by Amy Daws
She shrugs and picks at the label on her beer. “It’s a little funny.”
I watch her for a moment and hate the way her posture has hunched. She went from a feisty, hilarious, sex-talking hottie to this slightly uncomfortable, semi-muted version of the Mercedes I’ve been getting to know the past couple of weeks. Her ex is a fucker, and if he was here, I’d make damn sure he knew it.
Jaw tight with determination, I hold out my hand to her. “Come with me.”
She scowls at me. “Where are we going?”
“We have to go outside for a minute…just trust me.”
I pull her out of her seat and exhale heavily through my nostrils at how high her skirt has ridden up. She smiles sheepishly and pulls her hand from mine to pull it down. Damnit, she’s way too sexy.
She gives her friends a one-minute sign by holding her finger up as I pull her through the crowd to the exit. The bouncer stamps both of our hands and takes her half-drunk beer as I haul her up the stairs and out the front door.
It’s balmy out, the night air damp and hot against our skin. The blue neon lights of the Walrus Saloon sign glow against our skin as I look around for a private area away from the noisy drunks. Yanking her around the corner, I pull my phone out of my pocket and find a contact on my screen. I turn it to Mercedes.
“Press the call button,” I state.
She squints at the screen, and her eyes fly wide. “Are you insane?” she exclaims and shoves the phone away. “It’s after midnight, Miles. We are most definitely not calling your grandma!”
I roll my eyes and shrug. “She won’t care. She fucking loves me. I’m her favorite grandchild. Press call. I want to tell her about your dirty books.”
“I will not! I’d never call a sweet old grandmother in the middle of the night and tell her about my smut. Oh shit, I need to take a note. I just thought of a really funny line for one of my books.”
She thrusts her hand through the low-cut neckline of her tank top and pulls her phone out of her bra. I frown down at that image. “How long has that thing been in there?”
“What do you mean?” she snaps. “The whole time. I didn’t fucking magic it into my shirt, you idiot.”
I chuckle at the ease of which she just insulted me. “Fine, we’re calling my sister then. She’ll tell you the truth.” I press send.
“Your sister could be asleep too,” she grumbles while typing a note in her phone, slightly swaying on her feet.
I shake my head at that comment. “She’s taking summer classes at the University of Utah. She’s probably out partying.”
The phone rings a few times and then picks up with loud, riotous noise in the background. “Megan,” I shout into the phone and press my other finger to my ear because I don’t know how I’m going to hear her with all that noise.
Mercedes giggles and presses a finger to my lips to shush me. I bite playfully at her finger and mouth, “Sorry.”
“Miles,” Megan shouts back into the line.
“Megan,” I repeat a bit softer this time. “Can you go somewhere quiet for a second? I want to ask you a question really quick.”
It sounds like she’s on the move because already I can hear her a little bit better. “Miles, how is it possible for you to cock block me from five hundred miles away?”
“Big brother intuition,” I state and stand straight. “Who is the fucker anyway?”
“Miles,” she chastises, and then the sound softens as she moves into what I believe to be a bathroom because I hear a toilet flush in the distance. “Shut up and ask your question.”
I look at Mercedes and give her the quiet finger as I click the speaker button on my phone screen so she can hear what Megan’s saying. “So Meg, I met this girl tonight. She’s super fucking hot, like suuuper hot.”
“Gross, Miles!” Megan groans.
Mercedes rolls her eyes.
“Okay, so this chick writes sexy books. Like that’s her job. Kinky, dirty shit, I think. And she was saying grandmothers hated her, and I told her our grandma would be totally into it…true or false?”
“Duh, Grams is a freak, so that’s totally true.”
I thrust my fist into the air and laugh heartily as Mercedes’s mouth drops open in pleased surprise.
“Mom would be into those books too, don’t you think?” I ask and smile even wider when Mercedes cups her hands over her cheeks, listening in rapture.
“Dude, Miles, of course, she would. You should get her name so Mom can look her up. Hell, Dad would probably read her stuff too. Don’t you remember when I was ten and found those porno books in Mom and Dad’s bathroom? I had to ask you what milk jugs were, and you flipped out and turned all red?”
