by BB Easton
“You’re the dirty one,” I said, pushing him away and wrinkling my nose in mock disgust. “Where is your shirt?”
Because I want to steal it and take it home and use it as a pillowcase.
Harley shrugged. “It’s hot as balls in here. You’re lucky I still have pants on.”
I disagreed but kept that to myself.
For the next forty-five minutes, Harley and I talked while he tinkered and I periodically slurped the drool back into my face. When he was done, Harley tried to scrub the grease off his hands with this special gooey orange stuff, but I’m pretty sure no amount of soap would ever be enough to get those things squeaky clean again.
While he washed up, Harley said he wanted to test out the new blah, blah intake car thingy he’d just installed at the track, and I nodded. Because that was what I did when Harley asked me questions. I said yes.
Harley clocked out, and I followed him back to the track. Watching him drive that matte black beast for ten minutes was like horrible, torturous foreplay. I was dying to get my hands on everything in front of me, but it was all just beyond my reach. Harley could have just left his car at the garage and ridden with me while we tested out the flux capacitor or whatever he’d just installed, but I got the sense that he didn’t let that car out of his sight any longer than he had to. Not that I blamed him. Hell, even I would probably consider committing a little grand theft auto if I saw that thing sitting in an empty parking lot.
Once we got to the track, Harley had me scoot over so that he could drive. He slid my seat all the way back to accommodate his long legs and flashed me a knowing grin as he cranked her up. Revving the engine a little bit, Harley whistled. “Damn, lady. You’re sitting on a fuckin’ gold mine here. A little girl in a stock five-oh.” He shook his head. “It’s too fuckin’ easy.”
I wanted to argue with him, tell him I wasn’t racing, but the words little girl were sticking out of my chest like a knife. It was hard to breathe, let alone form a coherent counterargument.
My abilities were even further obliterated when Harley popped the clutch and gunned the engine at the same time. My head slammed back into my seat as Harley jammed the shifter into second, somehow accelerated through the first turn, then threw her into third on the straightaway. I white-knuckled the center console and armrest as Harley cut the next corner, going way faster than I’d thought was fucking possible.
“Fuck yeah!” Harley shouted as we came out of the turn, smacking the steering wheel with the butt of his hand. “Those all-weathers I put on yesterday are grippy as shit. Dumb fucks come in here with racing slicks, thinkin’ they’re Billy Badass, and they fishtail through the turns every time. I can’t fuckin’ wait to see you smoke their asses in a set of all-weathers.” Harley practically cackled as he slammed it into fourth.
“Harley, I told you—”
“You just need some practice, that’s all,” he said, giving my thigh a reassuring squeeze. Like it was no big deal. Like he had all the confidence in me in the world.
I liked that Harley saw me as someone with ass-kicking potential. Someone capable of beating grown men at their own game. Somebody worthy of the nickname Lady. He was wrong, of course—so very wrong—but I wanted to keep the charade going as long as I could.
“Fine,” I huffed. “I’ll practice, but that’s it. And if I wrap this thing around a tree, you’re buying me a new one.”
“Deal,” Harley said, pulling over so that I could switch places with him.
I climbed back into the driver’s seat and had to slide it forward at least ten inches before my feet could even touch the pedals again.
Harley leaned across the center console and wrapped his left hand around my right thigh. “I got you,” he breathed into my ear.
The warmth from his mouth disappeared in an instant, carried away by the blasting AC. Gently pressing down on my leg, Harley made my foot compress the accelerator. The volume of the engine and the needle on my RPM gauge began to rise.
Sliding his hand over to my left thigh, Harley spoke louder over the growing roar. His voice rumbled across my skin, leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake. “Good. That’s perfect. Now, let the clutch out. Slowly. The second you feel it catch…stomp the gas.”
Harley gripped my thigh harder and pulled up, easing my foot off the clutch. Just as I began to feel the car engage, Harley’s hot breath in my ear said, “Now.”
I slammed my right foot down, just like he’d said, and was forced backward in my seat as the car bolted forward like a bullet. The first turn came way faster than I’d expected, but Harley was right there, in my ear.
