Love: In the Fast Lane

by Rie Warren

  “Theodore is my only child. And we’ve lost so much.”

  Another series of coughs found me sitting forward, my fingers wrapped tightly around the phone. “Do we need to see the doctor this week?”

  “You are turnin’ into an old woman, Nicky, not me. Just the wear and tear of old age.”

  I rubbed a hand down my face.

  “Wear and tear of a full life,” she added. “’Sides, you kept me young, yessiree.”

  “You used to say I gave you gray hair,” I joked.

  Her laugh walloped from her belly. “That too. But you’re past all that now, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was time for her to watch Jeopardy because she still thought that Alex Trebek was a “fine specimen” and getting closer to her age every year. Likewise, it was time for me to stop being so goddamn morose. We said our goodnights and hung up.

  Viper padded in and curled around my feet, better than a blazing fire. And all I could think about was how little time Mimi had left. I wasn’t ready to lose another.

  It seemed so fucking cliché to say I’d idolized my brother Daniel, but it was true.

  We’d grown up on the mean streets of Boston, Massachusetts, except they weren’t so mean when you had a silver spoon shoved in your mouth. What more was there to do but rebel? Something Daniel excelled at. And since he was two years my senior, I’d worshipped the anti-society, anti-establishment, angst-ridden fumes he rode on. We were laying tracks to distance ourselves from being anything like Dad—the suit-wearing, career-driven investment banker. And Mother, his society wife—patrician, Miss Porter’s School Ancient, and all around pain in the ass old money.

  No Ole Miss for newly minted Ted Loveland, no sir. He’d dropped his southern accent, his family history as soon as he received his business degree from Harvard. He’d traded downhome ancestry for a promotion, a corner office, and last but not least, the boss’s daughter.

  In marrying Letitia Worth, Father had acquired a brand new pedigree and a big fat paycheck. We had the makings of total family catastrophe—Southern Gothic style—from the get-go. Daniel just paved the road to Hell that got us there faster.

  Contrary to our parents’ expectations—or perhaps because of them—Daniel was destined to be an artist, me a poet. He was a leather-wearing, pierced, tattooed Goth. I was long-haired, crunchy, and all about the peace and love. Opposites, yeah. But brothers forever. Thick and thin. Blood over water. He wielded a paintbrush, me the pen, and we were going to team up and take over the world. Despite our parents. To spite our parents.

  Mother despaired . . . she should’ve been a southern belle all along.

  Father lectured us about being polished, driven, proud members of society.

  Daniel took a leave of absence when he turned eighteen.

  I’d known he was in trouble.

  I could’ve done something, said something, before his leave of absence became the permanent, six-feet-under kind.

  Afterward, his death was referred to only as the tragedy. The Loveland Tragedy. We’d buried him. Mother and Father had packed up, sold out, and transferred out of my life, leaving me to grieve alone.

  When my brother died, a part of me had, too.

  I headed to the kitchen. I made a sandwich, grabbed a beer. I flicked on the television, turning it to mute and playing music over the lip-syncing going on from the tube. Eating mechanically, I chewed on thoughts I had no right to consider, starting with the goddamn gorgeous Cat Steele.

  There was no way I’d let my heart get trampled again. No fucking way. Maybe that’s why Wildcat called to me. She was untouchable, unreachable. There was little chance she’d let me close enough to steal her heart, let alone make a dent in mine.

  Safe.

  I laughed to myself. No matter how unattainable the woman was, she’d never be safe, not for me. Not from me.

  The beer loosened me up, so I opened another, relishing that first cold chug. I knew enough about addiction to limit myself to beer, the occasional drink of scotch, and not much more than that. It was one more way I restrained myself. Except when it came to sex. Fucking through the phonebook during my twenties had been the steam release valve I’d turned to. Hot pussy on tap.

  Shee-it.

  Then there were the Stones. That had usually involved a lot of ass-kicking, telling-off, and old-school Rat Pack songs and movies and dancing . . . all of which meant even though my folks hadn’t given a shit about me—not enough to hang in there—someone cared.

