Begging For Mercy

by Mataya, Tamara

  It was probably for the best I stopped things. I’ve never seen Patch so openly hostile to someone. The Mercy family is bad news, but this seemed so personal. If Matt’s like them...

  Who cares if he’s like his family? I’m not trying to dress him up and bring him home for Sunday dinner. It was only going to be sex.

  Passionate, raw, screaming hot sex with someone who acted like I was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. He wouldn’t have treated me like a one-of-the-guys mechanic. He’d have consumed me, wanted me like I’ve ached to be wanted.

  I want to repeatedly bang my head on the undercarriage of the car I’m under. Idiot.

  It’s been ages since I’ve been with anyone, focusing on my school, then apprenticeship, working on my bike, and racing in any down time. Gives new meaning to ‘all work and no play.’ I had the perfect opportunity last night to remedy that with no strings attached—with an old crush, no less!

  Why did I have to talk? Why?

  Regret renders my limbs weak, and I lie still and sigh a few times.

  Limply lying under here, kicking my own ass isn’t productive, so I grab my socket wrench and loosen the oil plug.

  His hands and lips promised a fantastic time, and I used my tongue to turn him down instead of licking him from there to there.

  I finish removing the oil plug with my fingers.

  He wanted me too. He’d have screwed me as hard and fast as I wanted, where I wanted. On the steps, against the wall, across my floor, in the shower.

  I fumble the plug and it drops into the pan. Oil flows over my hand and covers the plug. I’ll have to fish it out with a magnet later. Is this what happens when you finally get the chance to bag your crush? You revert to being a teenager, and your hormones scream that person’s name through your body until you can’t focus on anything else?

  Concentration is not within my grasp today. All I want is to go upstairs and think about Matthew while playing with some other tools. Ones that vibrate.

  I shouldn’t have kissed him.

  I shouldn’t have let him leave.

  “Hello? Anyone here?”

  I roll myself out on the dolly from beneath the car and stand, grabbing for a grease rag. The delivery man in the red shirt nods when he sees me. “I’m looking for Andy Perris, the mechanic. He in?”

  “I’m Andy.”

  He grins. “Yeah right.”

  I point to the name patch on my overalls.

  “Oh.” He fails to smother his surprise, but holds out the electronic device for me to sign. I use a fresh cloth to hold it so as not to get oil on it. He takes it back and hands me a large envelope. “Have a good day.”

  “Thanks, you too.” I take the envelope with me to the kitchen area, and make a cup of coffee. Whoever invented the one cup coffee maker deserves a medal. Drinking hours-old scalded bitterness is a thing of the past. While my hazelnut blend brews, I thoroughly wash my hands. The bookkeeper’s been a little pissy about getting invoices with oily fingerprints on them, not that I can blame her.

  Scrubbed as good as I can get, I add creamer to my coffee until it’s at a drinkable temperature. Tearing open the envelope, I pull out a stiff sheet of white paper blazing with color.

  It’s a sketch, done with colored pencils, but an amazingly rendered one, something worthy of being framed. The page is split into two pictures. The first one’s point of view is from someone else’s eyes through a visor, and there’s a person on a bike...my bike...me, kicking a foot out.

  Someone’s drawn me.

  My gaze skips down to the signature. Matthew Mercy.

  No. Way.

  I can’t breathe. My fingers tingle with shocked pleasure, and I blink hard for a minute to clear the disbelief before focusing on the drawing again.

  He’s captured every detail of my lime green Kawi in the first frame, from the custom handlebars to the scuffed seat I haven’t gotten around to replacing because it’s only cosmetic.

  But the second half of the picture is the one that steals my breath.

  It’s me, but a vampy, sexy version of myself I’ve never seen, straddling my bike with a cocky expression, helmet tucked under my arm.

  Matt’s drawn me during and after the race.

  It’s not an idealized picture of my face, but I look beautiful and sort of, I don’t know. Exciting?