He put his right hand over mine on the shifter and pressed down on my left thigh with his left hand. “Push in the clutch, and shift into neutral.”
I did it with Harley guiding me like a marionette.
“Now, shift into second, and give it just enough gas to catch.”
Harley’s hand slid up my thigh, and two of his thick fingers stroked my bare skin through one of the holes in my jeans. The proximity of his hand to the place that had been soaking fucking wet since I first laid eyes on him was such a distraction that I stabbed the gas instead of tapping it and watched in horror as my RPM needle fell like a lead balloon. The car slowed to a stop all by itself, and I looked at Harley with my mouth hanging open in horror.
“What did I do?”
Harley chuckled and reached forward to pull the hood latch. Kissing me on the cheek, he said, “Probably just needs a new valve to go with that cold air intake. This ole girl’s got more torque than she knows what to do with.”
Harley and I hopped out and peered into the engine. It all looked pretty engine-y to me, but Harley immediately spotted the problem. He said I’d thrown a belt, whatever that meant, and called his coworker buddy to bring him one on his way home from the shop.
Harley and I stood in the shade next to the Boss while we waited, smoking cigarettes and finding excuses to touch each other. I didn’t even care that my brand-new/used car was broken. I knew Harley would fix it. All I could think about was the fact that his fingers were hooked through my belt loops.
Harley leaned against his back fender and spread his feet apart, pulling me to stand between his legs. My heart was beating a mile a minute as he smiled at me, his eyes dropping to my lips. Then it stopped altogether when I registered the sound of an engine rumbling through the trees. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t move as images of Knight’s giant white monster truck came to mind.
No. That’s impossible, I thought, listening with perked ears, like a bunny on high alert.
Sensing my apprehension, Harley wrapped his big, reassuring hands around my waist and smiled. “Sounds like Bubba called in the cavalry.”
I turned and looked at the opening in the trees where the road emerged from the woods just as a caravan of jacked-up trucks and racing trucks and ATVs came barreling into the clearing. I sighed in relief, then giggled as I noticed a fucking tractor bringing up the rear of the redneck brigade.
“All this for a thrown belt?”
Harley laughed as the parade descended upon us. “They live for this shit.”
The head truck and the one behind it—a pair of Chevys caked in dried Georgia clay—parked next to us while a few other trucks drove past us, halfway around the track, and straight into the woods through a tiny opening between two trees.
A short, beefy-looking dude in a fisherman’s hat hopped out of the bigger Chevy and walked over to us, holding a black strip of rubber and a wrench. “Got yer belt, man. That it over there?” he said, gesturing toward the track where my car was parked with the hood up.
“Yeah.” Harley didn’t bother to let go of me as he addressed his buddy. I liked that. “What’s with the posse? Y’all that excited about watching me change a drive belt?”
“Nah, we’re goin’ muddin’.” Raising his voice and turning his head toward the other truck, Elmer Fudd yelled, “Brought the tractor just in case JR’s dumb ass get
s stuck as bad as last time.” Leaning in and grinning, he said in a quieter voice, “I coulda got him out with the winch. We just like bustin’ his balls.”
“I heard that, motherfucker,” a skinny guy wearing Wranglers and cowboy boots said as he walked over to us. “Hey, I know you,” he said, gesturing to me with the soda can he’d been using as a spittoon.
“You’re Punk, Knight’s girlfriend, right?”
Harley bristled, his fingertips digging into my waist.
“I heard he left for the service. How’s he doin’?”
“I-I don’t know,” I stammered, acutely aware that Harley was breathing about as loud as a bull through his nose behind me. “We broke up before he left.”
“Ah, man,” JR said. “That’s too bad. I had weight trainin’ with that sum’bitch. Motherfucker put up over three hundred pounds one time. Craziest shit I ever saw.” Looking over my shoulder at Harley, JR’s eyes went wide. “I mean, uh…good to see you, Punk.”