  Mimi had once explained my relationship with the Stone family to me in old wives form. “You’re like a kettle bubblin’ over on the range, my boy.”

  Just eighteen years old, I scratched the goatee I was trying out. “Huh?”

  She rapped her knuckles against my hand to stop me fiddling with the new whiskers. “Too much emotion you keep hidden inside. That’s why the Stones are good for ya.”

  “Why’s that? ’Cause Josh has a thick skull?”

  “Nope.” She sat back and folded her arms across her chest with a smug smile. “Stones used to be put in pots to stop them from boilin’ over.”

  “Now you’re just talkin’ in riddles.”

  “That’s what the Stone family does for you. They stop you from boilin’ over, Nicky my love.”

  She’d been right, of course. Now it was writing that stopped me from going over the deep end.

  My iPhone went off as I drained my second beer.

  It was Janice, with a photo attachment: “Fangdora did not just twitpic this to you!”

  Aaand of course she’d copied all the Hens.

  Jacqueline texted before I had a chance to scrub my eyes after opening the on-screen image: “She wore the cross! OMG, girl’s totally authentic & shit.”

  Goddammit. It wasn’t enough Pandora-whatever stalked me, she had to do it in public? The twitpic was of her dressed as Alaina deChristiane, one of my very first characters. She was in full vamp-queen get-up, gore-dripping fangs and the tagline read: Hope u like! Undying love forevs~

  Why did the chicks always fall back on my Vampires Do It in the Dark series?

  Missy Peachtree got her boss on: “Have beating sticks & stakes, will travel.”

  And then Josh joined the group text: “My eyes!”

  “Pussy. No worse than what your pranksters have subjected me to, Stone,” I replied.

  “Pucker up, bro.” Josh replied.

  My fingers flew across the phone screen: “You’re an ass.”

  “You’re a hole.”

  “’Least I didn’t do yours.” I smirked.

  “FU,” was his lame response.

  “Save it for L.”

  I pictured him grinning as he sent back: “About to.”

  “’Night, dude.”

  “Undying love forever, fucker.” He had the last laugh.

  Josh had the last laugh in more ways than one. He was probably curled around Leelee at that very moment. I didn’t give a damn bit of credence to the pang in my heart when I thought about my big bed upstairs, with no Wildcat to rough me up.

  Nope. Not at all.

  Hours later, I woke up alone . . . and hard. Lying naked in the dark, I shifted and my cock rasped against the sheets. My hips kicked at the slight pressure. Memories of my dream drifted over me.

  Cat rose above me, her long black hair slipping through my fingers, whispering down my chest, following her fiery trail of soft, wet kisses. She sucked bites all over my abs then her tongue bathed the thatch of hair around the base of my cock.

  Her pale blue eyes shined with greed when her lips wrapped around me, muffling her husky, dirty laugh. Her tongue licked the throbbing weight of my cock, which I took in my fist, wishing instead I had her hair in my hands to guide her up and down my thick shaft.

  I came with a shout to her name, her face, her voice, her challenge. Come splattered my stomach, ran over my fingers, coated my cock. My breath sawed out fast and shallow for minutes afterward as I imagined Cat between my
spread thighs, licking her lips and sucking me clean.

  Not enough release, and not the right kind. I needed to be in her mouth. I wanted to be buried in her pussy. Hell, I really wanted to make her smile so I could see that deep dimple of hers and listen to her laugh.

  Shit.

  Unable to get Wildcat out of my head, I made a pot of coffee, and took it with me to the den. I had only Viper as company as I powered up the laptop and powered on my brain. I turned to my story. Because I could write about love and happy endings, even if I didn’t expect any such thing for myself.

  Chapter Four

  Cat and Mouse

  BY MID-OCTOBER, I’D COMPLETED final New York edits on Witches, the first installment of my Witches, Bitches, and Beasts trilogy.

  In between book revisions, visions of Cat, and hiding out at home with Viper, I chaired the monthly local chapter meeting of my Indie writers group in advance of Halloween. We dubbed it The Warlocks’ and Witches’ Ball. After the upswing in my Amazon rankings and best seller list potential a couple years ago, I’d gone hybrid—just like my characters of different supernatural species who got it on together.

