Dirty Talk

by Lauren Landish

  I look over at him, fury coursing through my veins and my fingers crushing the last remnants of my cig so completely that I don’t even feel the burn of the ember as it’s snuffed against my palm. “What?”

  TJ looks startled, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “You’re snarling. What’s wrong? Flashback?”

  I sigh. He can be a pain in the ass, but most of the time, he’s always there for me, and he’s tried to understand. “Nah, just saw that city council shit going in the salon.”

  TJ glances over, recognizing the car. “Jaxson? Don’t really know him, but he seemed all right when I opened up the garage. Came by, shook hands, wished me luck. It even sounded half genuine.”

  I think over my answer. Like TJ, I first met Jaxson soon after I came back to town just after my discharge, full of anger, clothed in my winter riding leathers, and barely able to sleep at night without screaming myself awake.

  He’d come by the diner along with one of the local cops on my third day back, I guess after figuring out that I wasn’t just some transient biker. The discussion had been full of veiled comments, some snide remarks about a former service member looking like I did, and the implied threat that I’d better watch my ass.

  Not that I’m going to tell TJ about that. He might try to understand, but he wouldn’t really. It’s like John Rambo said, Over there, I was in charge of million-dollar equipment. Here, I can barely hold down a job parking cars. “He’s trying to get McKayla to go out with him and he’s a slimy little shit.”

  TJ stares at me in total disbelief for a solid minute before figuring out what to say. “Yeah, she could really do worse than a stable, employed guy who wants to take her out on a date. Maybe you’d rather she go out with you? Because lord knows, you could offer her so much joy and happiness with your aura of rainbows and fucking glitter.”

  He huffs and stomps back into the office, shutting the door a little hard, but the hydraulic keeps it from slamming.

  What the hell’s wrong with him? I just said I didn’t like the guy . . . the guy who wants to date McKayla. It wasn’t like I told him every reason I hate the fucker.

  I lean back against the garage again, maintaining my study of the scene across the street. The sad part is, I know that TJ is right. McKayla deserves someone nice who’d treat her right and take her on dinner dates and carry on a conversation beyond grunts. She deserves a guy who’ll give her everything she wants and then some. Not someone haunted like me. Someone whole, who’s not half-soulless with a void filled with demons.

  I don’t have any right to inflict myself on her. I need to maintain the status quo and minimize my impact by keeping to myself. Nobody needs to know just how fucked in the head I really am, and if I don’t talk to them, they won’t know. Just stay quiet, and if it gets too bad . . . I move on. The advantage of a motorcycle and a military background is that I can pretty much go wherever I want and get along just fine with what I can fit in my saddlebags and the duffle I still have at the house. Between that and my check from the military that says I’m partially disabled, I’ll get by.

  Decision made, I dust the last crumbles of tobacco off my hands, rubbing them together before scrubbing them on my jeans. I give one last glance across the street, where I take a small measure of comfort in seeing Jaxson marching out the door, rounding the front bumper of his car as he dangerously tightens his already straight tie. Denied!

  He looks up toward the garage, and I swear I can see a familiar coldness in his eyes when he sees me standing outside watching him. I’m doubtful he’s ever going to stop seeing me as the possible biker gang member who rolled into his town and is eventually going to cause trouble. He yanks open his car door to get in and then fires up the engine before pulling back into traffic, once again the perfect city council member as he accelerates at just the right speed up the street. It’s another thing I don’t like about the man. When you’re pissed, you’re allowed a half-second to gun your fucking engine if you’re in the clear. In fact, maybe that’s the real reason. Maybe there’s nothing slimy about him and he’s just too much of a goody-two-shoes.

  My eyes tick back to the salon, and McKayla and Brad are talking like nothing happened. Brad’s waving his makeup brushes around and twirling, making McKayla laugh uproariously before her eyes glance across the street and she sees me. Before she can do anything, I turn and go back inside. That wiring harness isn’t going to fix itself.

  Whatever. Maybe he just needed a cut and she couldn’t fit him in. Not my business and I don’t care.

  I keep telling myself that as I head back inside and climb back under the Range Rover.

