Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  Nope. Those Dramamine makers are some seriously honest fucking marketers.

  I lower her to my big, cushy L-shaped couch. She sinks into it and shifts to her side. I yank a beige throw blanket from the arm. It’s made of chenille—Mia told me when she gave it to me—and I cover Henley with it. A few strands of hair flutter across her cheek as she breathes, slow and even. Gently, I brush the strands off her face. She moves, flopping to her back.

  I brace, figuring this is when she wakes up and curses me out. Except Henley doesn’t curse. She just gives me shit.

  She keeps snoozing, and even though I should get up and make myself busy, I stare at her for a little longer. I guess that makes me a freak, but if so, I’ll wave the flag. Because, damn, this girl is so pretty to look at that it’s hard to tear my gaze away. With her zonked out under a blanket, the sun casting afternoon rays over her skin, she seems so angelic. No one who saw her this second would be able to tell that there’s a tiger inside this woman.

  It’s fierce and fiery, with claws as sharp as she needs them to be. But today, those claws have retracted, and I’ve seen another side to her. A side I almost wish I didn’t know existed, since I have no clue what to do about it.

  I drag my fingers roughly through my hair, as if that will shake off these foreign feelings. Then I stop. I just fucking stop the weird staring at her.

  Because . . . I’m not that creepy.

  My stomach rumbles. I head to the kitchen, slap together a quick sandwich, and chow down. Then I hang out with my laptop, sketching plans for the car as the sun dips lower in the sky, then lower still, till the flaming peach rays of the sunset flare across the horizon.

  Henley stirs and flips to her side, her arm dangling off the couch. But her eyes don’t open. I bury myself in work for another hour until I hear her voice.

  “Did you kidnap me?”

  I look up from the screen to find her sitting up and stretching on the couch. “‘Nap’ being the operative word. Wait—it’s more like a sleep coma you’ve been in.”

  She rubs her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Just past seven.”

  She blinks. “Seriously?”

  I nod. “You’ve been out of it for five hours. I would have brought you to your place, but you were dead to the world, and I didn’t know the address.”

  She exhales deeply as she looks around my pad, taking in the huge windows and the vast space. “This is like a palace.”

  I smile. “Thanks. I like it here. How are you feeling?”

  She stretches her neck from side to side, inhales deeply, and nods. “Worlds better. Thank you.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  She yawns again, covering her mouth. Then she says, “Any chance you have an extra toothbrush? I need to brush my teeth.”

  “I do,” I say, then show her the bathroom. I grab a toothbrush from a drawer, popping it out of the pack.

  “Is that so you have extra for women?”

  “No. It’s so I have extra for me. I happen to be quite aggressive with toothbrushes. I go through one a week.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “You’re a toothbrush abuser?”

  I nod. “I am and I’m not afraid to admit it. The dentist says I need to tone it down, but I prefer to think of myself as a power user. I brush often and vigorously, and I’ve invested in toothbrush stock.”

  She bounces as if this makes her outrageously happy. “I love to go wild on toothbrushes, too.” She checks out her reflection in the mirror, and her jaw drops. She spins around.

  “Max,” she whispers in awe as she stares at a particular bathroom fixture.

  “What is it?”

  She points then walks as if in a trance to the tub. She falls to her knees and hugs the rim. “You have a claw-foot tub. Marry me now.”

  I crack up. “How about tomorrow morning? City Hall is nearby, but it’s closed for the night.”

  She frowns. “Do you have any idea how small my shower is?”

  I shake my head. “No. Tell me how small it is.”

  “It’s the size of a high school gym locker.” She strokes the edge of the white marble tub. “This feels incredible. A claw-foot tub is pretty much the greatest thing in the world. And you want to know the worst part?” She stands and marches over to me, narrowing her eyes. “It’s wasted on you.”

  I furrow my brow. “Why would you say that?”

  She flings her arm out at the tub. “It’s beautiful and perfect and pristine.”