  Is this how he sees me? Because if so, I get why he wanted to see me last night. The Andy on the page is bold and alluring, teasing and sexy. I blush so hard my upper lip sweats.

  I’m glad the shop is empty; there’s no one to see me beaming like an idiot.

  How many hours did it take for him to draw this? He remembered every detail. Does he pay attention to everything like that, or was it that he was interested in me? And he did this all last night or today? He’s got some serious talent. Matthew is a real artist.

  I turn the portrait around, and there’s a phone number and a note on the back.

  I could kick myself for the way things ended last night, but I’d rather you did it instead. Give me another chance?

  I trace my fingertips over the surface of the paper. His hands were all over this, changing it from a blank sheet of nothing into a vivid memory. He made something magical here and gave it away. This is the most romantic thing anyone’s done for me. The sheer effort that went into this alone means so much. I have to call him.

  I practice aloud. “Hey, Matt, I got your picture. I’m beautiful.”

  Ugh, that sounds like verbally high fiving myself. I mean he’s made me look beautiful in his drawing.

  “Hey, Matt. I’ll kick you anytime you want. Or maybe you can kick me.”

  Nope, nope. Why am I so awkward about this?

  “Got the sketch. I didn’t know you were so good with your hands.” My voice cracks on the last word.

  That’s it, I’m texting, not calling. I can’t risk talking to him in real time while my heart and panties are melting over this sketch. Everything either makes me cringe from being awkward, or sounds like an innuendo.

  A huge, throbbing innuendo...

  And while I really like him, I don’t want to jump into anything. He may have turned me on like he invented the buttons, but I don’t have the most experience with guys.

  I haven’t had time. No, that’s not right. I haven’t made the time.

  I’m changing that, starting now. I’d be an idiot to let this man slip away.

  Giddiness flashes from my belly out, making me want to flail my limbs and squeal, but I settle for taking a smug sip of coffee, and picking up my phone.

  Pick me up tomorrow night. I send the terse text, but there’s nothing outright embarrassing about it.

  My phone dings immediately with a reply.

  What time?

  My fluttering belly steers my memory to the way he literally picked me up last night in the stairwell. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea, but I don’t want him to think I’m not interested by suggesting too early of a time. Nine.

  I’ll be there.

  What in the world kind of date will Matthew Mercy, bad boy extraordinaire take me on?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Matthew

  “Dancing?” Her incredulous expression tickles my belly and I want to laugh but don’t.

  She looks too good for me to laugh. Her hair’s pinned up with a few loose tendrils framing her face, and her dark jeans and tiny tank top under the leather jacket make her look effortlessly sexy.

  I smile. “Yes, Ms. Perris, I’d like to take you dancing. You said you weren’t hungry, or I’d have planned somewhere for dinner first.”

  “Where had you planned to take me for dinner?”

  I take her helmet while she grabs her keys. “There’s this cool new tapas place I heard about.”

  Her expression is blank. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  I tilt my head. “Are you standing me up on your own doorstep? Because if dancing isn’t your thing, we can—”

  “No! It’s good.
It sounds great, actually. I’m just not used to things like that.”

  “Do you not dance? Because I can teach you.”

  “I can dance.” She huffs and locks the door behind her, then plays with her keys. “My last date took me out for beer and monster trucks.”

  On a date? “Uh, are you into those things?”

  “They’re okay.” Her tone doesn’t agree with her words.

  I guide her to my bike with a hand on her lower back, return her helmet and put mine on. “Then I’m glad he took you on that shitty date so we could have our first.” Shit that was cheesy, but the way her soft smile lights up her eyes makes me feel good.

  Her body sliding behind mine on the bike after I start it makes me feel even better. Instead of holding onto the seat, she slides her arms around me, gently pressing herself to my back, and for a second, I forget how to drive as her hands slide a little lower on my abs than they need to, but I recover and steer us down the street.