“BB,” Harley said in a voice deep as hell and laced with malice. “Her name is BB.”
“Uh, okay,” JR said, spitting brown tobacco juice into his can and walking backward toward his truck. “Bubba, I’m goin’ in. Good to see y’all. Harley,” he said, tipping the bill of his ball cap before turning and half-sprinting toward his vehicle.
“I’ll be in there to pull ya out in a second,” Bubba called after him with a chuckle. “Dumbass.”
Harley took the drive belt and wrench from him with a quick, “Thanks,” then headed straight for my car.
I hustled after him, trying to keep up. Everything about his posture had changed. His shoulders were tense. His hands were balled into fists at his sides. Something JR had said seriously pissed him off, and I didn’t want to make it worse.
I watched silently over Harley’s shoulder as he turned something with the wrench, popped the old belt off, wove the new one onto a half-dozen pulley-turny thingies, and then tightened it back up with the wrench—all in under five minutes. I had to admit, watching him work was a major turn-on, and the thought that he might be jealous had me a little hot under the collar, too.
The fact that it was ninety degrees outside had me just plain ole hot.
When he was finished, he wiped his hands on his gray work pants and turned toward me. “All done. You wanna give her another spin?”
“Why’d you get so pissed off back there?” I blurted.
Harley’s jaw flexed, and his sparkly blue eyes hardened.
“Harley?”
He walked around to the passenger door and opened it. “Can we talk about it in the car? It’s too fuckin’ hot out here.”
I hopped into the driver’s seat and turned on the AC. Harley closed his eyes as the cold air hit his face.
“Okay, spill it.”
Taking a deep breath, Harley turned toward me with all traces of humor wiped from his pretty face. “What did he do to you?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. How was I supposed to even answer that? Knight had done everything to me. Everything that one person could do to another person. Good, bad, or fucking psycho—he’d done it all…to me.
“Did he hurt you?” Harley asked.
“Yeah.” The word came out of my mouth with more attitude than I’d intended. I’d said it the way you might say Duh, or, What the fuck do you think?
Harley’s jaw clenched, and he cracked two knuckles on his right hand. “Did he…cut you?” he asked, his voice quiet but deadly.
Images of the butterfly knife Knight kept in his pocket glinted behind my eyelids. Images of him teaching me to flip it open and shut in the back of his truck. Him slicing my inner thigh with it as I came in his mouth. Him sucking the blood from the wound as I pulsed around his fingers.
“Yeah,” I said, looking straight ahead, seeing nothing. “He did.”
Snapping out of my past and back into the present, I turned to face Harley. “How do you know about that?” I asked, the air conditioning doing little to cool my flushed cheeks.
“I used to live in a house in Little Five Points with a bunch of punks and skins,” Harley said. “One of my roommates was a skin chick named Darla. She used to hang out at Spirit of Sixty-Nine.”
My hand immediately flew to my mouth, covering my silent gasp. I knew how this story ended. Knight had told me himself. The only girls he’d been with before me were skin chicks he’d met at Spirit of Sixty-Nine—a bar in Atlanta where he used to help clean up after-hours. When I’d asked if he’d dated any of them, Knight had said no, not after what he’d done to them. He confessed to me that he’d hurt those girls. He admitted that he liked to “make people bleed.” Knight had stood in front of me and told me exactly what kind of monster he was, and I’d looked the other way because of another confession he’d made during that same conversation. The part where he told me he loved me.
“You know her?” Harley asked, his jaw muscles flexed.
I blinked and shook my head.
“Well, your little boyfriend carved her ass up. I had to take her to the hospital to get stitches and a fuckin’ tetanus shot after what he did to her.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and willed away the tears.
Poor Darla.
Poor sick, psychotic Knight.
“He ever cut you like that?” Harley asked, his voice getting louder.
I shook my head.
“He ever lay a hand on you?”
I hesitated. I wanted to shake my head again, but Harley already knew the answer. And I was a terrible liar.
“Fuck!” Harley yelled as he hit my dashboard with the side of his fist. “I swear to God, if I ever see that motherfucker again, he’s a dead man.”
