Pure Pleasure

by Ava McKnight

  Ky directed me to a plainclothes cook manning a grill covered with chicken strips and chopped steak. He shook hands with the cook and chummed it up, obviously a repeat customer.

  “Two specials,” he said, placing our order and then whisking me off to a far corner with a few empty tables.

  Before we sat, he pulled me a little closer to him and shuffled me around the wooden floor with his comical idea of Salsa dancing that had us both laughing in a carefree way as we eventually fell into our chairs.

  “I hope you’re a better mechanic than dancer,” I told him when I caught my breath. “Or the team you work for is screwed tomorrow.”

  He chuckled as he scooted his chair next to mine. “We’re favored to win, so I’m sure we’ll have a good showing. We’re running against Robby Gordon and Jesse James, but we’ve beaten them before.”

  I hadn’t seen either one in the pits today, and no one had mentioned them, as though invoking the big-shot names would jinx their team’s chances of winning the race.

  “Have a little faith, is that what you’re telling me?”

  His grin was, I finally decided, his defining feature. That was saying something, considering how fantastically built he was, in such an erotically stirring way. Above all else, though, that teasing lift at the corner of his mouth sucked me in and made me absurdly crazy about this person I didn’t even know.

  Before he could reply to my comment, a small Hispanic woman wearing an apron covered with cartoon-type red and green chili peppers appeared at our table. She greeted Ky with a big smile and welcomed him back. When it came to me, she sized me up and then seemed to give her approval with a slight nod. She set a Corona in front of both of us, along with a shot of tequila and a plate of limes.

  “I’ll be back with the fajitas in a few minutes.”

  I eyed the Corona as Ky said, “If you’d prefer a glass of wine…”

  “No, no. This is fine. This is great.” Trying something different never hurt, right? Besides, I liked this laid-back atmosphere and comfortable setting. The music was sassy and upbeat and the strands of tiny white twinkle lights wrapped around the railing of the deck, along with the stars and moon, lit the river with a vibrant golden glow. This was no fancy Scottsdale restaurant, which was what I found so appealing about it. Well, that and the fact Ky was sitting next to me, lifting his bottle and tapping the rim gently to mine.

  “Cheers,” he said, a sparkle in his beautiful blue eyes.

  “Bottoms up.” I took a deep sip of beer and found it refreshing, considering my insides were ablaze. Christ, I’d never imagined it possible to be so turned inside out by a man, but this one had me nearly vibrating out of my chair.

  He showed me how to shoot the tequila, instructing me to lick the crook of my hand between my thumb and index finger, sprinkle some salt on the damp skin, then suck the salt from it, throw back the liquor and squeeze the juice from a sliced lime into my mouth. I executed the move following his demonstration and he watched me intently, a flicker of excitement in his eyes, which gave me a good indication he was as aroused as I was.

  The chicken fajitas arrived, and I made small talk over dinner as that dull throbbing started again in my pussy and heat oozed through my veins. The latter not being a result of the spicy food or the tequila, but from the way Ky looked at me. As though my obvious willingness to experiment both intrigued and stimulated him.

  Swallowing down a mouthful of brilliantly flavored chicken and peppers, I asked, “How’d you get into racing?”

  He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and told me, “Family tradition. Four generations of Richards have been in the racing business. My dad was a top competitor in Trophy Trucks before he died a couple of years ago.”

  For a moment, he deviated from the topic and I could see from the flash of pain in his eyes it had something to do with his father. “I was going to tell you about Trophy Trucks, wasn’t I? They’re the premier race vehicles on the circuit. Costs about a million bucks to build one, sometimes more.”

  I whistled under my breath. “Wow, that’s crazy.”

  “Not when you take it seriously. We’re all die-hards. Depending on the race and the class they run, teams might pay up to sixteen-hundred dollars or more for an entry fee. So, of course, everyone is determined to win.”

  “I had no idea there was so much money involved in this sport.”

  “Interestingly, it’s more of a lifestyle than a sport. There are several racing organizations that host a series of races, mostly throughout the Southwest and in Mexico. We’ve been prominent in a number of series, but the big fish to fry is always the Baja 1000.”

  “I heard about that a while back, when Patrick Dempsey ran the course,” I said, perking up. “SCORE International hosts the Baja Peninsula race.”

  He seemed pleased I knew about the Grand Poohbah of races. He smiled as he nodded. “It’s very intense. Very unpredictable. There’s no telling what will happen to the race vehicle or with the track and weather conditions. Racers get lost or misdirected by the locals. Cars break down in the middle of the desert. Drivers run for hours getting the hell beat out of them by wild bumps and turns. It’s a little insane, but damn good fun.”

  His smile and enthusiasm were infectious. “Man versus nature and machine at its finest?” I ventured.

  He chuckled again. “Something like that.”

  “Sounds exciting. I’m looking forward to seeing it tomorrow.” I polished off my beer and the waitress immediately delivered another for each of us, along with a second shot of tequila that I didn’t hesitate to throw back with Ky.

  The fiery sensation in my throat didn’t even compare to the one deep within me as he gave me a look of appreciation and respect. Apparently, I’d proven I wasn’t all uptown girl.