  Andy is strong and independent, but my drawing earned me a second chance, which means she’s also a romantic at heart.

  And some guy took her to monster trucks as a way to make her feel special? I guess, if she was into it... She’s outwardly not a high maintenance Barbie doll, but where’s the romance in seeing cars get crushed? And was he stupid? Dancing is basically the most blatant excuse I could find to touch her, and who wouldn’t get caught up in the heat of the Cuban culture we grew up with—at least in my neighborhood.

  Fascinated by how good it feels to ride with Andy behind me, I take the long way to the little dance club. No tourists. No flashy overpriced drinks. I’m hoping Andy’s the type of girl who appreciates authenticity even when it isn’t dressed up in a fancy package.

  We step off the bike and secure the helmets. Andy’s smile pretty much stretches from ear to ear. “I’ve always wanted to come here.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods. “My friend Chandra told me to get my ass to LECHE, but I never got around to it.”

  I take her hand and lead her inside. “Hopefully it lives up to your expectations.”

  Aptly named, most of the decor is a creamy white, shot with reds and blues and greens so dark they’re nearly black. The place is pretty small, mostly taken up with a huge dance floor framed by low, square tables and simple chairs.

  A pulsing, sinuous rhythm wends around us and we head to the bar. Andy orders a rum and coke and I get a beer, but it will be my only one. Drinking and driving is a bad idea in a car, never mind on a bike.

  Andy drinks in the bar with her eyes while I drink in the appreciative glances of the men and women watching her. She lacks the arrogance a lot of beautiful women have—that way they always seem to be posing like they know and love how they’re on display. Andy seems like she’s more in the moment, actually experiencing things instead of worrying how she looks while experiencing them.

  “What?” She seems surprised to catch me staring at her, as though people only look at her for a purpose, not because they appreciate what they see.

  “Nothing.” I smile.

  She narrows her eyes, but a smile plays on her lips. The small crowd’s rambunctious, showing appreciation of the music by dancing. Even those not dancing move in place and shimmy their hips.

  I wait for Andy’s hips to start moving before nodding my head toward the dance floor.

  She gulps at her drink for a moment, and follows.

  The dancing already happening isn’t grinding, nor is it casual bobbing back and forth. Heavy partner work, men’s hands on women’s hips, feet lightly stepping this way and that, it’s a place where dancing and fun are taken equal parts seriously. There are smiles in the smoulders, and everyone’s enjoying themselves, not trying to show off.

  It’s about having a good time with the person they’re with—not looking good to anyone who happens to be watching.

  I spin Andy by the hand and pull her in close, leaving personal space because we’re here to dance and have fun, not grind. I’d be up for both, truth be told.

  I work my hips, tapping my feet out, grinning when she follows easily with a delighted laugh. She can really move. For once her cheeks are flushed with pleasure instead of embarrassment, though the latter is a special kind of adorable.

  I lead her around the floor, twirling her out, pulling her back, my hands on her hips, her back, her hands. We speak only with smiles and our bodies for an hour until we’re both sweaty and relaxed.

  Andy finally pulls back. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Me too.” I can’t let go of her hand as I take her back to the bar. We both order waters and sip them slowly.

  I don’t know what to say to her when my body told her everything on the dance floor.

  “Do you remember...” she trails off like she’s embarrassed.

  “Do I remember what?” I tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear.

  “Do you remember the time we hung out?”

  I wish I did. I shake my head. “We haven’t hung out before. I’d definitely remember you.”

  Her teeth capture her lip and she smiles. “No, we did. I was pretty young. Thirteen.”

  The quick math I do is horrifying. I’d have been eighteen or so, but no way I’d have done anything with her if she was that age. The youngest female I ever fooled around with was sixteen years old—when I was fourteen. I liked older women when I was a teenager.

  Is Andy remembering someone else, thinking I was another guy? I don’t want to take false credit for another guy’s good memories. “Um, this is awkward. I was never into young chicks, so—”

  She grimaces. “No! Oh my God, no, not like that. It was at a race. Some girls were picking on me and you came over and rescued me.”

