Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  * * *

  Henley: Yes, I can be quite fast. You may have noticed.

  * * *

  The memory of her coming hard in less than two minutes flashes before me. Not like it’s ever far away, but now it’s front and center, and I’m fucking aroused as I walk to the shop. My mind is an old film reel, snapping over the same frame again.

  Henley on the yellow Challenger, her legs spread, crying out my name.

  As surreptitiously as I can, I adjust my jeans. The movie camera operator toys with me, switching to the scene with her bent over the hood, one lovely cheek exposed.

  She was so willing, so ready, so damn turned on, too.

  That’s exactly what I am right now, and it’s going to be a problem to work like this.

  I need the antidote, so I stop at Duane Reade on the corner and head to the cold, cough, and flu section of the store. No, I’m not sick—and if I were, I’d make my brother prescribe some good shit since I hate being sick with a passion. But a quick survey of all the potential afflictions, from a twenty-four-hour stomach bug to a phlegmy cough, are enough to make me the opposite of horny. Ah, this is the true Deflategate, thank you very much, cold meds.

  My eyes wander to the nearby Dramamine. They’re the orange tabs, the ones she likes.

  Ah hell. It can’t hurt for the woman to have some on hand the next time she’s on a boat.

  Not with me, obviously, since I have no plans to take her anywhere. It’ll just be wise for her to be prepared.

  As I head to the checkout, my shoes seem to stop reflexively at the gourmet aisle. I scrub a hand across my jaw, considering a shelf of treats.

  Maybe just one more item.

  When I return to the shop, Henley’s gone, but her handiwork has been left behind, and it’s fucking fantastic.

  Max: Nice work. I’m giving it a platinum star.

  * * *

  Henley: Lucky me. I had no idea your reward system went so high.

  * * *

  Max: I’m quite generous at times.

  * * *

  Henley: Generous. That’s a good way to describe certain . . .

  * * *

  Max: Certain . . . what?

  * * *

  Henley: Parts of you.

  * * *

  Max: Glad those parts could be of service.

  * * *

  Henley: I’m giving your shop high marks.

  * * *

  Max: Anything to improve on?

  * * *

  Henley: Not sure. I might need another fuel injection before I can answer that question.

  * * *

  I run my thumb over her last text, stopping on the two words that tell me all I need to know. Might and another. As I read them, something inside my chest that has held me back rattles loose. I know with bone-deep certainty that I want another night with her. I needed to know she wanted it, too.

  Knowing it changes everything, but it changes nothing. She’s still the competition. She’s still the lead builder at my biggest rival. She’s still dangerous.

  I’m well aware working with the competition on a project is one thing, while screwing her is entirely another. Sex is like liquor; it numbs the judgment center of your brain. It breaks down your guard. It makes you stupid.

  But I tell myself I’ll be careful. A two-night stand won’t hurt anything. I’ll be cautious. I’ll keep a seat belt on at all times with her.

  And really, don’t seat belts protect you from any damage?

  I don’t let myself answer that question. Instead, I answer her.

  * * *

  Max: Had a feeling you’d want to take the car for another test drive.

  * * *

  Henley: I do enjoy seeing what sort of maximum speeds we can achieve.

  * * *

  Max: I’d enjoy seeing a hot ride stripped down to nothing.

  * * *

  Henley: I’d be amenable to that. And soon.

  * * *

  Max: I’d be amenable to that, say, tonight.

  * * *

  Henley: Tonight could be a hard one.

  * * *

  Max: Now is hard. Tonight is hard. It’s always hard.

  * * *

  Henley: Ha. Yes. I’ve noticed that, too.

  * * *

  Max: Seems you have wandering eyes.

  * * *

  Henley: Perhaps I do. They wander to hard rides.

  * * *

  Max: Wander over tonight then . . .

  * * *

  Henley: Might be tough.

  * * *

  I groan in frustration with that response. She could have a million reasons, but all I want right now is her yes, so I fire off the next text without thinking.

  * * *

  Max: Wait. Let me guess. You have a thing.

  * * *

  Henley: I do. I have this thing a lot. I have to go.

  * * *

  Max: Does this thing have a name?

  * * *

  Max: Should I call the thing it? Or does it prefer to go by the thing?

  * * *

  Max: Hmmm. You might want to check your phone. Seems it has stopped working. Maybe all that thinking about my hard ride did it in.

  * * *

  She doesn’t respond.

  That’s my cue to forget about her. No more flirting. No more texting. No more dirty innuendos. I can’t keep playing with fire. A sense of relief rushes over me that it’s over and done with. I haven’t crossed the line again. She’s still simply a one-night stand guilty pleasure. And that’s all she’ll be.

  Project Forget Henley starts with a long bike ride with Chase after work, which helps narrow my focus to the sole task of beating my speed demon brother. I do so by about ten seconds.

  “Killed it,” I say, panting hard after our twenty miles on the Hudson River Greenway.

  “You must be juicing.”

  I scowl. “Yeah, I’m on ’roids. You figured me out.”

