Drive Me Wild

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Drive Me Wild Page 6

by Julie Ortolon


  His words made her back go straight as a poker. “Which is another reason I want to go. I’m sick and tired of living my life according to other people’s rules. Can’t I just once have some fun, like every other normal person in the world?”

  She had a point. Not a point he liked—but a valid one.

  “Mr. Michaels?” the valet asked. “Will you be needing your car, sir?”

  Brent looked at Laura. If she wanted to see the darker side of life, she was safer doing it with him than on her own.

  With a curt nod, he sent the valet after his car. “All right, Laura, if you’re bound and determined to flirt with disaster, here’s how it’s going to be. You will not utter one gasp of horror or one word of condemnation all evening. You will stay in my sight at all times. And you will never, ever tell anyone where we went tonight, or so help me, I’ll come back here and tan your hide. You got that?”

  “Does that mean we’re going?” Her whole face lit up.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  With a low, rumbling purr, the yellow Porsche rolled up beside them, and the valet hopped out. “Boy, does this baby sing. You want the top down, Mr. Michaels?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Laura answered brightly, as if they were headed for a picnic in the country.

  Brent jerked off his jacket and tie and threw them in the backseat as soon as the valet had finished lowering the top. Shoving a tip into the kid’s hand, he climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

  Laura, of course, waited politely for the valet to dash around the hood and open her door. She climbed in with that innate grace of hers, legs folded neatly together with her ankles crossed and her knees touching.

  He gave her a long look, waiting for her to change her mind. She raised a brow as if to say, Well? Are we going or not?

  In answer, he threw the car in gear and headed down the drive. “This is the stupidest idea I ever heard.”

  “It’ll be fun,” she said.

  “What are you doing?” He scowled as she peeled off her navy jacket. She folded it neatly with the mum on top and placed it in the back. The wind plastered her shirt to her body, revealing the lacy pattern of her bra through the thin silk. Christ, how could any woman look so prim and so sexy at the same time?

  “Somehow,” she answered, “I don’t think a church suit and corsage would be appropriate attire for a pool hall.”

  Brent jerked his eyes back to the road. This was nuts. He had to talk her out of this before the rednecks who hung out at Snake’s got an eyeful of Laura. They’d be on her as fast as wolves on a newly born lamb.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the wind tug a strand of hair free from her french twist. She reached up to repin it, and relief washed through him. Laura Beth Morgan was going to take one look at Snake’s and demand he take her home.

  Only, to his horror, he realized she hadn’t repinned her hair. She’d been taking it down!

  —

  Laura tried to hide her disappointment as she twisted in her seat to study the dark building separated from the road by a gravel parking lot. It wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. On the few occasions when she’d driven this backcountry road by day, she’d tried to imagine how the abandoned-looking building would transform itself at night. Garish neon lights would glow in the windows while the throbbing bass of blaring music filled the night air. Couples would lock themselves in passionate embraces against souped-up hot rods and battered pickup trucks. Maybe two drunken cowboys would even stumble out the front door to engage in a bar fight. She’d never seen a bar fight. Of course, the only bars she’d ever been to were the kind attached to respectable restaurants.

  “Well?” Brent demanded in the disapproving older-brother tone he’d somehow acquired. “Seen enough?”

  She gave him her best smirk. “We haven’t even gone in yet.”

  “Then by all means, let’s go in.” Brent got out of the car. She waited for him to open her door, but he turned away and headed across the parking lot instead.

  “Hey, wait up.” She scrambled out of the car, slinging the thin strap of her purse over her shoulder. She knew perfectly well he wanted her to chicken out, but she meant to show him she was made of sterner stuff than that.

  The car alarm chirped behind her as she headed after him. She slipped on the gravel and caught herself against an old Oldsmobile. Her father was right, she really would twist her ankle in these shoes.

  To her surprise, the car rocked against her. She glanced through the grimy window and caught a glimpse of movement in the backseat.

  “You coming, Squirt?” Brent called.

  She sprang away from the car, trying not to blush or laugh as she hurried after him.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked when she reached him.

