“Pansy, tell me. You can’t end it there. If you’ve got more to say, tell me.”
“Fine.” Her voice is small. “I went to my older sister Ivy’s house, asking to stay with her.” She swallows and takes a deep breath before going on. “She refused. She let me stay last night but said I had to be gone today. So, this is me getting gone. Go ahead, say it.”
“Say what?”
“Tell me how stupid I am.” She turns away from me as her hand wipes at her cheek. Is she crying?
“Hey, Pansy, all I was going to say is your ex-boyfriend and sister sound like real dicks and you should be glad you’re getting away from them.”
Her burst of laughter comes as a surprise to both of us. With water pooling in her eyes, she smiles, and something strange and strong tugs at my heart. I like making her smile.
“You’re right, they are dicks.” Her voice is stronger, almost cheerful. “Anyway, now I’m on my next adventure and I’ve got no clue where I’m going.”
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing. It sounds exciting and it’s really brave, and smart.”
“What? Really?” She whips her head in my direction, eyes wide with surprise. I point my finger back at the road, motioning for her to watch where she’s driving.
“Yeah. You’ve got the courage to explore different things and you’re smart for wanting to find your passion. Too many people get stuck in a job because that’s what we’re all told to do—go to school, find a job, make a living, have a family, blah, blah, blah. You’re not following the herd. You’ve stopped to listen to your heart and figure out what the hell it is you want to do with your life. So, you’re not only contributing to society, but it also means something to you. That’s smart.”
Pansy’s smile is blinding even in the darkness of the car, and the faint light from the driver’s panel illuminates her glittering eyes. My sense is not many people encourage or support her.
The car begins to shimmy and shake. She whips her head back to the road, white knuckling the steering wheel.
With a small scream, she cries, “What the hell is going on? I didn’t hit anything. It’s listing to the right.”
“Pull over,” I order, helping to steer the car to the side of the road.
The ride is bumpy and jerky as she slowly and carefully brings us to a stop. Simultaneously, we jump out of the car. The front passenger side tire is a sad sight as its deflated and misshapen.
“Fuck. Seriously?” I yell, gripping my hair.
“Shit. It’s probably from the pothole I hit hours ago. It must have punctured the tire and caused a slow leak.”
“You should have been watching the fucking road and this wouldn’t have happened,” I fire at her. Her calm tone serving to infuriate me more. “Who goes straight for a fucking pothole? Now what the fuck are we going to do?”
Pansy gasps, taking several steps away from me. Frowning, she tightens her jaw and purses her lips. “You don’t have to be a jerk. I didn’t deliberately do it and I already apologized for it.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I’m sure there’s a spare. We’ll change it and be on our way.”
Striding past me, she goes in search of the spare while I stand there stewing in my anger. I just want to get back on the damn bus—why is it so hard? Am I asking for too much? I don’t fucking think so.
Her grunting and groaning pulls me out of my gloom. This slip of a woman is giving it her all in trying to lift the spare tire out of the car and she’s getting nowhere. If I were in a different frame of mind, I’d find it amusing.
Instead, I’m stunned by her round, luscious ass sticking up in the air. Her jean shorts are so short, her creamy ass cheeks peek out from the denim as well as a sliver of her black lace panties.
I snarl at my body’s reaction to her; angry and turned on are the last things I want to be right now. “Get out of the way.” Moving her, I yank the tire, jack, and other necessary items out of the car. “Stand back.”
“No wonder you were kicked off the bus,” she mutters under her breath.
Stopping, I glare at her. She’s straightening her clothes and finger-combing her hair away from her face, oblivious to me. When our eyes do meet, instead of backing down like any sane person would, she stands her ground, chest out, chin up, and glowers back. Her hair’s dishevelled, cheeks flushed, eyes wild. My cock stirs to life.
Shaking my head at this game I don’t have time to play, I grind my teeth and will my dick down. Dismissing her, I get to work.
It’s not long before I need help. The flashlight—which was stowed in the car, thank goodness—is tricky to hold between my teeth while unscrewing the busted tire. The light flickers in and out and I’m unable to hold the beam steady.
