by Tate James
“Hah! You just called it my house!” I crowed and heard my mom tsk.
“Figure of speech. The offer we received for the house was more than generous, and we’d be mad to turn it down. I’ll have all your things packed up and moved over here to your old bedroom so it’s all ready when you get back from this ludicrous road trip you’re on. Won’t that be fun?” The distracted tone of her voice told me I’d already lost this battle; she wasn’t even paying attention to me anymore. “Honey, I have to go; my cookies are burning. You stay safe in Tennessee, okay?”
“Texas, Mom,” I sighed. “I’m going to Texas.”
“Mm-hmm, okay, bye now.” She had hung up the phone before I could respond, and I was left looking at my blank screen.
Well, fuck.
Now I had no cat, shitty, neon-pink hair, and nowhere to live.
That last part wasn’t totally true, though. I threw a glance over my shoulder at the awesome, retro house-bus that I was driving. It was a vintage, hippie thing that I’d fallen totally in love with when I’d seen it at a junkyard and had spent several years doing it up for the exact purpose I was using it for now.
I’d become a volunteer kitten rescuer a while back, and it’d quickly become obvious I needed some mobile accommodation to keep my costs down when on these long drives across the country, so my bus had become the perfect thing.
“I guess I could live in this for a while,” I muttered to myself, my fingers rubbing my necklace pendant over and over in a nervous habit I’d had since childhood. “Not that I have many other choices.”
Sighing heavily, I clicked my seat belt back on and turned my ignition key to start the temperamental old bus.
“Come on, Jack,” I pleaded as the engine spluttered and died, over and over. “Don’t do this to me, not now. Come on, old friend, start!”
Seconds later, it became painfully clear that I’d jinxed myself. Yes, Cleo, yes, today can get worse, and it just had.
“Fuck!” I screamed, smacking my forehead against the horn over and over, beeping in time with my curses as I repeated, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
This routine could have gone on and on—given I had no idea what the hell to do next—if not for a knock on my window halfway scaring some pee out of me. Okay, more than halfway. But it was only a little, and that knock had seriously given me a fright!
“What?” I barked, glaring up at the person who’d intruded on my temper tantrum. The late afternoon sun was directly behind them, so all I could see was a shadowy outline as I squinted up.
The person didn’t respond, and it took me a moment to realize I needed to open my damn window in order to be heard. As quickly as I could—which was not very quick, given the age of my van—I rolled down the manual window a few inches then repeated my less than polite, “What?”
“Did you need some help, ma’am?” the unnaturally handsome man asked in a gentle, polite voice. “Looks like you’ve broken down.”
I frowned, bringing a hand up to shade my eyes and see him better. “What makes you say that? I could just be taking a nap or checking directions or something.”
Okay, yeah. I was broken down, but I didn’t exactly have smoke pouring out of my engine or anything, so this guy was making assumptions that really only a serial killer or rapist might make.
“Of course,” he agreed, giving me a lazy smile with his startlingly attractive mouth. “So you don’t need any help then? It’s still a long way into town, and there’s no public transport out here.” His voice was warm and inviting with an Australian accent. Or was it New Zealand? They sort of sounded the same to me, but apparently they say that about Americans and Canadians.
The instinctual desire to decline his help caught on my tongue as I peered at the empty road ahead of me. It was almost dusk, and staying in my van all night wasn’t going to get it fixed. I needed to get it to a mechanic or call a tow truck or... something.
“That’s okay,” I replied with a tight smile. “I’ll just call a tow truck. Thanks, though.”
He bobbed his head in a short nod and smiled back. “You can try, but Robbie, the mechanic, broke his foot a week or so back and won’t let anyone else drive his truck, so you might be waiting a while.”
I squinted at him a moment, trying to decipher if he was messing with me or not. When I said nothing, he shrugged and jerked a thumb in the direction of his car parked behind mine.