  I laugh again. “I like to keep my home clean.”

  “You probably never even use it.”

  That’s when I laugh the hardest. I raise an eyebrow. “Surprise. I use it plenty.”

  She cocks her head to the separate shower stall. It’s much larger than a locker. It’s the size of most bathrooms. “You have a ginormous shower and a claw-foot tub, and you use the tub?” Her eyes bug out.

  “Not all the time. But yeah, I do use it.”

  She points at me, swiveling her finger. “You? You like to soak in the tub?”

  I nod proudly. “Bubble bath. Bath bombs. The whole nine yards, tiger.” I’m not the least bit embarrassed to admit this to her, maybe because she’s slept on my chest, and my shoulder, and my couch.

  She shakes her head like this doesn’t compute. “I’ve never known a man to like baths.”

  I shrug. “Guess you don’t know this man.”

  A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Guess I don’t.”

  I reach into the medicine cabinet and hand her some minty Crest, then leave her alone.

  When she emerges a few minutes later, she makes a declaration.

  18

  Henley’s To-Do List

  * * *

  —Tell him your fish theory.

  * * *

  —Say thank-you profusely because, holy moly, I was a mess on the ferry!

  * * *

  —Ask Olivia what the hell this means. My bestie always knows this stuff.

  * * *

  —Find a way to steal Max’s tub.

  * * *

  —Idea: slip him some Dramamine and spend the night in the tub?

  * * *

  —Bad idea. Keep your eye on the ball. This is your big chance.

  * * *

  —Don’t blow it.

  19

  “Fish scent.”

  I arch a brow as she stands at the dining room table, an aha look on her face.

  “Feel free to elaborate so that your random declaration makes sense.”

  “They use the scent of a fish. Penn and Teller.” She paces around the table, a eureka sort of excitement radiating off her. “Think about it. Perfume makers can bottle any sort of scent, from roses to peach to lilies to disgusting scents like ash or smoke. Why not the scent of a fish? Maybe the magicians use a fake fish, but it seems totally real because—well, let’s be honest, anything can be made to look real.”

  I nod. “Sure. Hollywood. CGI. I’m with you,” I say, because of course I’ve considered the fake fish idea before.

  “But fish has a very noticeable smell. If they want the fish to appear real, it has to smell real, too. That would seem to be the sticking point. But scents can be manufactured, too. What if they made a fishy smell?”

  A grin spreads across my face. “That’s kind of brilliant.”

  She winks. “I’m good at figuring things out.” She grabs a chair next to me, sets her hands on the table, and clears her throat. “Max, thank you. Seriously. Thank you for taking care of me today. I had no idea I was going to be that out of it. And you were a true gentleman. It means the world to me. If I were you, I’d have mocked me all day. But you didn’t, and I appreciate that so much.”

  “I wouldn’t mock you for having an adverse reaction to a drug. Besides, it’s not that adverse to be drowsy.”

  “Can I get you dinner or something? Wait,” she says, slashing her hand through the air as if she’s erasing the thought. “Want to order in and then, you know, try to
do some work on the car? Since we didn’t get to it earlier and you’re about as much of a work junkie as I am.” She shoots me a knowing smile.

  “Which would mean I’m obsessed with it?”

  She smiles. “Yes.”

  “Guilty as charged. Also, I love your plan, and I did some work today that I’d like to show you. Do you like Thai?”

  “It’s my favorite, and it will be my treat. I insist. You did let me get acquainted with your couch all day long, after all.”

  “Pretty sure the couch enjoyed its day, too,” I say, and it sounds like I’m flirting with her. Maybe we’re making progress.

  We spend the next few hours diving into noodles and chicken satay as we debate some of the features of our hero’s Lambo. We settle on a few, and I’m remarkably surprised at how well we work together. I expected a bloody battle. But then, up until the Mustang fiasco, we always did work well together.