  Chapter 11

  McKayla

  Sweet moonrise over the mountains . . . it’s the perfect end to a busy week as I sit with Brad and Rose at the Grand Waterways Hotel bar and peer out over the distance.

  When Rose invited me, I’ll admit I had a snobby moment thinking a hotel bar didn’t sound all that appealing. But she insisted they have good drinks, delicious food, and the best jukebox in town. “Don’t worry, they totally revamped when the new place opened up in the mountains,” she said. “They wanted to differentiate themselves from the snow set tourists, so while it still has the luxury look, they’ve expanded the food spread a bit. No way you won’t find something you like.”

  So why the hell not? I decided. I haven’t had a chance to just kick back and see the town, and I could use a night out. And what do you know? She was right, I think to myself as I try to delicately grab my fourth piece of Toro sushi.

  I glance over at Brad, the epitome of a fashionable male in his open-neck paisley shirt with the cuffs rolled up, jeans that are tight but not too tight, and boots. I happen to know that his ensemble took him thirty minutes to put on and get just right, and by now, his feet have to be killing him. I’ve never seen him in those boots before.

  But I won’t give him too much hell because I took at least that long to curl and pin my pink hair into victory rolls, and that was before I slipped fishnets and a halter circle dress on. Brad may not be country, but I’m a helluva lot of rock ‘n’ roll.

  If I’m going on a night out, I’m doing it my style. With Rose completing our ragtag group in a sleek modern body-hugging sheath and a chic updo that I did for her today, we look like three folks who would never fit together, but somehow, our friendship works.

  Taking a sip of my scotch—no frou-frou drinks here . . . that’s Brad’s poison—I listen to Rose talk about the town as she sips at her ‘Michelada,’ a Mexican import that’s one part beer, one part tomato juice. It’s all hers. No, thank you. “I’ve been here for five years now, and I’m creeping up on my thirties. Business is finally starting to gain a foothold, I’ve been featured in the town paper twice, and have made some great friends. Really, all of us along Tourist Trap Drag are doing pretty well with the ski resort bringing in tourists. It’s far enough away that we stay pretty small but close enough that we get traffic down here to help keep businesses going.”

  Brad raises his drink in the air. “To successful ventures, five-star service, and happy lives.” We toast, and he tips back some light blue thing, draining half of it before he continues. “Rose, you said this place is struggling. Why?”

  Rose giggles and downs half a Michelada. “Basically, some corporation sank a ton into building this place a long time back, but the university didn’t grow the way they thought it would or something. Hell, I dunno. But for a long time, this place was the biggest eyesore in the county. Then a retired football guy invested in it, and when he did it up, he did it up right. It’s the fancy-schmancy bourgie place around here now.”

  “Fuck it,” I mumble. “The food’s good.”

  “That it is,” Brad agrees. “Hey, McKayla, what about that Jaxson guy who came in the other day? What’s the story there, chickadee?”

  I groan, rolling my eyes. “Ugh, he’s just so, so . . . nice,” I say with look of disgust. “I bet he’s a deacon in church or something.”

 
; Brad leans over to stage-whisper to Rose. “Nice is bad to McKayla. That means he’s a no-go.”

  Rose laughs, maybe a little loudly, but who gives a damn? We’ll get home safely somehow. “Nice is a bad thing? I don’t get it.”

  I take a big inhale, trying to settle my thoughts so I can explain without sounding half drunk. “I don’t know. He’s just polite and mannered and boring. Just so nice, not my type at all. The first time he tried to ask me out, I dodged and he took Brad and me to the diner for introductions. But he came back and asked me to dinner and kissed my cheek. I was blunt and told him I’m not looking for romance, but we could be friends. Should be a done deal, yeah? Nope, he was back again a few days later, saying he knew I was settled into town now and he was ready for that date. It was so awkward. He doesn’t seem to be taking the hint, and I’ve damn sure not been subtle. It’s not in my nature.”

  “So, he really likes you, is a nice guy, and wants to take you out. I guess I’m not seeing the issue because I’d be all over that like white on rice if I could find the mythical creature known as ‘The Nice Guy’.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “I know it’s stupid, but there’s just no spark. Take-charge, I like, but there’s something with Jaxson that’s just the opposite of spark. It’s like a fire extinguisher instead. And sparks are the first ticket to McKayla Land.”