  “Nothing.” A giggle escaped.

  “Laura…” he said in a threatening tone.

  “There were…” She lowered her voice. “People. In the backseat of that car. You know. Doing it.”

  “Which car?”

  “That one. Back there. Jeez, don’t look!” She tried to grab his arm, but it was too late.

  Rather than whisper, as she had, he raised his voice. “You mean the one with the bumper sticker that says “If this car is a-rockin”, don’t you dare come a-knockin’?”

  “Bre-ent!” She covered her face with her hand. He laughed, which was an improvement over the glowering he’d done since they’d left the country club. “Can we just go inside?”

  His laughter stopped, and she lowered her hand. The glower had returned. “Laura, look…” he hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove here, but we don’t have to do this.”

  She longed to say she wasn’t trying to prove anything. But that was a lie. She needed to prove, at least to herself, that just because her life was boring didn’t mean she was.

  “Brent,” she said, “I’m twenty-eight years old. An age when most single people are thinking about settling down. Only how am I supposed to do that, if I have nothing to settle down from?”

  He studied her closely, his face unreadable in the darkness.

  “I mean…” She fidgeted. “Shouldn’t everyone have at least one night in their lives they regret?”

  He heaved a sigh. “Just remember you said that, not me.”

  “Absolutely.” Her mood instantly lightened.

  “And drop the Girl Scout grin.” He headed up the wooden steps to the plain brown door. “Jeez, I keep wanting to ask what kind of cookies you’re selling this year.”

  “Oatmeal.” Her grin grew wider.

  “Just get in here.” He jerked the door open and held it for her.

  The smell of smoke and stale beer filled her nostrils as she stepped over the threshold. A hush fell over the stark interior. Directly across from them, two old farmers sat at the bar—not the ornate carved-wood and mirror-backed bar she’d imagined, but a plain wooden bar with plain wooden stools. An assortment of liquor bottles cluttered the shelves behind it.

  The two old-timers, in their dirty plaid shirts and baseball caps, glanced over their shoulders to glare at the newcomers. Laura stepped closer to Brent. “It’s a little quiet in here, don’t you think?”

  “It’s early,” he said, closing the door behind them.

  Laura glanced off to the left, where two younger men bent over one of the three pool tables. Plastic imitations of stained-glass lamps bearing beer logos hung over each table, casting beams of smoke-filled light onto the playing surface.

  “Would you care to have a seat?” Brent asked with exaggerated politeness. “Or would you prefer to go straight for a game of high-stakes pool?”

  “No, no, sitting would be nice.”

  To her relief, he led her off to the right, where a hodgepodge of tables surrounded a minuscule dance floor. A jukebox sat before a stage that looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. Brent picked a table close to the dark-tinted windows along the front wall, away from the few occupied booths along the
back. As they settled onto the cracked plastic seats, Laura was glad to see two women at the other tables, even though the women looked as hard and worn as the men.

  “I thought I’d order whiskey,” Brent said. “What do you want?”

  She stared toward the bar, wishing she could toss back her hair and say something provocative like “I’ll have the same, on the rocks with a splash.” But a splash of what? She’d never had whiskey before and didn’t even know what her options were.

  “Well, if it ain’t Brent Zartlich,” a raspy male voice wheezed. “’Scuse me. Brent Michaels.”

  “Evening, Snake.” Brent nodded to the man.

  Laura looked up and found herself staring into the eyes of a tattooed snake. It coiled up the entire length of a flabby arm that was nearly as big around as her leg.

  “Hey, boys,” the man named Snake called toward the pool tables. “Looky here what the cat done drug in.”

  Laura looked beyond the tattoo long enough to get an impression of an enormous man wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt. Black hair framed a face that could have been attractive if it were a bit less flabby and a lot less piratical. On second thought, that wicked pirate gleam in his eyes lent him a certain charm.

  “Well, well.” One of the pool players swaggered toward them. He too wore a sleeveless T-shirt, but his arms were sculpted of hard muscle and bore no tattoos. He had the face of a fallen angel with brown eyes and a mischievous grin. Rather than a halo, he wore a battered straw cowboy hat over his sandy-blond hair. “I don’t know, Snake, looks more like something a skunk would play with to me.”

