Of course, working in the shed left me open to a constant flow of pickup lines from his team of helpers. Each of the attempts consisted of just two unoriginal thoughts. The first was linked to me coming from “down under” and then discussing either their down under or mine, and the second comprised entirely of offers to use their “tools” to help “tune my engine.”
Suffice to say none of them won my heart or a date. In fact, all their stream of catcalls earned them was my ire. I was already irritated enough because my limited days were ticking away and I hadn’t even seen any other states.
When I got the word that the new clutch cable had arrived, on my birthday of all days, I was over the fucking moon. It was the last thing—the last piece of the puzzle. Almost every other component of the engine had been stripped down and machined, replaced, or cleaned to within an inch of its life before being ready to return to its rightful position. For some bizarre reason, the clutch cable had been the hardest thing to find.
I was in the middle of fitting it and putting the finishing touches on the bike, bopping and singing along to a song on the radio—one of my favourite songs by a slightly obscure punk rock band, Robbin’ Blind—when Mike, one of the panel beaters, approached me.
“You like this song?”
I grinned. “Yeah, it’s one of my favourites of theirs. Although ‘Take It All’ probably tops the list.”
“You know they’re playing tonight at Barb’s Shack, don’t you? It’s just a few miles up the road in the hills.”
“No way!” I wiped my grease-coated hands on a nearby rag.
He grinned at my enthusiasm. “Yeah. I don’t suppose you want to go?”
Is this his way of asking me on a date? My excitement dipped a little and I watched him as I said, “I guess. I mean, I’d love to see them live.”
“They’re so good.”
The fact that he wasn’t pushing me for an answer left me a little less suspicious. “You’ve seen them before?”
“Yeah, they play at Barb’s all the time.”
“That’s awesome. Maybe it was fate that the bike was so jacked up.”
“So you wanna go?”
“Yeah!” It was impossible to contain my enthusiasm because I was finally old enough to go out to the sort of places those bands tended to play—ones with liquor flowing freely and an age limit of eighteen.
Then it hit me like a Mack truck. The drinking age was twenty-one in the States. Did that mean that I would be so close to seeing Robbin’ Blind and not be able to see them?
“Wait,” I added. “It’s not a nightclub is it? What I mean is, does it matter if I’m not twenty-one yet?”
“Nah, they keep the restaurant open, so it’s all good. You just won’t get a wristband, that’s all.”
“Well, count me in!”
“Good, I’ll tell Brittany we’ve got one more for the night, she’ll be thrilled. There aren’t too many Robbin’ Blind fans around these parts.”
“Brittany?”
“Yeah, uh, my girlfriend.”
“Oh.” I was actually a little relieved that it wasn’t a date. I hadn’t come to the States looking for love any more than I’d come to spend two weeks in a garage fixing a bike.
“You didn’t think it was a date, did you?”
“No. Of course not,” I lied as smoothly as I could, although I could feel the heat rising up my cheeks.
“Uh, aren’t you into girls anyway?”
My eyes flared at his words. Was he really suggesting . . .?
“Why? Because I can fix and tune a bike?” With the wrench gripped tightly in my hand I pointed at my accomplishment. Without thinking, I advanced on him and poked him in the chest. “I can’t get grease under my nails and still like guys? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. I didn’t mean that.”
“Funny, because that’s exactly what it sounded like you meant.”
“I just prefer girls who are into having make-up on their face rather than grease.” He pointed to a spot on my cheek, which was no doubt coated with the grease and grime that came with working in the shop. “Most guys are.”
“I’m not feminine enough, is that it?”
He held his hands up in surrender.
I shook my head as I threw the wrench back into the toolbox. I should have expected it really.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s been a blast having you around the shop.”
For every guy who turned into a head-to-toe hard-on watching me around an engine, there were at least two who thought I had to be a lesbian just because I liked getting in the thick of it. As though getting dirty were somehow linked to sexuality.
“Whatever. I’m kinda glad it’s nothing more. The last thing I need is any potential for attachments on this trip.”
“We cool then?”
I shook off the irritation. It had pissed me off when I thought he wanted a date, so it would be hypocritical of me to be annoyed that he didn’t. “Yeah, we’re cool. What time should I get there tonight?”
“I can pick you up if you like?”
What a ridiculous suggestion! “Are you kidding me? You said it’s up in the hills, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
I glanced pointedly at my bike. “Do you honestly think I’m going to miss the chance at letting her stretch her legs a little before we take off together?”
He chuckled. “Okay, okay,” he relented, before giving me directions. “Be there at seven.”
“Awesome. Thank you for the invite.” As I finished up the last touches on my bike, including cleaning up her bodywork as best as I could, I thought about the fact that the night would mark the real start to my trip.
I couldn’t wait.
THE NIGHT HADN’T exactly gone the way I’d hoped. I’d left the garage and checked into a motel for my last night in Sacramento. Then I’d dressed up in my nicest leathers and a floral blouse. It was subtly feminine, but with enough edge not to stand out in the crowd of punk rockers.