  When the clock ticks toward ten, she says, “I guess I should go.”

  There’s a note of longing in her voice. I don’t know what to make of it, and I’m not going to attempt to read the tea leaves of Henley, so I ask if she wants me to order an Uber.

  She doesn’t answer right away, and my heart stutters, wondering what she wants. She doesn’t want to stay over, does she? Oh shit. Is she game for my favorite indulgence ever? A burst of red-hot excitement tears through my body over the possibilities, even though it would be so immensely stupid to screw her. I tell myself that over and over as I wait for her to speak again.

  Please say you want to stay so I can bang you against the wall.

  Shit. No. I work with this woman. I can’t do that. Must extinguish all wall-banging urges immediately. I shut my eyes momentarily, snuffing them out.

  “Unless . . .”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lips and my dick hardens. Screw the wall. The dining room table works just fine. Lift her up, spread her legs, make her fucking soar in pleasure.

  Except, she’s not looking at me with sex eyes. She’s staring at my bathroom.

  She doesn’t want me. She wants my fucking tub. Great. Just great.

  “Just say it,” I urge.

  “Say what?”

  “You’re only being nice to me for access to the bath.”

  “That’s so not true.”

  “Say it.”

  “It’s not true,” she says, but I hear the smirk in her voice.

  “Henley,” I say, adopting a tone as if I’m talking to a kid, “do you want to take a bath?”

  “Oh God, I do, I do, I do.” There’s nothing childish about her reply. She sounds desperate, full of desire. Like that, with her big, brown eyes, her sweet, sexy smile, her brown hair spilling down her shoulders, she’s irresistible. She’s the lion, she’s the tiger, and she’s the kitten you can’t not take home.

  That’s why I somehow decide it’s perfectly suitable for this gorgeous creature to be naked in my apartment while I’m in another room. “Do it.”

  She claps with glee. “I remembered reason five why I make a good girlfriend.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m very neat in the bathroom, and I always put the towels and bubble bath away.”

  I nod in the direction of the tub. “Get your ass in the tub or I’ll rescind my offer.”

  She does, snapping shut the door to the bathroom. A few seconds later, the sound of running water fills the air. The image of her stripping to nothing fills my brain.

  “Idiot,” I mutter to myself, as I pour a glass of Scotch to get me through this Herculean challenge. “Do you fucking like torture?”

  Evidently, I do.

  But I also like it when she calls my name twenty minutes later. I leave the living room and my empty Scotch glass, and stand at the door of the bathroom. My hand is on the doorknob. She can’t possibly want me to come in, can she?

  “Max,” she shouts again, “I have an idea for the wheels.”

  “You want to just shout through the door, or do you think it can wait till you get out?” I ask drily.

  “It can’t wait! You have to come in.”

  No. No. Just no. Just no fucking way. This is a trick. A setup. A test. And if it’s none of those, it’s definitely a very bad idea.

  “You’re in the tub, Henley,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

  Water sloshes loudly from the tub, hitting the floor. “I know, and it’s to die for. I’m also covered in bubbles, so don’t worry. You won’t see any of my girlfriend parts.”

  I laugh, a hearty chuckle from deep in my belly. She’s killing me with the girlfriend or non-girlfriend routine. But even though my hand is wrapped tight around the doorknob, common sense has me in its grip. “I’ll catch you when you’re not naked.”

  “Max, I swear I’m decent. I used so many bubbles I’m going to need to replace your ocean bubble bath. By the way, it’s super manly, so you won’t have to worry about me smelling like a girl. I smell like a dude, and I want to talk about tires. Get in here. Think of me as one of the guys.”

  One of the guys. One of the guys. One of the guys. She could never be one of the guys, but I let myself believe my own line of bullshit.

  It’s my excuse for doing something I shouldn’t do.

  For turning the knob.

  For pushing open the door.

  For stepping into the warm, steamy bathroom that smells like the ocean. The feminine ocean.

  For shutting the door.