“Pans, some help here would be nice.” My tone’s snarky.
“Do not call me Pans. My name is Pansy. Try asking nicely and I’ll consider helping.” She’s snooty.
Throwing the tool and flashlight to the ground, I growl, “Fucking forget it. I’ll do it myself.”
“Good! I’m done with you.” She pivots and stomps off into the dark.
Her long red mane sways in time with her ass and curves. Fuck her. I seriously don’t have the time or the patience for her theatrics. If she wants to act like a drama queen, she can go right ahead, but I won’t be her audience.
It takes another twenty minutes to finish the task and she hasn’t come back, which surprises me. I definitely expected her to return. It’s pitch black and who the fuck knows what wild animals are lurking out there.
My concern grows the longer I’m alone. She’s not to blame for the flat tire, and the thought of something happening to her because of my rash temper leaves a nasty taste in my mouth and a hollowing in my chest. I’m a bastard.
Throwing the lame tire and other things in the car, I hop into the driver’s seat. Thank fuck she left the keys. Pressing the button, the engine roars to life and the headlights cast a long shaft of light across the dark expanse.
Not too far off, brown leather cowboy boots dissect the slanted beam, and Pansy’s trim frame comes into view. Her long hair is a tousled mess with strands flying in her face, and her shirt molds to her small breasts. The light catches every bouncing curve and appealing sashay of her jean-clad hips as she marches toward the car.
Yanking the driver’s side door open, she stands, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed on me. “This is my car. If anyone should be walking, it’s you. Get out.”
Sorry
“I’m sorry.” His voice is low and remorseful—or is that just wishful thinking on my part?
“And that makes it all right?” I understand he was upset, and he had every right to be, but I’m not his verbal punching bag. When he opens his mouth to respond, I cut him off. I’m not done. “Cars get flat tires, and I didn’t deserve to be yelled at or treated like that. Now, I’d like you to please get out of my car. This is where we part ways.”
He sighs, running his hand through his wild locks as he steps out of the car. I’m forced to step back if I don’t want him right on me. Standing less than three inches from me, he tugs on my shoulder, halting my retreat. My body reacts to our proximity, tingles spreading through me.
I tilt my head back to gaze directly into his face. In the faint glow from the interior light, I make out his bottomless blue eyes, and they’re searching my face, searching for something.
“I’m sorry. I was a jerk. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. Would you please let me ride with you?”
“You’ve got anger issues,” I blurt out, unable to hold back my criticism.
Giving me a faint smile, he nods. “Yeah, I do. I’m working on it, but obviously, I’m doing a piss-poor job.”
“That’s for sure,” I retort. “Get in the passenger seat, let’s go. I’m tired and I’m sure you’ll be glad to be rid of me as much as I will to be rid of you.”
My words aren’t true. While his anger toward me hurt, I also like him. I’ve enjoyed his company, for the most
part. This ride would have been a lot longer and lonelier had Silas not been here.
His eyebrows arch in surprise at my comment, but he remains silent and walks around the car. As the inside light fades, the grease smudge on his cheekbone catches my eye. Without hesitation, I reach for him, my finger wiping at his warm, smooth skin. He stills, a low groan escaping his lips as I lick my thumb and try again. It’s then that my movements stutter. Oh God. I just put my spit on his cheek.
His eyes are now heavy lidded as his hand wraps my wrist, stopping my movements. Our gazes are raptly fixed on each other. The silence is thick, the rapid thumping of my heart and my shallow breathing deafening.
Breaking the tenuous moment, he removes my hand from his face and places it on my lap. “Thanks, Mom,” he croaks, clearing his throat as he opens the glove box. “Is there any sanitizer or wipes?”
“Um, yes, here.” I hand him the small bottle. My voice is gravelly and strange, even to my own ears.
What just happened? Instead of him being grossed out by having my saliva on his face, we had this weird, brief connection—but now it’s gone. I’m tired; I must have imagined it.