When I’d arrived at Barb’s Shack, Brittany and Mike had invited me to sit with them over dinner. It was halfway through the meal that it became apparent they’d screwed up the nights and Robbin’ Blind weren’t actually playing. They’d hung around for a while, long enough to eat, but then had decided that an early night was in the cards. Apparently the country band setting up wasn’t to their taste—a notion I could totally understand.
Because it was not only the first night I’d actually been able to do something, but also my birthday, I’d chosen to stay. When they’d left, Brittany and I had slipped into the bathroom, and she’d wiggled out of her armband and given it to me so I could order from the bar for the night. It meant I didn’t have to wait for the servers to decide to grace my table, which had been happening less and less frequently after our dinner plates had been cleared away.
Mike’s mistake had left me alone in a bar on my birthday, dressed perfectly for a punk rock show when a bunch of hillbilly rockers took the stage. Overall, it was not my idea of a good night, but I didn’t have anything else to do other than go back to the motel, and I wasn’t ready to turn in just yet. That would be tantamount to admitting I didn’t know how to have fun whatever the situation.
I was sitting at the bar when three guys in the middle of a conversation that I could barely follow came over and stood near me. Their chatter grew louder as they waited for the bartender. Something about quarterbacks and intercepts and God knows what else. Two of the guys were so similar looking, with black hair and hipster beards, that they must have been brothers. The other one stood a good head taller than them both, with sandy-brown hair and an aura of clean-cut wholesomeness. Too bad he was an oaf, taking up three times more space than he needed as he swung his arms around, splashing his drink as he did.
“Oi, watch it, mate!” I shouted as the klutz stepped back in the middle of his boisterous storytelling, bumping the drink in my hand and nearly tipping it over me.
After he’d turned to me, he
inclined his head. “Sorry, ma’am.”
I didn’t acknowledge his words for a moment because the world had stopped spinning as soon as I met his eyes. Galaxies had less complexity and beauty than the swirling amber and chocolate that battled for dominance in his irises. His sharp jaw and pronounced chin spoke to places deep inside me and filled me with the urge to trace my fingers across them as I drew his lips to mine. Something stronger than butterflies burst to life in my stomach, threatening to tear me apart from the inside if I kept staring at him.
“Whoa.” The guy’s eyes widened as his gaze trailed over my face and down my body.
I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I stood a little straighter, shoving my chest out under his appraisal. Mostly because he wasn’t looking me over because he’d seen me in some catalogue or magazine. I’d caught his eye just for being me—at least momentarily.
“Are ya all right there, darlin’?”
His words were enough to shake me from my stupor. What the fuck was I thinking? Anyone would think I’d never seen a hot guy before. Then again, there was something about his wide shoulders and the wiry, muscled forearms barely covered by the rolled sleeves of his flannelette shirt that screamed for my attention. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just, uh, watch where you’re stepping next time, please. I don’t think this bar is big enough for your tales.”
“And where’s that cute li’l accent of yours from, darlin’?”
I could have sworn his accent grew more pronounced with every word of his question. Maybe he could see the way my lips parted and hear the way my breath sped at the sound of his lazy cowboy drawl even over the loud music. He must have been in for the band.
“Uh, Australia,” I answered when I remembered that I needed to speak if we were going to have an actual conversation. “And before you say anything else, don’t even bother with the down under pickup lines. I’ve heard them all by now, and none of them work.”
He chuckled but didn’t get to say anything more before his friends drew him away from our fledgling conversation.
I sighed and tossed back my glass of Coke before ordering another. Although I’d hoped for an evening of dancing and fun, the opportunity to be quietly introspective while I thought about my eighteenth wasn’t entirely unwelcome either.
Half an hour later, I was still nursing the same glass of warm Coke, thinking back on home, when I felt someone move close to me. Too close. I turned to say something, and found myself beside the oaf from earlier.
“What’s eatin’ ya, darlin’?”
I debated not answering, but then I sighed and spilled. “It’s my brother’s birthday today.”
“And you’re sad ya can’t be with him to celebrate?”
I shook my head. “He’s dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It happened a long time ago. I’ve come to terms with it, but days like today are a little harder than others.”
“Ya know, I don’t think a pretty young thang should be alone on her brother’s birthday. You’re more than welcome to join me and my friends if ya wanna?” He pointed his drink in the direction of a table full of loud and loaded frat-boy wannabes.
“Thanks, but I’m actually enjoying the solitude.” I looked down from his eyes into the depths of my glass of Coke. “He was my twin.”
I didn’t know where the words came from, but they were out before I knew it. I couldn’t even pass it off as an alcohol-induced slip because I hadn’t consumed any. The only reason I could think was that the stranger’s damn eyes momentarily hypnotised me.
“Ah, fair enough—wait, what?”
My eyes filled with tears, but I kept my head ducked to stop Mr Hot Stranger from seeing. I might have been trying to find myself, but I knew enough about me to know that spilling my deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger in a bar wasn’t like me.
“You’re alone on your birthday? I can’t decide if I should take pity on ya or be jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“On my last birthday, my workmate busted out the Daisy Dukes.”
“Okay?” I wondered how short shorts could ruin a birthday.