  Most of all, for looking at her. She’s like a dark-haired mermaid, a Venus of the sea.

  Her hair is twisted high on her head in a messy bun. Her knees poke out of the water. Her arms rest on the edge of the tub. Her body, as promised, is submerged under gobs and gobs of bubbles.

  None of the cover-up matters.

  I can imagine her nudity perfectly.

  My throat dries. I try to swallow. It’s like a desert in my mouth. I should look away. I should be cool with this. But I can’t. I just fucking can’t.

  “So here’s what I was thinking . . .” She launches into her idea for the wheels as I cross my arms and lean against the door. Everything she says sounds good, and everything she does drives me fucking crazy. I listen, and I try not to stare. Then, I listen and I stare unabashedly. She’s so normal about this, as if it’s acceptable to lounge naked in my tub at this hour and discuss a car.

  It’s not normal.

  It’s insanely arousing.

  It’s ridiculously hot.

  And I’m so fucking turned on I can barely take it. Everything about this moment is wildly inappropriate, and yet she’s chattering on about how the rubber meets the road.

  She stares at me. “What do you think?”

  “Sounds good,” I mutter.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Great.”

  She narrows her eyes and shifts ever so slightly but just enough for the rosy peak of her right nipple to rise above the bubbles before it sinks back down.

  There’s no breath in my lungs. There’s no blood in my brain. I can’t think. I can only want. I want her so much. And I hate that I feel this way.

  “You think so?”

  I blink, and then I unravel. “Yeah. Look. I said it’s great,” I say roughly. Then I point at her, waving dismissively. “And you need to fucking wrap it up.”

  “What?” she asks, blinking.

  “I’m tired.” Anger colors my tone. “You should go.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She sounds chastened, a dog with her tail between her legs, but I can’t care. I leave, slamming the door shut.

  I hear water splashing around, then the suction of the drain.

  20

  Three minutes later, she stands at the door, hastily dressed, damp strands from her bun hitting her face. “Are you okay?”

  I rub my hand across the back of my neck, not answering her question. “I ordered an Uber. I gave it an address I knew in SoHo. You’ll need to adjust it to yours. But it’s on my account.”

  “Okay.” T
o say she seems hurt would be a gross understatement. She looks precisely like what she is—a woman being kicked out of a man’s pad. “Did I do something wrong?”

  I grit my teeth, trying to rein in my annoyance. But it slithers up, fighting to break free. I clench my fists. “I can’t talk to you while you’re naked in the tub. Don’t you get that? That’s just fucking wrong. We work together. We can’t be this chummy. This whole night was a huge mistake.”

  Her eyes widen, starting to fill with tears, but she draws a deep, shaky breath. “Message received.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” I say, because I can’t be a total dick.

  “That’s not necessary.” Her voice is hard again.

  “I’m doing it anyway.”

  She narrows her eyes and looks away, then yanks open my door. She walks two paces ahead and stabs the down button at the elevator. When it arrives, we ride in silence. We reach the lobby, and she says, “I can take it from here.”

  I don’t listen to her. I walk her out the door to the curb and make sure she’s safely inside the white Honda.

  She doesn’t say good-bye. I don’t either. I seethe as I head back upstairs.

  I stalk down the hallway, so much fucking annoyance rolling off me that I swear I can smell it—the fumes of my own frustration.

  I reach my place, and the second the door slams shut behind me, my belt is undone, my hand is in my briefs, and I grab my cock. My aching, throbbing, insistent cock.

  I stroke hard, letting the back of my head hit the door, shutting my eyes. Roughly, with one desperate goal, I grip my shaft and I jack it.

  I can’t take this. I can’t stand being this attracted to her.

  Wanting to touch her.

  Wanting to fuck her.

  Wanting to kiss her.

  Wanting to fucking get to know her. Most of all, I can’t stand that. How much I’m starting to like her, and I can’t like her. I just fucking can’t.