I laugh so hard I have to brace myself on the brick wall. “Oh shit, I had forgotten all about that!”
“Yeah, our parents are hornballs, bro. You know this, why are you asking?”
“Because this chick wouldn’t believe me.”
“Well, give her the name of Mom’s book blog website.”
“Oh yeah, what’s it called again? I forget.”
“Dirty Birdy’s Book Blog. She even passes out business cards at church. She’s so embarrassing.”
I can’t wipe the satisfied smile off my face as I stare into the phone. “You read the books too, I thought, right?”
“Oh God, yes. Mom’s the one who got me hooked. It’s totally weird when she pushes her blog shit in everyone’s faces. Like God, Mom, try not to be so desperate.”
“Agreed,” I reply and look up at Mercedes. My smile falls when her wide eyes are glossy in the dim lighting. Is she upset?
“So who is this girl? I want to read her,” Meg asks.
A tear slips down Mercedes’s face, so I know I need to get off the phone pronto. “I’ll find out, but I gotta go, Meg. Don’t fuck that dude tonight or I’ll kill him.”
“You don’t even know who it is.”
“It’s probably one of my friends.”
A sharp intake of air breaks through the phone line. “How could you possibly—”
I hang up, my mind completely wrapped up in the tears running down Mercedes’s cheeks. “What happened? What did I say? Was it something my sister said? I wasn’t trying to offend. I swear I’m not judging you. I was just—”
I can’t talk anymore.
I can’t defend myself.
I can’t say another damn word.
Because her lips are on mine, and they taste like fucking cherries.
You know that moment in a love story when two enemies are arguing and fighting and screaming and thrashing and so fucking mad at each other that they can’t see straight?
Then suddenly, there’s this bolt of lightning, and they crash together like two fucking cars colliding head-on at a hundred miles an hour?
That’s me right now as I press my lips to Miles perfect mouth.
I don’t even know that much about him, but I have to kiss him. It’s a knee-jerk, instinctual thing that tells me this guy is worth kissing. I have to shut him up and kiss the person that has been talking nonstop to his sister for the past five minutes.
With one simple phone call, this hot mechanic has squashed every thread of doubt I have been lying to myself about not having. I joke about writing at a tire shop. I call myself a porn writer and let’s face it, I kind of am.
But deep down, I know I’m more. I’m a creator of stories. Stories that have a plot and an arc and a journey. Yes, they experiment in BDSM. Yes, they do anal. And yes, you will probably get horny when you read them, but they still mean something to me. I’m still proud of them when I type The End. And I love the fact that I have readers who get to escape their regular lives for a while and pretend that they’re someone else.
I give them book boyfriends like Miles.
But he is not fictional. He is real, and he went to great lengths to prove how many fucks he doesn’t care that I write smut for a living.
And fucking hell, this giant of a man feels so good under my
hands. I had to yank him down by his neck to bring our lips together. God, he’s tall and firm. So firm. Every muscle in his body is tight and hot beneath my touch. I can’t help but run my hands appreciatively over his triceps as our lips dance together in the best kiss I’ve had in years.
Years!
Dryston was a terrible kisser. His name totally matched his romantic abilities. Let’s just say it’d be a cold day in hell before I ever used the name Dryston in a book.
He never used tongue and never moved his head. He kept it at one angle and just opened and closed his mouth over and fucking over like a guppy fighting for his life on the shore.
Miles, on the other hand, kisses like a shark.
I may have started it, but damn, this guy has taken the lead. He moves his hands all over my body—squeezing, groping, and fondling as he wishes. He even turns his head from side to side, like a shark nipping at his dinner, savoring every scrumptious bite. It’s pure frickin’ magic. When his head tilts to the left, he gives me tongue. When he tilts right, he caresses my lips. And just when I think I’ve figured out his pattern, he changes it up. Biting my lower lip, he pulls it into his mouth. His big hands squeeze my ass and pull me flush against his hard groin, leaving me with no doubt about the effect this kiss is having on him.