He pointed toward the table he’d retreated to earlier. “See the big ol’ hairy one? That’s my workmate.”
I chuckled.
“Wait,” my new friend said, sliding onto the bar stool beside me. “Do that ag’in.”
I frowned. “Do what?”
“The thang you just did.”
He’d well and truly lost me.
He chuckled. “Ya made an odd sound, and your lips did an odd thang I ain’t seen since the first time I laid eyes on ya. Turned up in a funny little way. ’Most like, oh heaven forbid, was that a smile? Maybe even a laugh?”
“Nope. Definitely not.” My lips fought against my urge to keep them set in a hard line, twisting up at the ends without my permission.
“It suits ya better than that other expression. Makes ya look younger.”
I scoffed. “Are you saying I looked old?”
“No, just that pretty girls like you should smile.” He rolled the word pretty around in an odd way, making it come out sounding like purdy.
“Seriously?” I rolled my eyes as his words rolled into a hundred similar statements over the years. “Look, if you’re going to sit there and spout misogynistic crap, then you can just scamper back to your friends and find some girl willing to fawn over you to hear it.” With a wave of my hand, I indicated he should move along.
“I don’t reckon I ever met no one like you before.”
I turned back toward him just long enough to say, “I know you haven’t.”
“Can I buy ya a drink?”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You’re makin’ it very hard to make small talk.”
I gave him a sideways glance and a half smile. He earned some points for persistence if nothing else. “That’s kinda the point.”
“Well, I ain’t leaving your side ’til I get a name.”
I went to answer out of habit, but then I realised that I didn’t have to be Phoebe Reede here. I could be anyone.
“Just call me Dawson,” I said, using Mum’s maiden name. It wasn’t an outright lie after all; it was a name that appeared on my birth certificate.
“Mighty fine to meet ya, Dawson.” He took my hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the back of it. When he released it, I let it linger in the air for a beat too long as I sat dumbfounded by the strange behaviour. He winked at me and then stood to leave.
“Wait!” The word left me so fast, I didn’t have a chance to think it through. When he turned back toward me, grin firmly in place, my heart pounded. Now what? I had no idea how to act, what to say, what to do. I swallowed hard. “Don’t I deserve a name in return?”
“I wasn’t sure ya wanted it.”
“I do.” The words came out a fraction too fast, and far too eager. God, I was acting like some love-struck teenager. I guess in a way, that’s what I was. Fuck. I tugged at the hem of my blouse.
“It’s Beauregard,” he said, letting me off the hook embarrassment wise—at least temporarily. “But my friends call me Beau.”
I leant against the bar, resting my head in my hand. A wistful sigh slipped from me. “So what should I call you then?”
His breath hitched, and the expression that overtook his features left me ready to toss the rest of my trip out the window to spend it in bed with him. “Darlin’, keep lookin’ at me like that, and you can call me anythin’ ya like.”
The words were the reminder I needed to straighten up. I wasn’t in the States for romance or to be hit on in bars. I knew the sort of guys that picked up girls in places like the one I was in—and I knew the sort of girls they wanted.
Maybe that would have been the easy path, open my legs and let the world in, and part of me definitely wanted that with the cowboy. But I also wanted my first time at least to be special, and I didn’t think it was too much to demand.
Besides, when morni
ng came, I was getting on my bike and hitting the open road. I didn’t need to take any additional emotional baggage on my journey.
I shook myself out of my stupor and stood. “I’ve got to head off. Big day tomorrow.”
He pressed his hand over his heart and tipped his head to one side. “You wound me.”
“How so?”
“I thought I was finally breakin’ through that tough exterior, but ya shut me down pretty fast. I gotta admit, I ain’t used to it.” The way he said finally—fine-lee—made me smile despite myself.
To stop myself from getting carried away in his country charm again, I quirked my brow. “Let me guess, you’re used to girls falling at your feet, ready to do your bidding.”
He shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”
The question of what he did burned my tongue, but I stopped it in time. The more I engaged him, the more likely it was I’d do something I’d regret later. I didn’t really want my first time to be with a random hook-up in a bar after all.
Did I?
The longer I talked with him, the further the answer was leaning toward yes. Which was why I had to put a stop to it sooner rather than later. “Thank you for your words, Beauregard. They kept my mind off things for a little while.”
He stepped closer to me, so close that I could feel the heat from his body. The scent of his cologne filled my nose, and clouded my mind, making it impossible to think.
“I think perhaps I’d like it if ya could call me Beau,” he said, watching the curtains of hair that fell around my face. In one smooth move, he traced the tips of his fingers over my cheekbones, capturing my hair and pushing it back behind my ears. “And that face shouldn’t be hidden away.”
I went to tell him off for making my looks the most important thing about me, but he silenced me with a smirk.
“I mightn’t know ya well, and I can see you’re far more than a pretty face, but that don’t mean I can’t find you beautiful.” Like most other words falling from his mouth, he added an unusual sound to the word “can’t,” adding an i to the middle that didn’t exist. His accent did things for me that I couldn’t even explain.
Phase (Phoebe Reede: The Untold Story #1) Page 7