We slip back into silence and drive on. At first, the comfortable solitude doesn’t bother me, but the longer neither of us speaks, the more anxious I become.
Opening the peanut M&Ms, I put a few in my mouth. I’m not hungry, but I need something to do, like driving isn’t enough. I scour my mind for something to say, something to fill the silence and put us back into easy conversation, but as fate would have it, another disaster unfolds.
The car slows, sputtering and shuddering. Honestly, I can’t believe this. Why is this happening? Having no clue what’s wrong, I pull over. Just as we get to the shoulder, the engine dies, plunging us into darkness.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” I flip on my phone flashlight and try to figure out what’s wrong.
It only takes seconds, and once I guess at the cause, nausea overwhelms me. My stomach twists as bile climbs up my tight throat. Silas is going to lose his shit.
“We’re out of gas,” I whisper, staring at the gas tank indicator. Without a doubt, that’s the issue.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He slams both hands flat onto the dashboard.
I shriek and jump at his outburst. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Guilt coils in the pit of my stomach.
I’m one hundred percent responsible; I should have filled the tank when we stopped at the gas station. Instead, I was so caught up in my road trip partner that my brain left the building.
“That’s painfully obvious. Do you ever think?” Snatching my phone, he taps on the screen. “Dammit, no signal. We gotta call a local garage or something.” His furious glare causes a sharp jerk in my chest.
Shrinking into my seat, I wish to disappear. I bite down on my lower lip, trying to stop the trembling as the sting in my eyes and throat intensifies. Tears course down my face. Holding my breath, I struggle to stem my tears and get myself under control.
It’s not only Silas and his nasty words that have brought my weeping on; it’s the culmination of the past two weeks—shit, the past few years—squeezing at my heart, shredding my pride. The growing pressure in my head forces me to gulp for air.
“Fuck, seriously?” His harsh tone and evident disdain jabs at me as I fall apart.
“Fuck off,” I scream. “Get the hell out of here.”
He jerks back as I lunge at him with my fists flying, aiming for any part of his body I can reach—his hard pecs, his defined bicep, his strong jaw. With each hit, he grunts, commanding me to stop. His hands cuff my wrists, bringing them together toward my chest. Yanking me to him, one arm around my back and the other tucked between us, he secures my fists.
I slump and burrow into him, sobbing at how pathetic my life is. For once, why can’t luck be on my side? Why can’t things go my way?
His hold is strong. His inviting masculine scent soothing. My rapid breathes and the pounding of my heart steady with the security of his warm embrace, despite the ache of his rotten words.
“Shh,” he soothes, rubbing small circles on my back. “I’m sorry, I really am. We’re royally screwed, aren’t we?”
He loosens his hold at my push and as I peer at him, his soft beard brushes my forehead and a few strands of my hair catch. As we disentangle ourselves, he laughs, releasing my hands.
“I’m sorry.” My lips wobble as I flatten my hands on his solid upper body.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his finger gently touching my lips.
His rumble vibrates from his chest into my palms and down to my belly. My tongue darts out, grazing his finger on my mouth. Blinking back the dampness in my vision, I sigh at the tangy flavor of his flesh, shuddering as I swallow the taste of him.
His hand moves to cup my cheek, each sweep of his thumb elicit quivers along my spine. His lips land on mine, strong and hungry. His beard tickles, intensifying the tingles from within. Sliding his hand to cup the back of my neck, with a squeeze, he pulls me nearer. My eyelids flutter close.
Lost to the sensation of his tongue licking at my lips, I moan into his mouth. His arm tightens around me and his fingers dig into my hip, and I don’t want to ever come up for air. I could stay like this forever, lips locked with Silas Palmer—not the famous rock star or the irate man, but sweet, sexy Silas who’s sucking on my tongue like it’s candy.
Dirt
Kissing Pansy is different. Better. Not what I’m used to. I make it a rule not to kiss groupies—it complicates things—but on the rare occasion where I’ve had too much to drink or gotten caught up in the moment and gone in for a kiss, I’ve regretted it. Usually, the woman wants to eat me alive, consume me, and not in a good way.