“I’ll just wait in my car a few minutes while you call to check. I’d hate to leave a lady stranded on the side of the road; my mum would never forgive me.” His voice seemed sincere, and it was awfully hard to distrust that damn accent. Which was stupid as all shit; even I had heard of Ted Bundy.
“Sure,” I agreed, waving my phone. “Thanks.”
Rolling my creaking window back up, I waited until he was safely back in his car before Googling the nearest mechanic and hitting dial.
The response I got wasn’t even a real person; instead an automated voicemail told me that Robbie’s Repairs was closed until further notice and to call Burkee Mechanics in the next town over if it was an emergency.
Not yet willing to accept the help of possible-serial-killer yet super-hot Crocodile Dundee, I called the number provided for Burkee Mechanics.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” the wheezy old man told me when I explained my situation. “That’s a solid hour’s drive from here, and I’m already three whiskeys deep. Leave your van there and hitch a ride into town; I’ll pick it up tomorrow and drop it to Robbie’s.”
I ground my teeth together hard, but didn’t argue. No one should support drunk driving, even if they were stranded on the side of the road with Chris Hemsworth’s brunette, tanned cousin who may or may not be a psycho killer who wanted to wear my skin as a coat.
“Okay, thanks,” I sighed. “I guess I’ll speak to you tomorrow?”
“You got it,” the man replied before melting into a series of coughs as he hung up the call.
For a long moment I just sat there drumming my fingertips on the steering wheel and pondering my options. What little options there were. I mean, I could just sleep in my van and wait for the Burkee Mechanic to get me in the morning... but it was predicted to storm overnight and without my engine, the heating wouldn’t work.
Crap dammit. I really hated being cold, too.
Sucking in a deep breath and pulling up my metaphorical big-girl panties, I unbuckled my seat belt and slung my purse over my shoulder. Just to be on the safe side, I doublechecked that both my pepper spray and switchblade were where I always kept them before opening my door and stepping out.
Shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, I tugged the hem of my tight tube skirt down from the inappropriate position it had ended up in after five or so hours of driving. The sexy Australian was indeed back in his car and gave me a small nod of acknowledgement before getting out himself.
“Don’t worry, babe; I’m not an axe murderer.” He gave me a cheeky grin that—dear fucking lord—showed a dimple in his cheek. “Scout’s honor.” He held three fingers up in what I guessed was meant to be a Boy Scout’s salute. Not that I had any clue; it could have been the Star Trek hand sign.
“Do you even have Scouts in Australia?” I asked with a suspicious frown as I approached him. As much as I wanted to keep my stranger-danger on high alert, I was being quickly worn down by the combination of his accent, the playful mocking in his words, and that goddamned dimple.
Shit, it had really been too long since I’d gotten laid.
“Sure we do,” he replied with that sexy smirk. To my surprise, he came around the car and gallantly held the door open for me. “See, they taught me how to be a gentleman and shit.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, hesitating just a moment before getting into the car. It was the icy cold breeze hitting my bare legs that ultimately pushed me to trust him not to chop me up into little pieces and bury me in the woods somewhere.
“Thanks,” I murmured as he closed the door for me, then jogged
back to the driver’s side to slide in. “I called the mechanic in Burkee, but he said he couldn’t come until tomorrow. If you can just drop me off at a motel or something, I’d be grateful.”
“That, I can do,” he replied, clicking his seat belt on then peering at me. “I’m Hunter, by the way.”
I gave him a smile. He really did have good manners. “Cleo,” I introduced myself and took the hand he offered to shake. “Thank you for stopping to help me, Hunter.”
“Don’t mention it, Cleo,” he replied and almost seemed to purr my name. “My mum would smack me upside the head if she thought I’d left a damsel in distress on the side of the road. That’s a pretty awesome van you’re driving, by the way.”
I grinned, admiring my awesome vehicle as we drove past it and accelerated down the open stretch of road. “Yeah, Jack’s something special. Unfortunately, just not the most reliable engine. Not like this thing.” I drummed my fingertips against the dash of Hunter’s Mustang.