Thanks to the catlike reflexes I’d developed after months of being Knight’s girlfriend, Harley’s sudden outburst caused me to jump back in my seat. Harley noticed my exaggerated reaction and reached for me with a crumpled brow.
“Hey,” he said, pulling my hand away from my body, puppy-dog eyes in full effect. “I’m not like him, okay? I promise. I would never fucking hurt a woman. Ever. I don’t care if you punch me in the fucking face. Here. See?” Harley lifted my hand and used it to hit himself in the cheek over and over, making little punching sound effects every time. He didn’t stop until I was giggling hysterically.
“What if I punched you in the balls?” I asked through my tears.
“Let’s find out,” Harley said, moving my hand from his face to his crotch.
I screamed and yanked my hand away. “Asshole!” I giggled, swatting him on the arm.
“I think you missed. My balls are down here,” Harley said, lifting his hips and pointing to his junk with a smirk.
I laughed even harder, wondering what I’d done to get so fucking lucky. I’d spent the last three months praying for someone to protect me from the wrath of Ronald McKnight. Someone who would stand up to him instead of serving me up to him on a fucking platter the second he flexed his steroid-enhanced muscles. Someone who was willing to throw down with the devil himself. And there he was—sitting in my passenger seat, making me laugh and trying to get me to touch his Johnson.
Harley James really was a gift from the gods.
I’d been trying to pick up extra shifts at work for weeks, and they chose that night, of all nights, to take me up on my offer.
One of my coworkers was sick, and they needed me to pick up the evening shift for the next few days. I probably could have just told my manager no, made up some excuse, but A) I was a terrible liar, B) I needed the money, and C) I was seconds away from ripping Harley’s grease-stained clothes off in my passenger seat with my teeth when she called, and I kind of panicked.
I had only known the guy for two days. Two days, and I was fucking gone over him. I remembered what Juliet had said about him being a man-whore in high school. And what his brother had said about him being a man-whore after high school. As badly as I wanted to see him again, I knew I needed to slow things down. Harley had become the light at the end of a lo
ng, dark tunnel for me, and even though I had a feeling that light might very well belong to an oncoming train, I was sprinting toward it nonetheless.
Pulling into Harley’s driveway on Thursday, I concentrated hard on not taking my foot off the clutch until after the ignition was off just in case he was watching. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror as inconspicuously as possible. Then I gathered my keys and sunglasses with shaking hands. As soon as I stepped into the high-noon sun, my heart wedged itself into my throat tighter than my ass had been wedged into the fuzzy, tiger-striped velour pants I was wearing.
I told myself I’d chosen those pants because all my other clothes were dirty, but I couldn’t even lie to myself. I’d known when I stepped into those stretchy, stripy, slutty things that morning that I wanted Harley to take them right back off. In fact, I had to hear my Catholic-upbringing-induced guilt give me shit about it the whole way over.
You know this is a booty call, right? my guilt whispered.
No, it’s not, I countered. We’re just two people who both happen to have the day off, hanging out.
My guilt rolled its eyes. Yeah, hanging out in an empty house while Harley’s brother is at work. What do you think you’re gonna do over there? Play pinochle?
Maybe, I thought. Maybe we’ll play video games. I don’t know.
Those don’t look like video-game-playing pants to me.
Fuck you, Guilt.
Oh, I think I’m gonna have to take a number for that. Looks like you’ve already got a wait-list.
Ugh!
Taking a deep breath, the way someone would right before walking barefoot over hot coals, I made my way across Harley’s patchy, pine-needle-covered front lawn and didn’t exhale until I pressed his doorbell. When the door opened, I sucked in another deep breath—that time, in the form of a gasp. Harley’s usually messy blond pompadour was extra disheveled, his jaw had a hint of scruff peppering it, and he was wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxer shorts.
Fuck me.
“Hey, pretty lady,” Harley said, his voice gruff and his eyes squinty as he pulled a white Minor Threat T-shirt on over his head and opened his front door wider to let me in.