Jesus Christ.
And the fact that I’m wearing this short, stretchy skirt makes the barrier between us basically nonexistent. If I was writing a book about this kiss, now would be the point where the bad boy steals his hands up the girl’s skirt, rips off her panties, and marvels at how wet she is for him. He’d pick her up, press her against the wall, and slam his bare, hard cock into her tight, soaked cunt.
Or something like that.
I’m making out with a hot guy, I can’t be a great writer right now!
“Mercedes,” he husks, pulling away from my lips, panting. “What are we doing?”
I drag in huge gulps of air, not realizing how much I needed oxygen while swallowing down the stab of guilt that he still doesn’t know my real name. But I don’t want him to know me as Kate. I am Mercedes at this moment. I’m not the girl still living with her ex because she can’t get him to move his shit out. I’m Mercedes, sex goddess in fiction and in life!
“I don’t know,” I reply, touching my fingers to his hot lips. God, they are sexy. “I just kissed you, I guess.”
“Yes, you did,” he replies, and a muscle in his jaw ticks like he’s in pain. He presses his forehead to mine and pulls his groin away from me. “And as hot as that was, we have to stop.”
I swallow and nod. “Totally. We’re in public.”
“And I don’t think this is a good idea.” He pins me with his steely blue eyes that sparkle even in the darkness. Piercing through his dark lashes like shining beams of sapphires.
“Wait, what?” I reply, pulling out of his arms and mourning the loss of his warmth immediately. “After all that shit you said inside and just now on the phone with your sister…you…don’t want this?”
He grimaces as if I kneed him in the balls. And maybe I should have. “I like you, Mercedes. But I’m not in the position to like someone right now.”
I have to laugh at that. What a line for a book! And what a twist—the sex writer who can’t get laid. How perfectly ironic. “Got it. Well, sorry to put you in such a difficult situation.”
I turn on my heel and move down the sidewalk to go back inside the pub. Fuck this guy. Fuck this bar. Fuck leaving the sanctuary of my fictional story and trying to live in the real world for one night.
A large hand snakes around my elbow and spins me back around. “Mercedes, wait. I don’t…want things to be weird.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have flirted with me so much then!” I snap and bite my lower lip, hating the fact I’m being so uncool about this.
It’s not like he proposed to me. He flattered me and bought me pizza and beer. Miles didn’t even make a move except for that one kiss on the cheek, and he was clearly uncomfortable about that.
Jesus. I write about this shit, but I don’t see it for myself. Idiot, Kate. Idiot, Mercedes. Whichever personality you are, you’re an idiot!
Miles runs a hand through his hair, causing his shock of black locks to stick out all over. “I’m sorry. I…don’t know what to say.”
I sigh and take mercy on him. “There really is nothing else to say. I’ll just…I’ll see you around, Miles.”
I turn and stride away, humiliated by the fact I was just rejected by my real-life book boyfriend.
Miraculously, my black moment with Miles matched up seamlessly with the black moment in the book I’ve nearly finished writing. Just a couple of more pages of depression, cue grand gesture, and bam…happily ever after. If only I could fucking write from home!
“Why are you here?” Lynsey asks, opening my front door without a knock to find me sitting cross-legged in my living room with my laptop open on my pretentious barnwood coffee table. Her face falls. “Oh my God, what is that horrible smell?” She opens my front door wide and waves the stench outside as my face heats with humiliation.
“It’s nothing!” I blow out the candle next to my computer and pop the lid on the tin to quickly stash the source of my embarrassment underneath the coffee table.
“It’s not nothing. It smells like…burnt rubber.” Her eyes go wide with realization. “Is that a fucking tire scented candle?”
She leaves the door open and dives on top of me, flattening me to the floor as we both grapple for the tin.
“Stop it! You’re going to make me spill wax on the floor!”
“Then let go so I can see what you’re hiding!” she squeals and claws her way up my arm, trying to reach my tightly gripped hand under the coffee table.