  “I did?” I wasn’t a dick, but that kind of chivalry wasn’t exactly in my grasp back then.

  She nods, freckles disappearing into her blush. “You bought me an ice cream cone and talked to me.”

  It sounds vaguely familiar, but more like remembering a dream I once had. The details are fuzzy and insubstantial. “Huh. I remember that race, I think. Was it the one where your dad had some kind of show after?”

  “Yes! Freestyle.”

  “That was cool.” And not the first time I’d wished I was Grant Perris’ son instead of Roland Mercy’s. Though now, that I’m standing here with his knockout daughter, I’m glad as hell I’m not. “And I took you for ice cream?”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “Maybe you’ll have to take us for ice cream on our next date.” I wink and her gaze hits the floor before settling on my eyes.

  “Is it lame I remember that? And then brought it up now? I’m not a stalker, I swear.”

  Her honesty is so appealing. “I think it’s adorable.”

  She grins. “In the spirit of embarrassment, would it be too forward to ask if you want to dance again?”

  I want her. Bad. My body demands I get this woman naked, the sooner the better, and make her come so hard she forgets my last name and her own. But I don’t want this to be a one-night thing. While I know how much I want Andy, I’m a little surprised by how much I genuinely like her.

  I nod and lead her back to the floor.

  She’s a great dancer, responsive to my direction and quick on her feet. The music goes from fast to faster, then slows into a tango and I pull her right up close. Instantly, her body yields to mine and we move as one. I bury my face in her hair, breathing in her fresh cucumber-mint scent. She fits against my chest like she was made to live there.

  Nothing exists but her and this moment. We move like it’s the fifties and we’re in a smoky bar in another country where passion is everything and time means nothing.

  She clutches me closer.

  Somehow our lips come together gently, lazily, as though this too is a part of the dance. I haven’t felt such peace in, well. Ever.

  But passion flows, too, and I pull back and look around the floor when our feet still.

  People have moved, given us space, an
d look on with indulgent smiles.

  “Last call,” rings out, and we both start, surprised how the night has flown by so quickly. Our exit is a blur. Mentally I’m still back there on the dance floor with my arms wrapped around that little slice of peace.

  We return to my bike and head back to her place.

  I’d drive all the way back to Colorado if I could, stealing her away. Andy’s presence is that soothing—when it isn’t electric.

  We pull up to her garage and she gets off the bike first. We remove our helmets and I walk her to the door.

  No goodnight kiss could top the one at the club, and I don’t feel like she wants more right now, so I hold back, still swollen with that moment. Wanting to touch her again, I reach out and trace the back of her wrist. “I hope you had a good time tonight.”

  “I did. Do you want to hang out again?”

  God, I love her directness. “Yes. What did you have in mind?”

  “Have you ever been to Flamingo? The Parks station, not the town.”

  “Not for years.”

  “Meet me at the access on Ingraham, Friday at two.” She leans closer. “I’ll bring something to eat. You bring hands you can’t keep to yourself.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Andy

  It’s weird to feel nervous about seeing Matt again when we had such a great time. Was it only a few days ago? Maybe it’s because I actually like him, not just the idea of him. He’s morphed from crush to viable option and that’s a little scary. He’s even better than I thought he’d be.

  I make croissant sandwiches for our picnic and it feels disgustingly domestic, but I like this. I never get to do cute, romantic things for a guy—or have him do the same for me. Still euphoric from our date, I dance around the kitchen, closing my eyes, remembering the music and the way I was completely lost in Matthew’s arms in the middle of a crowded floor.

  Part of the reason I chose the road to Flamingo for our date today is so there’s time to ride the nerves off after we meet up. It’s about fifty miles to get there and it’s in the Everglades, so there’s lots to see. He hasn’t been back for years, and this way we can explore a bit.