  “Jimmy Joe.” Brent greeted the newcomer in a cool tone without offering his hand.

  “And who might this be?” Jimmy Joe’s gaze lit on Laura as if he’d just found his father’s secret stash of Playboy. She blushed, embarrassed yet oddly delighted at the idea of being cast in such a role.

  When Brent made no move to introduce her, she held out her hand. “How do you do? I’m Laura M—”

  “Martin,” Brent interrupted and shot her a warning glare, although she thought his precaution unnecessary. They were far enough outside Beason’s Ferry, Jimmy Joe probably wouldn’t recognize her name. “This is Laura Martin.”

  “Girlfriend?” Jimmy Joe asked, taking her hand.

  “Friend,” Brent corrected in a stilted voice.

  “Weeell, in that case—” Jimmy Joe raised Laura’s hand to his lips “—I’m right pleased to meet you, Laura Martin. I’m Jimmy Joe Dean,” he said, sliding uninvited into the chair beside her. “Sort of like James Dean, but with a Texas twist.”

  “Yeah,” Brent muttered. “The original Rebel Without a Brain.”

  “And this here’s Roy.” Jimmy Joe gestured to a bulky man who stood silently staring down at Laura from beneath the bill of his ball cap. The total blankness of Roy’s expression gave her pause.

  “Have a seat, Roy.” Jimmy Joe gestured to the one remaining chair, and his friend did as he was told. “ Roy here, he don’t talk much,” Jimmy Joe whispered, then winked to put her at ease.

  She offered Roy a smile, which wasn’t returned. On closer inspection, she decided he looked more slowwitted than dangerous.

  “How come we ain’t seen you around here before?” Jimmy Joe asked her.

  “She’s from out of state,” Brent answered.

  Jimmy Joe slapped a hand to his chest. “Now don’t you go breaking my heart by telling me you’re a Yankee.”

  “Does she sound like a Yankee?” Brent demanded.

  “Hard to say, since I ain’t heard her speak much.” Jimmy Joe gifted her with one of his fallen angel smiles. “You can speak, now cain’t you, darling?”

  “Of course she can speak,” Brent said, and Laura had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing.

  “You know, it’s right handy how you do that,” Jimmy Joe said to her. “Talk, I mean, without moving your lips. You must be one of them there ventrilo-kist.” He turned his smile on Brent. “And this here must be your dummy.”

  “You boys gonna order something?” Snake asked. “Or sit here yammering all night?”

  Brent glanced at Snake. “I’ll have whiskey on the rocks, and Laura would like a whiskey and seven—Johnnie Walker Red, if you have it.” He’d obviously guessed she didn’t have a clue what she wanted.

  “What about you, JJ?” Snake asked. “You and Roy want another round of long necks?”

  “You bet,” Jimmy Joe said.

  Laura heard Brent’s sigh of exasperation and gave him a sympathetic smile. As Snake ambled off toward the bar, the front door opened and a teenage girl wearing baggy jeans and a skintight T-shirt entered. The shirt stretched over her full breasts and left her flat stomach exposed. Every man’s eyes went instantly to the girl. Brent, she noticed, was the first to turn away with a look of mild disgust.

  “Speaking of what the cat drug in…” Jimmy Joe muttered, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

  The girl’s eyes scanned the room and lit up when she found Jimmy Joe. She sauntered toward him with her blue jeans riding low on her hips. She had a startling, almost innocent look to her heart-shaped face. Dark brown hair hung straight to her narrow waist. But her eyes, Laura noticed, looked glassy, dilated, and far too old for someone so young.

  “Hey there, Jimmy Joe,” she breathed as she slipped into his lap. Curling one arm about his neck, she fastened her mouth to his and proceeded to give him a tonsillectomy with her tongue.