“No, you’re just going to make fun of me!”
“You’re damn right I am!” She redirects her hands to my sides where she starts tickling me mercilessly.
“Stop!” I howl and start laughing and screaming in unison as she assaults my tender sides and squirms on top of me. The ruthless bitch is going to leave bruises!
“What theeee fuuuuck?” a masculine voice stops us both midmotion. Lynsey’s face is only inches from mine, her hair falling around both of us providing a curtain of privacy.
I cautiously push Lynsey’s hair back to see Dean standing in my open doorway, gawking at us.
“Oh, thank God.” I exhale. “It’s just Dean.”
“Yeah, it’s just Dean,” he repeats and gestures with his hands for us to continue. “Please…don’t stop on my account.”
Lynsey and I both roll our eyes as she hauls herself off my body but not before she makes one more attempt for the tin. “Ah-ha, I got it!” she exclaims, but her face crumples in disbelief as she takes in the label on the tin. “Burnt rubber scented soy candle. I cannot believe this is a thing.”
She hands it over to Dean, and he winces as he takes a sniff.
“How much was that?” Lynsey asks, crossing her arms and tapping her foot like she’s preparing to scold me.
“Only $8.50 on Etsy,” I scoff and mumble, “I paid extra for expedited shipping.”
Dean booms with laughter. “Jesus H, you’ve got it bad, Kate!”
“I know!” I cry and stand up, staring at my manuscript still lit up in front of me. “I can’t write a damn word, and all I want to do is go back to Tire Depot.”
“Then go back!” Lynsey exclaims. “So you kissed him, and he turned you down? Big fucking deal! Your ex still technically lives in this house, and you refuse to move out, knowing full well he can come back any day. But one little kiss with the sexy mechanic, and suddenly, you’re a recluse again? I don’t think so!”
“She has a point, Kate,” Dean adds, completely unhelpful. “It’ll be awkward for a day, three days tops. It’s not like you have to gaze into his eyes from the waiting room. He’ll probably stay in the garage and avoid you too.”
I groan and drop down onto my couch, scrubbing my hands over my face.
“You’re right. My house smells like shit now too, doesn’t it?”
They both nod down at me.
Lynsey adds, “You’re going to have to get someone in here to clean it.”
“Or throw a raging party when you finish this book, and we’ll trash it so badly that the smell of booze and puke will overwhelm the burnt rubber.”
Lynsey and I eye him with disgust.
He shrugs. “Just an idea.”
“Fine, I’ll go back,” I decide at last. “But only because burnt rubber is not the same as new rubber, and I couldn’t find a new rubber candle anywhere online. I wasted an embarrassing amount of time trying.”
I walk into the back door of Tire Depot with my head held high. I have a book to finish, damn it. Lynsey and Dean are right. I sure as hell shouldn’t stop sneaking in illegally and pilfering complimentary coffee in the CCC because of Miles and his hot and cold treatment.
It was one kiss. One kiss with some heavy petting. One kiss with some heavy petting and a boner the size of a fucking giant cucumber. This is nothing I can’t get over!
Thankfully, as soon as I sit down and sip my free long espresso, I get that buzz in my fingers again. The buzz that means I won’t need to stop for food because inspiration will be nourishing my soul!
And thankfully, I don’t even see Miles for the first few days I’m back. It’s nice—like the early days when I was literally invisible to everyone around me. Even Betty doesn’t notice me typing in the corner when she comes with a fresh cookie stash. And that’s good because I have work to do.
But on the third day I come in, I muster up the courage to wave at him through the window in the shop. It seems like a normal thing to do, considering I walk right past the garage every day and can clearly see him working through the window.
When Miles sees me waving like a moron, he blinks several times, like he thinks he’s seeing a ghost. Eventually, his face relaxes, and he gives me that lopsided smile that’s still sexy as ever.
It’s nice. It’s mature. We’re adulting.
The next day, it’s as if my wave to Miles in the garage was an olive branch he’s accepted because he comes striding into the CCC just as he’s done many times before “the black moment.”