  In short, I’d entered the golden era of my career.

  For my Powerpoint presentation at The Ball, I’d illustrated a family tree including trad-publishing and self-publishing. The tree represented the same origin of creation—writing, and the desire to be read—and demonstrated the divergent branches of publishing, their similarities, and what the future for our work could look like.

  My presentation went down better than the Halloween-themed cauldron brew punch.

  Marjorie, my not-so-silent sergeant, had the presentation blogged, tweeted, and Facebooked the next day, and me web-accessible for any and all Q&As. From her New England central command, she booked me for an interview that had me in downtown Charleston at the headquarters of the area’s only alternative newspaper, Charleston City Paper.

  My ideas about the future between traditional and indie publishing were only the leaping off point. We were creating buzz for my upcoming Witches release. During the interview, I gave glimpses into my next new series, had my picture taken for the front page, and ended with a line about how my demons and vampires didn’t just like to do it in the dark, they wanted to be large and in charge in this historic setting of my adopted hometown.

  My final manuscript was delivered to the Big Apple two days before Leelee emailed her second novel to her freelance editor. The Mt. Pleasant romance writing wars were on. Leelee stuck to her solely self-publishing platform, me to my fusion approach, and we’d struck a deal.

  The first book to reach two hundred reviews on Amazon won this round and the loser had to cross-promo the hell out of the other’s novel. ’Course I’d do any fucking thing I could for her career because Leelee had a pure heart and was made of true grit. Her New Adult novels had teeth. Besides, when she was happy Josh was less of a grumpy prick, so that paid back in spades.

  My Chief motorcycle was taking shape, too, from junkyard scrap to test-drive ready. In fact, everything was coming to fruition—the books, my bike—but one thing was missing. Cat Steele was the first thing on my mind in the morning and the last name on my lips at night.

  One more day at Stone’s garage, I took up my station in bay three. The custom-made buddy seat for my bike had arrived from an Indian parts specialist in California. Everything was going to be authentic from the dual engine chamber to the carburetor to the fine details. With the ever-present oil rag in my back pocket and a grin on my lips, I listened to Mick and Gerald bitch about who had the longest socket extension. Every shadow that crossed the reception window made me glance from the corner of my eyes.

  Wildcat didn’t show. I wasn’t surprised. I hadn’t seen her since I’d cornered her in Josh’s office, her lips a hairsbreadth from mine. I should’ve goddamn tasted her when I had the chance. Instead I’d given her my own challenge because I didn’t want to kiss her until she begged for it. That had to be some of Josh’s macho bullshit rubbing off on me.

  Then, like the dipshit I was, I’d followed up the near-kiss-miss by changing Ray’s baby girl’s shitty diaper in front of Cat, naturally.

  Romance isn’t dead, not at all.

  I was tempted to hit myself in the head with a socket extension.

  During the rest of the morning, I found better uses for the tools in Stone’s Garage than braining myself for major moments of stupidity with Wildcat.

  I rolled the Beast out into the forecourt, followed by the grease monkeys. The second I steadied the ’46 Indian Chief between my thighs, the guys started riffing.

  “Back the fuck up, boys!” Gerald planted his ass on the fender of the beater whose oil he was changing.

  Javier smirked behind the screen of his cell phone, his video trained on me. He crossed himself with one hand, preparing to tweet with the other. “Ay Dios mío. Signor Nicolás, hombre of bikes and broads.”

  “Shut the hell, you putzes, before I fire your asses. Let the man do his thing.” Josh strolled out.

  I adiosed Javier with a raised middle finger while Ray and several others circled around me. I was all about the harnessed power between my legs. After eight solid weeks of work to take the beast from a mistreated hunk of bike parts to a ride almost worthy of the roads, I primed the fuel petcock. I turned the ignition. I opened the spark control and hit the kickstarter once . . . twice . . .

  A sputter put-put weakly burped out, more akin to a go-cart than an evil road warrior.