  Brad, who’s heard my complaints about Jaxson before, chuckles. “Speaking of sparks, what about our across the street bad boy biker neighbor with an oh, so delicious last name, Evan Hardwick? What’s the story there? Because there’s like a whole case of fireworks going on but I’m a little concerned about the blast zone, if you catch my drift. He always seems like an angry dude.”

  I laugh, knowing Brad’s got nothing to worry about from Evan, before I sigh happily. “Well, y’all know I’m not one to kiss and tell . . .”

  Brad coughs, the sound suspiciously coming out like “Bullshit!” before he waves me to continue, and I laugh.

  “Okay, who am I kidding? Of course I am. We went for a ride the other day and it was heaven. Things got a little hot and heavy, but I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days. Just casual for now. We’ll see, I guess.”

  Brad and Rose meet eyes, an echo of a conversation they’ve obviously already had about this topic singing out loud and clear. I’ve gotta admit, I’m a little jealous. It took me a long time to get that sort of telepathy with Brad, and more than a few scratch fights.

  Finally, Brad drains the rest of his drink and sets it down, looking me in the eyes. “Just be careful. I know you like the bad boys, but that one’s a little beyond your usual repertoire. From what I’ve heard about him, he’s got issues. He isn’t some wannabe rebel with a sneer and a trust fund backing him up.”

  I roll my eyes. That was just once. But Rose seems to have the same thing on her mind. “He seems like an asshole to me, but if that’s your thing, have fun, I guess.”

  I raise my glass in a toast, not upset at all. Fuck it. I’m a big girl, and I’m gonna take care of business. “To fun, in all its types and positions.”

  Brad and Rose clink glasses with me again, and we all dissolve into laughter. Still giggling and smiling, I’m caught unaware when there’s a hand on my shoulder from behind. I look back, already halfway into bitch mode for the space invasion, when I see it’s Jaxson. He’s grinning, and I feel the awkwardness drop over the table like a wet blanket. I was having a good night too.

  Jaxson doesn’t seem to notice, completely at ease in his khakis and dress shirt with no tie. “Hey, guys. Let me buy a round.”

  Before anyone can say anything, he plops down on the bench beside me like he was invited, throwing an arm around the back of the bench. Not quite on my shoulders, but still obviously marking his territory. The waitress comes up and my moment of rebuttal is sidetracked by her smiling request for orders.

  What the hell, I was gonna drink another one anyway. “I’ll have another double Scotch on the rocks.” I peel off a ten-dollar bill from my small money roll, dropping it on the waitress's tray before Jaxson can do anything about it. I still can’t quite tell him to piss off. The salon can’t handle that sort of blow, but I can send some pretty clear signals.

  There’s a tight tension at the table now, the jovial mood from moments before gone.

  “Hi, Jaxson,” I finally greet him. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got a strict cash and carry policy, so I’m good for the drink.”

  Jaxson smiles at me, but it feels like it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s like in the salon. He’s smiling, but there’s nobody home upstairs. “No problem, just wanted to say hi and that there’s no hard feelings. You’re new in town, and if you’re looking for friends, then you’ve got one right here.”

  He pats his chest with his palm with a strange little double-thump, making it clear that he’s referring to himself. “So what are we talking about?”

  Rose looks at me, uncertain, but she’s the kind that’s too polite to just tell him to fuck off. “We were just, uh, toasting to new successful ventures.”

  Jaxson gives a huge smile, and I inwardly moan. Shit, of course he’s going to eat that up, being on the city council. “Good to hear. Have you heard about the rezoning going on down on the south end? There’s a lot of people who think that it’s really going to take off. The business environment is . . .” And he’s off, blending in discussions of tax structures with culture, and more to the point, that it’s a total mishmash. I tune him out, sipping on the new Scotch the waitress dropped off a few minutes into Jaxson’s diatribe. It’s total political half-baked bullshit. I heard enough of it in Hollywood to smell it a mile away. There’s no way that he knows what’s going to happen twenty years down the road.