  Ah…if only he knew the truth. I’d never have the money to be an uptown girl. I was more a product of my environment. The publisher of the magazine I worked for had taken a huge chance on me several years ago, after I’d sold a few articles to other publications. Though I wrote for the socialite demographic, I was anything but. Rather, I was a quick learner who knew how to fit into the circumstances surrounding her.

  Not surprisingly—after years of buying my designer outfits and shoes off-rack or from eBay, because I couldn’t afford to set foot in Neiman Marcus or Prada but had to live up to a certain image—I found this evening’s fun and low-key setting a comfortable and enjoyable one.

  The company was titillating as well.

  Ky asked, “What made your publisher want to run an off-road racing article?”

  “We’ve been struggling with the economic change. We used to distribute specifically to affluent households, but today, that’s too small an audience. We ran a fitness article last month that had health and wellness gurus coming out of the woodwork. I’m not sure of the kind of impact we’ll see on readership from my feature, because our primary readers are female, but I think it’ll be educational and enlightening for them.” I took a sip of beer, then added, “It’s a trendy topic. This feature should provide good information for any woman wanting to ‘talk the talk’ with the man in her life, and I hope we’ll also increase our number of male readers. That would be extremely helpful.”

  “You like the magazine enough to do whatever you can to keep it in circulation?”

  “Yes, I do. More than that, I enjoy working with the people there.” I took another quick drink before admitting, “I really shouldn’t have been hired. I was nineteen when I moved to Phoenix, after getting the job. I didn’t even have a college degree. Couldn’t afford the classes. My dad had passed away when I was young and my mother had never worked, so it was a struggle for her to find something that paid enough to cover the rent on the one-bedroom apartment we moved into.”

  “Where was this?” he asked as he sat forward in his chair, listening intently.

  “Seattle. We lived in a terrible neighborhood, which is sad to say, because I’ve heard Seattle is a beautiful city. I never saw t
he highlights, for the most part anyway.”

  “Why’d you take a job in Phoenix?”

  “It was the only place I’d been offered a decent job. I quit school when I was sixteen so I could work at a grocery store with my mom, in order for us to make ends meet. I was a good writer from the time I was a kid, though, so I sent out a few pieces every now and then, and they were published. Scottsdale Live was hiring right around the time I’d sold my fourth article. The position required a bachelor’s degree. I didn’t even have my GED at the time. But I contacted the publisher, told her where I’d sold my work, sent her writing samples and promised I’d not only get a bachelor’s degree, but a master’s as well. After reading my stuff, she said she had a good feeling about me and trusted it enough to give me an opportunity I don’t think anyone else would have offered.”

  “Sounds like a great boss.”

  “She is. That’s why this feature is important to me. If I can help in any way… I want to do whatever I can to make the magazine a success again.” A wave of emotion washed over me as I said, “Not only do I owe Melodie for helping me to fulfill a dream—and providing me with a paycheck that allows me to take classes since I’m now onto my master’s, while also leaving enough left over to send to my mother so she doesn’t have to work so many hours—I’m thrilled to be working for her. The magazine has been sort of a home away from home for me.”

  “That’s a nice sentiment,” he said. “I can understand where you’re coming from. Racing was a big deal to my dad and being with the team and involved in the sport makes me feel closer to him, even though he’s no longer with us.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  He smiled sweetly at me, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “You know how it feels.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  We were both quiet for a while, finishing our meals and sipping our beers. Finally, I asked, “What happened to your father?”

  “Rollover. Came into a turn too hard and fast and the truck flipped several times. The roll cage collapsed under the pressure and both he and his co-driver were killed.”

  I gasped. “Ky, I’m so sorry. How horrific. My father got cancer and we had months to prepare for the inevitable. You had seconds. I can’t even imagine—”

  “It’s just as bad to have months as it is to have seconds, Giselle. Losing a parent no matter the circumstance is difficult. But it sounds as though you and your mom are still well connected with each other.”

  “We are. What about you and your mother?”

  He shook his head, then took a long pull from his beer, draining it. “She always said racing would be the death of him. Proven right, she packed up and moved to Hawaii. She didn’t want to be anywhere near our home in Texas or the racing world. I don’t blame her. She was devastated. We all were. But instead of running from the tragedy, I stepped up my research on a carbon fiber mix that’s helped me build a more substantial and nearly indestructible roll cage for Trophy Trucks. For any off-road racing vehicle, actually.”

  “That’s incredible,” I told him, in awe of his ingenuity and drive. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five or six, but he had a sophisticated and mature air about him.

  “Problem is,” he said, looking modest despite the safer innovation he brought to a very dangerous sport, “the compound is expensive to manufacture, so I’m having trouble replicating it for a reasonable cost that doesn’t break a race team’s budget. I’m still working on it, though. And advocating the racing organizations deem it a regulation component once I get the cost under control.”

  “That’s very impressive,” I said, adding his inventiveness and conscientiousness to the list of things I liked about him.

