re no longer stranded. The cop will help us get gas, I’m sure of it.

  Upon his return, his voice is gruff as he states, “Pansy Dobson, you’re under arrest…”

  She gasps, and I jerk as he drones on about her rights.

  “Wait, this is her sister’s car,” I stress, taking my hand off the car, completely forgetting my moves aren’t mine to make. I’m suspended in some fucked-up moment where I have no free will.

  Before I even know what’s happening, I’m airborne. The cop has my hands behind my back, and I’m facedown on the ground. Dirt and dust waft into my mouth and nostrils, and his knee drills into my back. I’m stunned—getting flipped onto the terrain knocked the wind out of me. Ringing in my ears drowns all sound, until Pansy’s crying eventually cuts through.

  “Oh, my God. Silas, I’m sorry.” There’s something to her voice that suggests she’s not as clueless as I am.

  The cop reads me my rights and slaps handcuffs on my wrists, hauling me to standing. She’s now in my view, hands still planted on the hood, but she’s sobbing and shaking.

  “Do. Not. Move. Or you’ll regret it,” he orders her while he drags me to the car and throws me in.

  As I struggle to sit, I cough up the crap I inhaled while on the ground. He’s fucking manhandling Pansy as if she’s a toy, cuffing her and throwing her into the back seat beside me.

  “Hey,” I murmur softly as she tries to sit up.

  “Not a word out of either of you.” His voice is ice.

  “I can explain,” she attempts as he whips around, glaring at us. I’m thankful for the metal grid separating him from us.

  “Shut up. Now.”

  Slinking back into the seat, she squeezes her eyes shut and bites her lower lip to stifle her cries. Anger boils within me at her fear; I want her to feel safe, protected. I am also curious as to what she can explain. It’s likely a mix-up with her sister, and this will all be sorted soon. It has to be.

  With slow, deep breaths, I try to steady my heart rate as he arranges for the car to be towed. He then calls the police station to tell them he’s bringing us in.

  We roll into town about thirty minutes later, and the irony isn’t lost on me: I desperately wanted to get here, to catch up with the tour bus, and now I’d rather be any place else.

  Once we’re in the station, the officer deposits us in chairs and walks a few feet away to a desk. Pansy uses the opportunity to whisper hurriedly, “I’m sorry, Silas. It’s all my fault. I took my sister’s car without her permission. This is her way of punishing me. I’ll get you out of this.”

  I’m dumbfounded by her revelation, and irritation builds at the sheer absurdity of it all. Seriously? This is all a case of siblings squabbling, and somehow, I’m stuck in the middle. It doesn’t matter that with one phone call I’ll walk away from this—I’m angry. This is the cherry on top of a fucking shit-tastic day.

  “Shut up,” the officer barks. He waits until he’s satisfied we’ll be silent before he turns back to his task.

  “How fucking stupid are you?” I say coldly through gritted teeth. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. When this is all over, leave me the fuck alone.”

  Silas’s cruel, razor-sharp words are a kick to the stomach. I get that he’s handcuffed and being threatened with jail time because of Ivy—well, really because of me—but he’s no different than the rest of them.

  He called Ivy and Cody dicks, but he’s the biggest dickwad of them all. I thought he saw me for who I am, that he got me. I believed he was special. He’s not. He’s no better than them.

  When I turn my back to him, he scoffs at what I’m sure he thinks is my immaturity or further stupidity. We wait in silence and are eventually separated when I’m taken to a holding room, where an officer finally uncuffs and questions me.

  I should ask for a lawyer, but I’m sure Ivy will show soon. This whole thing reeks of her—never mind the wasted time, money, and energy used to “punish” me in this manner.

  During my interrogation, it becomes clear that the officer likes me, or at the very least, he’s sympathetic to my situation. He shares tidbits about Silas even though he shouldn’t—Silas has been released, his one phone call leading to his ticket to freedom.

  I’m glad I’ll never see that asshole again. Even if he did write a beautiful song and we had some sweet and memorable moments, I’ll never forgive or forget the horrid things he said to me. He called me stupid, again. Enough is enough. I’m done with that.

  I finally ask for my phone call, and I’m told to sit tight. Alone in the holding cell, that’s what I do: sit and wonder how I got here, if or when Ivy is going to come, and what happens next.

  During the night—I have no clue what time it is—a guard comes for me. Fortunately, he doesn’t cuff me again, and he leads me to the front of the station.

  Ivy’s pushes off the discharge desk when she sees me and heads my way. The stabbing staccato of her expensive high heels is the maddening music to my walk of shame. Contrary to my rumpled appearance, she’s so prim and proper in her crisp beige suit. Not a strand of her strawberry blonde bob is out of place, and her makeup is flawless. Perfect—that’s Ivy.

  “Pansy.” My name is blasphemy on her lips. “How could you?”

  I stare blankly at her, trying in vain to keep my emotions in check. This day has been from hell, and I can’t handle much more. All I want is a cardboard box to crawl into and sleep. A homeless shelter sounds wonderful about now.

  She natters on about how disappointed she is in me, chastising me for stealing her car. Yes, she says stealing, and she’s sure to tell me it doesn’t change a thing. She’s not supporting me. I’m on my own. The clock in the precinct indicates it’s five fifty-three in the morning. No wonder I’m exhausted—I’ve been up for nearly twenty-four hours.

  As we walk outside into the cool morning air, I sigh, stretch, and smile. I wasn’t locked up l
ong, but I embrace my freedom. Glancing at my sister, I see her annoyance at me written all over her face.

  “Ivy, this is where we say goodbye.” My tone is devoid of emotion.

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “I have no clue, but one thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to be around you. I’ll always love you, but I don’t like you. I’m sorry I borrowed your car. Yes, it was wrong and selfish, but I’m sick and tired of you telling me I’m stupid. I’m not. I’ve got a higher than average IQ and a 4.0 GPA.” I only say those things because they matter to her. “Goodbye, Ivy.”

  “Pansy, stop being stu—” I shoot her an icy glare as I pass her on the steps. “Don’t go, let’s talk.”

  “I’ll text you when I’m settled.”

  She calls after me as I head down the road, only concerned with finding a motel. I’ve got savings, and while I’ll have to be smart with my pennies, I need to sleep before I figure out my next move.

  I’m not even ten minutes from the station when a black Range Rover pulls up beside me, and the driver’s window rolls down. Silas.

  “You need a ride?” He grins sheepishly.

  Scoffing, I dismiss him with a flick of my hair before walking on. He’s crazy. Did he forget what he said to me?

  “No. Get away and leave me alone.” The fleeting satisfaction of using his words on him warms me.

  Behind me, the car door slams, and seconds later, he’s at my side, pulling on my hand. My eyes narrow into slits as his twinkle with amusement. He smiles awkwardly, big and bright, trying to soften me.

  “I’m really sorry. I’m the fuck-up this time,” he confesses. “I met your sister, Ivy, and I get it.”

  “Ivy has nothing to do with this. You called me stupid—I’m not. I’m tired of people treating me like I’m dumb.”

  “You’re not stupid, not by a long shot, and I never should’ve said that. I’m the one who’s stupid.”

  “No, you’re not,” I interrupt. I don’t like that word being used for anyone. It’s wrong and hurtful.