  Chase gives me a studious stare. “You’re still grouchy today. I guess that means you didn’t sort out your little issue?” He grabs my shoulder. “I’ve told you, man. The best doctor’s advice I can give you is that regular intercourse is good for your serotonin levels. Live a little and take the old dog out for a walk. It’ll make you smile again.”

  I give him a nice brotherly smack upside the head as we walk our bikes toward my building, the headlights of passing cars illuminating the twilit street. “That is not a problem.”

  “Does that mean Miss Monkey Bread succumbed to your charms? Wait. Sorry. You don’t have any.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m the motherfucking definition of charming,” I say, but the problem is I don’t know if Henley thinks so. I’ve made the woman scream my name, but I don’t have a clue what she thinks of me other than I’m a cruel bastard and an idiot who can’t locate zippers on combat boots.

  But honestly, the answer is she probably doesn’t think of me at all. She never replied.

  “Hey,” Chase says as we near my building, “did you ever think of the fact that succumb is a very dirty word hiding in the midst of everyday language? It’s basically suck . . .” He leaves a deliberate pause.

  I hold up a hand. “And come.”

  He narrows his brows, an inquisitive look in his eyes. “When you said that just now, did you spell it ‘c-o-m-e’ or ‘c-u-m’?”

  “Dude. Are we really discussing the spelling of fucking semen when we speak? Either way, let me assure you, Scrabble King, ‘c-u-m’ is not a word.”

  Chase shakes his head adamantly. “It so is. It’s the Latin word for with. As in summa cum laude.”

  “Says the summa cum laude graduate.” I clap his back. “Never a dull moment with you, genius.”

  As he straps his helmet back on so he can ride to Chelsea, he gives me a quick salute. “If the problem isn’t horizontal, maybe you’re grouchy because there’s another issue you need to sort out.”

  I arch an eyebrow curiously. “What issue wou
ld that be?”

  “Tell the girl you like her. Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “I don’t recall giving you that precise advice.”

  “But you meant to, I’m sure,” he says, then flashes me a winning smile. I flip him the bird as he rides off into the night.

  As I lock up my bike in the building, I’m not so sure what I mean to do with Henley. My intentions are a malleable thing these days. They seem to be at war with my actions, as well as my best interests.

  After I cook myself dinner and catch up with Mia on the phone—she tells me she’s won the new deal for her company, and that she went with the coconut face wash—I decide to have a soak. It’s been a while since I indulged in that pastime. I find my favorite new playlist, turn up the volume, and set the phone on the plush white bath mat on the tiled floor.

  I haven’t used the tub since the night Henley was in it, and as I slide under the hot water I do my damnedest not to think about how the white marble touched her soft skin. I close my eyes and sink down into the steamy heat, the water sloshing precariously near the edge.

  I do nothing for a few minutes, and it’s what I need most right now.

  Silent contemplation. A blank mind.

  As I try to sort out the haze in my head, my phone rings. I blink open my eyes and peer over the edge of the tub. The name flashing on the screen is a gift from the gods. I consider diving out of the tub and onto the floor so I won’t miss the call. But I’m a quick draw, even in water, so I grab a towel, dry my hand, and answer.

  30

  “Broken Cell Phone Repair Shop,” I say.

  Her soft laugh greets me. “It drives you crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “Many things do. Be more specific.”

  “Not knowing what my thing is.”

  “Nope.”

  “I had a ton of meetings and stuff tonight. Just getting back to messages now.”

  That sounds reasonable enough. I lean back, resting my head against the marble. Water splashes.

  “Are you in my tub?” she asks.

  “No. I’m in mine.”

  “Are you naked?”

  “No, I’m wearing flannel pajamas.”

  “Did you get me hot chocolate?”

  Damn. She’s like Babe Ruth calling his shot. I’m fucking impressed. “Depends on whether you deserve it.”

  My phone buzzes again. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s the doorman. “One second,” I say, then click over.

  “Hello, Mr. Summers. There’s someone here to see you. She says her name is Tiger.”

  My grin is too wide to contain. “Send her up.”

  Two minutes later, I answer the door, a towel wrapped around my waist, drops of water sliding down my chest, my hair slicked back.

  The breath rushes from my lungs as I drink her in. She wears dark jeans so tight they look painted on, black sling-back heels, and a clingy red top. From her finger dangles a black leather jacket. She leans against the doorframe. “I’m here for my hot chocolate,” Henley says.

  “How do you know I really bought you some?”

  “You wanted to lure me here. You set a hot chocolate trap because you’re dying to know what I’m up to.”

  I snort. “Wow. What an elaborate snare I’ve devised.” I open the door wider and indicate with my eyes that she should come in. She does and I close the door. “And this is all because it drives me crazy not to know what you do in the evenings?”

  “It drives you batty, right?”

  I shake my head as I pad across the floor to the kitchen. “Can I get you something? Scotch? Wine? Soda? Water? Arsenic? Hot chocolate?”

  She winks. “Hot chocolate. Hold the arsenic.”