  “At the end of the day,” he told me in an earnest voice, “we’re all in this together. I don’t need to jack up the price of the cage for profit. I want it to be a standard feature on any race car for safety purposes, not for personal financial gain. If I’d had the prototype built before my dad’s last race… Who knows,” he said with a sigh. “It could have saved two lives.” He was quiet for a moment and then, in a low voice, he amended his statement, making it a conviction instead. “I know it would have saved their lives.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” I told him as I placed a hand over his while it rested on the table. “I’m sure your dad and his co-driver knew every hazard related to racing. It was their choice to get in that truck. This doesn’t fall on your shoulders, Ky.”

  He gave a slight nod of his head. In turn, I gave him time to let the tense moment pass.

  Finally, he stood and pulled some bills from his front pocket. He dropped the cash on the table and held his hand out to me. “How about a walk down by the water?”

  Chapter Two

  “Sounds nice,” I told Ky as I slipped my hand in his, once more reveling in the warmth and strength as well as the slight roughness of it. That physical zap I’d gotten earlier when we shook hands returned, the natural chemistry jolting me again.

  He led me across the deck and we strolled along the walkway to the marina.

  After several minutes, he glanced over at me and said, “You’re the quiet one now.”

  A little embarrassed, I admitted, “I’m surprised I told you so much about myself. I never lay that heavy stuff at people’s feet. Must have been the tequila.”

  He eyed me with a curious look. “How does anyone get to know you then?”

  I shrugged. He had a valid point. But I’d written a series of articles years ago with a renowned dating expert who’d advised against revealing too much about your past, especially right off the bat. As was the case with most women, I’d eaten up that piece of advice, along with the word of warning that men preferred uncomplicated women, particularly ones without emotional baggage.

  Yet walking beside me was a man who had his own emotional baggage and wasn’t hesitant to share it with me—or learn about mine. Maybe it was because we played on the same field—particularly with our family situations—we were comfortable sharing our true selves. I, for one, didn’t seem to have any trouble opening up to him. He was personable and engaging. I liked him immensely.

  When we reached the pier, I asked, “What do you want to know about me?”

  “Everything,” he said with a smile. “Starting with whether or not you’re involved with someone.”

  I laughed. “Do I strike you as the type of woman who’d be holding hands with one man when she’s dating another?”

  No,” he was quick to say. “You don’t. But I had to ask.”

  We reached the dock that ran the width of the slips and arrived in front of a stunning boat anchored all by its lonesome. Or rather, it showed itself off spectacularly as it stretched along this otherwise empty portion of the marina.

  “Wow,” I commented as I took in the sleek lines and pristine deck. “Some yacht.”

  “It’s a sixty-three-foot Sea Ray 630 Super Sun Sport.”

  My head whipped in Ky’s direction. “You know boats too?”

  “I know this one.” With an easy grin, he explained, “She belongs to the race team. I sleep here when we’re racing near a lake or an ocean. It’s quiet and private and I enjoy the sound of the water lapping against the sides. Calms my nerves before a hectic day on the racetrack. You wanna step inside?”

  “Hell, yes,” I blurted out before the implication of my words even hit my brain. “I mean, you know. Just to see the interior.” My cheeks flushed as Ky chuckled.

  “I wasn’t expecting anything else,” he told me.

  My face and neck still burned. He led me forward and I realized I went without a bit of reluctance. Despite my bumbling, I truly wanted to see the personal space he coveted and was thrilled he’d invited me onboard.

  We took the short flight of steps at the back of the boat down to what I could only refer to as the belly of the Sea Ray, possessing little nautical knowledge or vernacular myself. Regardless of my lack of comparative examples to drawn upon, I was blown away by the opulenc
e of the living room setting and the wet bar. The sofas were plush and a deep-blue hue that wasn’t quite royal and not quite navy. The accents were rich, polished cherrywood, illuminated by a warm golden glow from the soft lighting. Wood floors and travertine in the galley added to the elegance and sophistication of the interior.

  “Impressed?” Ky asked as I took it all in.

  “This is unbelievable. I’d never guess from the outside how much space there is. A family of six could live here comfortably.”

  “You’re right. She sleeps four plus two crew members, when they’re needed.”

  “Crew members?” I whistled under my breath. “Yeah, this is definitely my idea of a yacht.”

  “Don’t be intimidated.”

  Easier said than done. “I did mention I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment in a rough neighborhood in Seattle, right? My mother’s idea of inspiring me to do better than she’d done was to take me to the Four Seasons Resort when I was thirteen and it left me speechless. Guess she wanted me to see how the ‘other half’ lived.”

  “I see her plan worked,” he told me as he eyed my outfit and shoes.

  With a shake of my head, I said, “Don’t be fooled. I buy everything secondhand. Most of my money goes to my classes and my mom.”

  “Is that why you wrote features when you were younger? For the money?”

  “I still do.”

  “Ever just write for the love of it?”

  A nice sentiment, but not a luxury I’d ever felt I could afford. “Call it fear of slipping into the poverty level, as was the case when I was a kid. Nothing motivates you as much as having to rely on food stamps to eat—not even a ‘this could be your lifestyle if you work hard enough’ trip to the Four Seasons.”