  I’m having one of those best friend conversations with Brad, no words, just lots of eye contact and mind reading.

  This guy’s a tool.

  I know. Why do you think I turned him down?

  He’s a disrespect to the word tool even. I like tools.

  You like a certain tool. He’s got one, you know.

  Not interested.

  I’m about to reply when I see Brad glance down with a raised eyebrow. I look down at the table and see Jaxson running his finger along the rim of my drink glass. Uh, no. I snatch my glass away, truly pissed off for the first time. “Don’t touch my drink.”

  Jaxson looks startled at the steel in my voice, even though I worked to keep it quiet and calm. He blinks, then gives me that politician’s smile again. “Oh, sorry, just fidgeting.”

  I realize I sound a little bit Neanderthal, like Evan did with his bike, and the irony is not lost on me. But I don’t give a fuck. There are rules, and some of them are totally unbendable. “I’m from LA. When guys mess with your drink, it’s a pretty surefire sign you’re about to get roofied. Don’t touch my drink.”

  I push it to the edge of the table. I don’t think he did anything, but I can’t even consider putting my lips where his fingers were just rubbing. Jaxson stutters, then nods. “Sorry.”

  “Uh-huh,” I reply before realizing this night’s done. Fuck it, I’m done. I fake a yawn and stand up. “Sorry, guys, I think I’m out for the evening. Gonna head on home.”

  I grab my purse, and Jaxson stands up, totally in my bubble again. I step back, putting space between us and a palm out toward him to show the invasion is unwelcome. “Excuse me, Jaxson.”

  He merely smiles. “Come on. Let me give you a ride home. I wouldn’t want you to get pulled over by the cops.”

  “No, thanks,” I reply with no flexibility in my voice. “I’ll be fine.”

  The front desk of the hotel runs a shuttle bus from the hotel to downtown, so I catch a ride. The driver drops me off a few blocks from the salon, and I relish the chance to walk in the relative coolness. The sidewalk is quiet, letting me calm down more. I don’t think it was just the alcohol that had me snap at Jaxson. I just don’t like him.

  As I get closer to the salon and home, I glance
across the street and see a light on in the windows above the garage. Evan mentioned he sometimes would stay there. I wonder if he’s home.

  A delicious little tingle runs through me as I think of him up there, watching me. I bet he loves the way my tits are pressed up and together in this halter, and I hope he likes fishnets, because these stockings are meant to turn his engine over for sure. I pause and consider the window for a moment, thinking maybe a little part two of our bike ride adventure is just what this night needs.

  There’s a flash of shadow at the window, and before I can change my mind, I start walking over. Fifteen seconds later, I’m knocking on the door that leads to an upstairs area.

  There’s no answer for a moment, and I’m about to give up and head back across the street. Maybe I was just seeing shit or maybe the Scotch was a little stronger than I thought. I start to turn away when I hear heavy footsteps coming down the stairs inside.

  Evan opens the door, and two thoughts run through my head. One, he looks haunted . . . but two, he looks so fucking sexy I’m glad this skirt has scandalously easy access. “McKayla?” he asks.

  I decide to run with thought number two and give him a smile. “Hey! I saw the light on and thought I’d see what you’re doing. Can I come up?”

  I can see the ‘no’ on his face before he even speaks, but with a sigh, he agrees, stepping back. “Yeah, sure.”

  He opens the door further, gesturing me inside. He closes and locks the door, then heads up the stairs, leading me into an apartment. I’m struck with curiosity about what his sometimes crash pad will look like. “So, I wasn’t expecting company. Place is kind of a mess.”

  Despite my wonderings just moments before, I decide to play it chill. “Just coming to see you, not to judge your bathroom cleanliness.”

  He opens the door at the top of the stairs, and I’ll admit I’m a little shocked. It’s not messy. If anything, the place is neater than most hotel rooms I’ve been in, but that’s because there’s barely anything in here at all. There’s a metal-frame bed that looks more like a cot against one wall, two milk crates with a piece of plywood laid over top of them, and against the wall opposite the cot is a small flat panel TV, a strictly discount store job that someone probably bought at a Christmas sale for fifty bucks or something.