  The click of her shoes echoes as she follows me into the kitchen. I grab some milk from the fridge, pour it into a small saucepan, and heat it up, stirring it with a whisk. She eyes my work approvingly.

  When the milk is warm, I pour it into a mug, then I snag the gourmet hot chocolate I picked up for her. It’s Godiva. I scoop some into the mug, stir in the mix, and hand her the cup.

  She takes a drink.

  “Mmm,” she murmurs as she closes her eyes. “Now this,” she says, tapping the ceramic, “this I like.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Good to know.”

  She sets it down. “You don’t want to know what my thing is?”

  “I think you want to tell me,” I say. If she came all the way downtown to taunt me about my jealousy, then I’m going to make her work for it tonight.

  “You think I’m involved with someone. You think I see him after work. You think I go somewhere and see a guy.”

  I grit my teeth at the images she paints but shake my head in my best denial.

  “Do you?” she presses.

  I shrug so damn nonchalantly they’re going to photograph and frame this moment and hang it in a museum. Title: Unruffled. “I honestly forgot you even had a thing tonight.”

  “Liar,” she whispers with a sly smile.

  “Truth teller,” I say, tapping my chest. I leave the kitchen and head to my living room.

  “Max!” she calls out, stomping after me. Her fingers brush my right arm and I turn. She grabs my towel instead of the hand that she was presumably going for.

  Presumably.

  Either way I’m unfazed as the towel falls to the floor.

  I can’t say the same for her.

  Her eyes pop.

  They widen more as they drift down. She nibbles on the corner of her lip. She’s so fucking transparent, and I couldn’t be happier that she likes the view.

  “Want me to stay like this? Or is it going to be too distracting for you?”

  She huffs, grabs my towel from the floor, and chucks it at me. “Yes, Max. Your gigantic dick is super distracting.”

  I catch the towel easily. “Good,” I say, deliberately taking my sweet time hooking it back on, making sure the gigantic dick in question remains in her line of sight.

  I park my hands on my hips. “Now, what were we discussing?” I stare at the ceiling as if I’m trying to remember. I snap my fingers. “Right. You came over at nearly midnight to taunt me about whether I’m jealous about what you do after hours. Did I get that right, tiger?”

  She marches back into my kitchen, snags the cup, and parks herself in the doorway to the living room. She downs a big gulp of the hot chocolate as she stares at me. “No. I came over for the hot chocolate, and it’s so much better than coffee.”

  I’m not sure if that’s a compliment. I don’t know if it’s her way of saying I’m hot chocolate now, instead of coffee. As if I’ve moved up on her list of drinks. She’s here, so maybe I am cocoa to her. “Fine. You want me to say it, don’t you?”

  She wiggles her eyebrows, standing her ground in the kitchen doorway. “Yes.”

  I’m guessing she won’t join me until I give in, so I might as well. “I’m jealous. You win.”

  I sink down on the couch, and she struts over, plops down next to me, and runs one fingernail down my bare arm, over my bicep, along my forearm to my wrist. Inside, I shiver. Outside, I reveal nothing.

  She brings her face to my neck and licks me. The tip of her tongue traces a path to my ear, and it sets my blood on fire. I breathe out hard, saying her name like a warning. “Henley.”

  She says mine, too, in that sexy purr. “Max. I take dance classes at the Hudson.”

  I smirk. “You do?”

  She nods, a shy little smile on her lips. “I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Is that so hard to believe? Is it easier to believe that I’m screwing someone or seeing someone?” she asks, affronted.

  “I don’t want you screwing or seeing someone else.”

  She scoffs. “You’re insane if you think I’d let you do what you did to me on the car if I were screwing someone else.”

  My heart squeezes, and it feels like happiness and relief all at once. I’m so damn glad I was wrong. “I’m either insane or insanely jealous. Tell me about
this class.”

  I reach for her calves and slide off her black shoes, letting the heels fall to the floor. She tucks her feet under her as she answers. “It’s salsa, and it’s sexy, and I’m terrible at dancing. But I love it. My friend Olivia tried it and told me to give it a shot.”

  “I doubt you’re terrible.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m the worst student in the class.”

  Somehow, this makes me laugh. “There’s no way you’re the worst. And even if you are, it’s awesome that you love it anyway.”

  “Taking apart an engine is so easy compared to dancing,” she says as she takes another sip of her hot chocolate then wraps both hands around the mug. It’s so cute the way she clutches it. I want to take a picture of how she holds that cup. It’s yet another side of Henley—the girlie side.

  “Why do you say it’s hard for you?”

  “You have to get your feet right. You have to remember the steps. You have to move in time to the music. And you have to have a good partner. I had one, but he dropped out.”

  “He?”

  “Did you think I danced with a woman?”

  “I didn’t think about you dancing at all till two minutes ago.”

  “And what do you think now that you know?” she asks as she sets the cup on the coffee table.

  “That the thought of you dancing salsa with some guy the night after I made you come hard on the hood of a car makes me crazy.”