  Laura glanced away, focusing on the scarred tabletop, the neon beer signs on the wall, the darkness beyond the window. In the window she saw a reflection of the couple kissing, like wavy images from a dream. Her breath turned shallow as she watched them, and deep inside her belly her muscles tightened around an empty ache.

  She’d never kissed a man like that, had never been kissed with that deep twining of lips, and bodies, and tongues. Oh, but she’d dreamed about it. Even when she’d kissed Greg, especially on the few occasions when they’d made love, she’d dreamed of kisses that defied politeness and shunned propriety.

  Unnerved by her own thoughts, she turned away, and her gaze collided with Brent’s. She held her breath as he watched her. No expression showed on his face, but his eyes reached inside her, laying bare her darkest secrets. Could he see all the times she’d lain awake at night with perspiration dampening her thighs as she dreamed of kissing him?

  As if in answer, she saw his throat move as he swallowed, and his breath turn shallow and slow. The couple beside them ended their kiss with the wet sound of mouths separating.

  Laura jerked her gaze back to the window as every nerve inside her trembled.

  “Ja miss me?” the girl asked with a husky murmur.

  “Now why would I be missing you, Darlene?” Jimmy Joe asked. “You’ve been right here all evening.”

  “Yeah, but I went outside for some air, and I was gone an awfully long time.”

  “Were you now?” Jimmy Joe asked without much interest. “And here I didn’t even notice.”

  Laura’s heart ached for the girl, as if she were the one who’d just been dismissed.

  “I don’t suppose you saw Bobby while you were out takin’ some air, now did you?” Jimmy Joe asked. “He promised to drop by tonight and lose me some money on the pool table.”

  “Well, I’m sure if I’d seen him, I’d have noticed,” Darlene shot back huffily.

  Jimmy Joe looked at Brent. “What d’ya say, Zartlich? You up for shooting some pool, or are you just here to soak up the atmosphere?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Brent said while staring at Laura, “I’m not quite sure why I’m here.”

  “In that case,” Jimmy Joe set Darlene aside and stood, “why don’t we go rack up some balls while you decide?”

  Chapter 7

  Bending over a cue stick, Brent sighted the three ball to the corner pocket, but in his mind he saw the expression on Laura’s face while Jimmy Joe had been giving his little teeny-hopper girlfriend mouth-to-mouth.
When Laura had turned to him with those dilated pupils and the sheen of perspiration on her flushed neck, something inside his brain had shorted out. In that moment, he’d wanted her, right then, right there and to hell with whoever watched.

  With a savage crack, he sank the three ball. Without glancing up from the table—since he’d lose what little control he had left if he looked at Laura—he moved around to line up his next shot. How could he be having these thoughts about her? Laura was sweet, decent, and proper to a fault; she had an understanding heart and generous nature that had allowed her to befriend a boy the rest of the town had shunned. Loyalty alone should be keeping his thoughts in line. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t stop the images from popping into his head: images of Laura stretched out on the pool table before him while he did a dozen scandalous things to her body.

  Focusing on the eleven ball, he reminded himself of all the reasons he absolutely could not give in to a single impulse pumping through his overheated body. Women like Laura didn’t make love to men unless they thought the relationship might lead to marriage. He, on the other hand, had no intention of getting married. Ever. It was not a decision he had made lightly. Nor was it one he would ever reverse. To seduce a woman like Laura would be no better than lying. He knew that. So why the hell wasn’t his body listening to his brain?

  He smacked the cue ball with such force, it flew off the table.

  “Whoa, there.” Jimmy Joe laughed as he caught the ball midflight. “This is pool we’re shooting. Not skeet.”

  “Your shot.” Settling against the far wall, Brent took up his drink and studied Laura over the rim of the glass. She sat perched on a bar stool next to Darlene, her blond hair neatly framing her face. The brooch still held her blouse closed primly at the throat. She’d crossed her long, silky legs and clasped her hands together over her knee.

  With a snort, he shook his head. She looked as out of place as a hothouse lily growing in a garbage heap. He couldn’t believe Laura was even talking to that girl. Well, actually, he could. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was hoping to take Darlene home, clean her up, and introduce her to some nice boy in the church youth group.

 

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