This kiss is different. She knows how to kiss. It’s soft, teasing, and so sweet. She tastes like milk chocolate and peanuts, sweet and savory. I want to devour her. As I bring her closer, her breasts graze my pecs and she moans into my mouth, her hands digging into my shoulders. I’ve got you.
I should pull away. I was a major asshole to her, letting my temper get the best of me yet again. It’s not her fault I was dumped on the side of the road or that I’ve got all this anger bottled up inside me. Months of keeping your mouth shut when you should speak up will do that to you, not to mention the other shit from my past that only brings me rage.
My dick’s hard, straining against my zipper at having her in my arms, but this can’t go anywhere. She’s vulnerable. She was just crying in my arms and I was consoling her. Truthfully, I’ve wanted to kiss her since she stared me down on the road, and now that I have my chance, I don’t want to let up. I’m going for broke.
I anchor my hands to her hips and lift, our lips fusing as she willingly climbs onto my lap. Her legs straddle me, knees folded under her at the sides of my thighs. As she sinks into me, a groan slips out.
Needing to further touch her, my hands roam her collarbone, her skin silky and warm. Threading her fingers in my hair, she yanks me deeper into her mouth. Succumbing to her wet, warmth, my eyes close. Our matching sighs mingle and fade.
Flashes skitter across my closed eyelids, distracting and dragging me from my Pansy-induced haze. Confused, I blink a few times. Pansy pulls away, breathless, and her voice sounds confused.
“Silas?”
Flickering red, blue, and white beams of a police cruiser illuminate the interior of the car like a nightclub. Her eyes are huge and her mouth’s open in surprise.
“What the hell?”
A cop raps his hand forcefully on our window.
“Oh, my God,” Pansy utters, her voice shaky.
Opening the door, she climbs out. Keeping my hand on her hip, I step out and pull her close. We peer at the cop standing less than three feet from us, his hand on the holster of his gun. He’s a big guy, easily six foot four, and wide.
“Hands where I can see them. Sir, step away from the lady.” His voice is a deep baritone, authoritative.
“Who’s the owner of this vehicle?”
“Um, it’s my sister’s car,” Pansy responds, her voice uneven and low.
“License and registration, ma’am.”
She stutters, “U-Um, they’re in the car.”
Nodding, he instructs us to walk to the front of the car, telling me to place my hands on the hood. Standing back from us, he keenly looks on as she retrieves her identification and hands it to him. Then, speaking to me, he says, “Your identification, sir.”
“It’s in my front pocket.” I cautiously fish it out of my jeans and send up a prayer of thanks; finally something is working in my favor. I’m fortunate to have my driver’s license; at least I had that on me when I was tossed.
We silently obey as he instructs us to stand with our feet shoulder-width apart. He pats us down and while he’s rough and quick with me, he takes his sweet ass time roaming his hands over Pansy’s body. I practically swallow my tongue to prevent myself from losing my shit. Finally, he goes to the cruiser, not once taking his eyes off us.
Glancing at Pansy, I try to catch her eye, but she refuses to face me. Her head’s glancing down at the hood. I want to say something to reassure her that everything will be fine—after all, we’re no longer stranded. The cop will help us get gas, I’m sure of it.
Upon his return, his voice is gruff as he states, “Pansy Dobson, you’re under arrest …”
She gasps and I jerk as he drones on about her rights.
“Wait, this is her sister’s car,” I stress, taking my hand off the car, completely forgetting my moves aren’t mine to make. I’m suspended in some fucked up moment where I have no free will.
Before I even know what’s happening, I’m airborne. The cop has my hands behind my back and I’m face down on the ground. Dirt and dust wafts up into my mouth and nostrils, and his knee drills into my back. I’m stunned—getting flipped onto the terrain knocked the wind out of me. Ringing in my ears drowns out all other sound, and then Pansy’s crying eventually cuts through.
Love Happens Page 40