“Ah, true. But temperamental engines just add to the adventure of it all, don’t you think?” He threw me another one of those lopsided smirks, and I officially gave up thinking of him as a serial killer. If he was... well fuck it, he was the prettiest damn serial killer I’d met.
Not that I’d met many killers... or any... Ah fuck, now I was rambling inside my own head. At least it wasn’t out loud?
“You’re still thinking I might be a killer, aren’t you?” Hunter’s smooth, accented voice cut through my slightly manic thoughts, and I clapped a hand over my mouth. It had just been in my head, hadn’t it?
He laughed then, and I swear I’d never heard a sexier laugh in my entire freaking life.
“Don’t worry, you weren’t saying it out loud. You just have a super expressive face.” He glanced at me quickly before returning his gaze to the road. “So Jack? That’s what you call your van?”
Chewing my lip, I turned my gaze out the window while thanking my Egyptian heritage that I didn’t blush easily. “Uh-huh, Candy Jack.”
I didn’t elaborate, but when I glanced back at my sexy savior, he had a small, knowing smile that said he recognized the name as being a pot reference. What could I say, I grew up in Oregon where stores employed bud-tenders, and I might have been a little bit high when I’d named my candy-turquoise colored van.
“I probably wouldn’t count on Gerry actually coming to tow Candy Jack tomorrow,” Hunter said after a pause. “He tends to get three sheets to the wind on a Tuesday evening, and is a bit useless until around Thursday. Sorry.”
This news was just what I fucking needed, and it was only with great effort that I held back my curses in favor of a pained groan instead. “Fantastic,” I seethed. “I’m going to need to arrange other transport in that case. Is there a car rental in town?” I’d done a brief stint working for Enterprise Car Rental and knew they had offices freaking everywhere. But even they had limits and the town we were approaching was small. Real small.
Hunter confirmed my fears with a shake of his head. “I’m sure someone can help you out, though. There are lots of friendly folk here in Edan. Where are you heading in such a hurry, anyway?”
“Texas,” I told him with a grimace. “I volunteer with animal rescues, and there are some kittens due to be killed at the end of the week. I need to get there and pick them up before those bastards gas the poor babies.”
As I spoke I shifted in my seat slightly towards Hunter, so I noticed when his jaw clenched and his knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. My mention of the kill shelter in Texas had triggered something in him, that was for sure.
“You okay there, Crocodile Hunter?” I attempted humor, but was also considering my options for how to escape a moving car. We were going pretty fast, but the grass beside the road would cushion my fall if I needed to tuck and roll. Wouldn’t it?
He barked a laugh, and I saw the tension slip back out of him like it’d never been there in the first place. “Funny,” he snickered. “It’s been forever since someone has called me that.”
It took me a moment to realize his name was Hunter, and I’d just made a Crocodile Hunter joke. Wow, I was decently funny without meaning to be.
“Okay, this here is the only accommodation in town. Will you be okay from here?” He slowed his car to a stop outside a dodgy Motel 8. “I actually feel guilty letting you stay here, to be totally honest, Cleo.” He peered through the windshield and crinkled his nose in a stupidly sexy sort of way. “I would try and insist you stay at my place, but I know you’d think that was a serial killer move.”
I laughed this time, running my fingers through my hot pink hair. “Pretty much. Thanks for the ride, Hunter.”
“Anytime, Cleo,” he replied, and there was a heated undertone to his voice that made me look back as I opened my door. Had he intended that to sound like a proposition? Maybe it was the accent messing with my head. “There’s a bar about two blocks down from here; you can’t miss it. They serve pretty decent food, if you’re hungry later.”
“Was that an invitation?” I blurted out before my mental filter could clamp down on that thought. Could anyone really blame me, though? Hunter was like something straight out of a dirty dream.
A broad grin spread over his face, and I had to pinch my own leg to prevent myself from drooling. “It was a recommendation. But if I happen to be there for a drink around eight, then I’d be offended if you didn’t at least say hello.”