  Ray stuck his head out of the reception door. “Maybe there’s a banana stuck in the tailpipe?”

  “Maybe there’s gonna be a banana shoved up your ass later,” I slung back.

  “Maldito, he’s testy.” With his cell phone aimed at me, Javier slicked the straight black hair off his forehead.

  “More like testosterone overload ’cause he ain’t laid eyes on Miss Steele recently.” Gerald might be a big motherfucker, but if he kept up with the commentary I had no problem going a round with him.

  Fuck them, their five-dollar words, and their Doctor Oz in-my-head-games. I was gonna breathe life into my bike if I had to wrap my lips around the newly gleaming exhaust and perform mouth-to-mouth on the thing.

  With my boot heel catching the kickstart a third time, the engine roared to life for the first time. I almost shot a load in my jeans. So what if the exhaust was blue-tinged and rank smelling? I just needed to prime the carburetor to clean up that shit.

  Hands slapped my back. Whistles pierced the air. I grinned from ear to ear, even though there was one person absent from my moment of glory.

  Throttling down, I made the tires squeal on the pavement, loud as any street race burnout. Through the screech and continued congratulations, I heard Gerald admit, “Gonna be a hot ride, Nicky.”

  She was. And I wasn’t thinking about the Beast thrumming between my thighs. Fucking Wildcat Steele. I cut the engine, paying special care to the rattling cough reminding me of Mimi’s next doctor appointment tomorrow morning. One old gal I could put back to rights, the other one was . . . I wiped across my face with the rag.

  I crouched down to do a check for any leakages. A few more of the knuckle-draggers fist-bumped me. When I sat back on my heels to inspect the fixes I needed to make, a pair of familiar scuffed boots swam in my peripheral vision. They weren’t the smaller feet and slim ankles leading to long legs I needed at that moment. Goddamn Catarina. I couldn’t get her out of my head.

  Josh cleared his throat, stamping his mastodon-sized boots. He lent me a hand up. “So you got the motor runnin’.”

  “Damn right I did. And you thought it was impossible.”

  “I didn’t say that, braw. Besides, it ain’t like you didn’t bust my nuts when I put my heart and soul into the Camaro.” He threw an arm around my shoulders. “Gonna be a sweet-ass ride, Nicky.”

  “Yeah.” I swiped my face again and sighed.

  “Whoa. What’s with the ’tude, dude? This is supposed to be your cel
ebratory moment.” His arm left my shoulder as he squinted at me. “Aw, shit. You’re moping about Catarina Steele. Still.”

  From grease pit to pussy pit to pity party.

  Jabbing him in the ribs, I admitted, “It’s not my fault she’s a sweet-ass woman.”

  He hooked his arms across his chest. “I told you not to mess with that shit.”

  “I thought she might enjoy the scenery.” Meaning me, here at Stone’s garage getting sweaty, grubby, and shirtless.

  “She changed her schedule.” His hazel eyes met my gaze.

  “So she’s avoiding me.”

  “Maybe she’s trying to send you a message.”

  “In that case she should try reaching me through Facebook.” I laughed my way through a ridiculous sting to my pride. That didn’t stop me from asking, “Has Leelee been hooking up with Cat at all?”

  “Hooking up?” His eyebrows shot so high I thought they’d reach the sky.

  “I meant hanging out, dude . . .”

  “Why would they do that?” As if he wasn’t enough to entertain Leelee.

  “’Cause they’re chicks?”

  “So they automatically do shit together? Like swap Cosmo sex quizzes?” He scratched the stubble on his jaw, peering at me.

  “I thought that crap went out in the nineties.”

  “You’d know better than me, Nicky Lurve.” Josh laughed.

  He was amused. I was not. I needed some info on my woman.

  “I’m just messin’ with ya, man. Don’t look like I ran over Viper with my Bronco.”

  The asshole kept me swinging in the breeze a few moments longer until he leaned forward to whisper, “Cat and Leelee do girly cocktails once a week. Fuckin’ cocktails. Like I don’t give Leelee enough cock.”

  “You do realize cocktails have nothing to do with cock, right Josh?”