“Noted.” I grinned back and tried to ignore the girlish flutters in my belly. “Thanks again, Crocodile Hunter.”
I quickly hopped out of the low car—praying I hadn’t just flashed my lace thong to Hunter—then closed the door behind me. Giving him a wave through the window, I turned and made my way into the little reception office.
Somehow, this day had managed to turn itself around in the most unexpected way. Hunter’s “recommendation” that I check out the local bar for dinner had me all kinds of excited, so much that I barely even flinched at the dirty room the clerk gave me a key for.
2
Considering I had only grabbed my purse out of Jack and hadn’t thought about a change of clothes, I didn’t have much getting ready to do before heading out. The short nap I’d taken after watching trashy TV for a couple of hours had left me groggy, so I splashed my face with cold water to try and wake up more.
“Holy fucking Cats, you look like a bag of shit, Cleo,” I muttered to my reflection in the grimy mirror. Running my fingers through my hot-pink hair, I briefly toyed with the idea of just going back to bed. My mind was made up for me, though, when my stomach rumbled loudly.
Besides, I was only lying to myself if I tried to ignore the flutters of anticipation about seeing Hunter again. Damn sexy man and his adorable dimples...
Rifling through my hippie, fringed handbag, I located the necessary makeup items to look less like a vagrant stranded in the middle of nowhere and more like a sexy, put-together woman.
“Good enough,” I told myself when I was finished and used the edge of my pinkie to smear some gloss across my lips. I’d used shimmering gold shadows and inky black liner to highlight what I deemed to be my best feature—my eyes. They were an unusual shade, even for my heritage. Almost cat-like, they were a tawny shade of yellow under some lights. Even more so when I used gold shadows.
Tucking my room key into my bag, I slung the long strap across my body before stuffing my feet back into my beat-up, old combat boots. I was too frugal to take a taxi such a short distance, so I chose to brave the freezing temperatures and power walk my butt down the street. If I was lucky, I’d make it before the impending storm hit.
True to Hunter’s directions, the bar was impossible to miss. Two blocks down from the motel, it was possibly the only bar in the entire town. It had flashing neon signs in the window indicating it was open, just in case the loud music and people holding drinks weren’t clear enough.
Stepping inside just as the rain started falling, I discovered why the music was so loud. A l
ive rock band was on a small, raised stage, thrashing away on their instruments like they were playing to a stadium. Admittedly, they were damn good, which made me wonder what the hell they were doing in a random, blink-and-you-miss-it town like this.
I made my way across to the bar but couldn’t seem to tear my eyes from the band. Or, if I was more specific, from the guitar player. He was, in a word, mesmerizing.
Midnight-black hair fell loose, brushing his broad, strong shoulders, which were covered by a formfitting black top. His skin was bronze, similar to my own, and from where I stood, his eyes seemed almost totally black. He was so tall he would easily dwarf me if I tried to kiss him, considering I was all of five foot four
Why the hell I was picturing myself kissing this total stranger I had no freaking idea. Maybe hunger was making me delirious or something.
“He’s pretty good, huh?” A man spoke into my ear, and I jumped, squeaking with fright as I spun around. Hunter stood there, watching me with an amused smirk that made me second guess whether maybe he could read minds.
My gaze flickered back to the band, to the guitar player, before I cleared my throat and gave Hunter my full attention. “Yeah, they’re great. How come they’re not making it big in LA or somewhere?”
Hunter shrugged, a gesture that was not at all meant to be sexy but managed to draw my attention to his own broad shoulders anyway. What was up with this freaking town? Had I actually died somewhere on my journey and this was heaven?
“They only play for enjoyment; none of them have any interest in making money off it.” He tipped his head towards the bar. “Have you eaten yet? I was just about to order a burger, if you’d like me to get you one too?”
My belly rumbled its acceptance, which was thankfully drowned out by the loud music. “Sounds great.” I nodded.