“I’ve seen you on all the billboards.”
My eyes roll to the ceiling then squeeze shut at the
throbbing in my still-aching head. I don’t have time for small
talk. “You want to get out of here?”
Her face lights up and her eyes sparkle. “Sure.”
What a surprise.
“Can we go to your place?” She’s practically
bouncing with excitement.
I can almost see the dollar signs flash in her eyes,
she’s so transparent. This chick is all about status, the money,
and the right to brag that she bagged a fighter. She’s looking to
snag someone with cash that she can lead around by his dick. Her
porn-star looks and willing sexual prowess turned on so bright,
she’s hoping to blind me so I’ll
think
I’m in love. So
fucking predictable.
“No. Yours.”
I’d never take a woman to my place. Seems to me if a
guy brings a woman home she suddenly feels like she can set up
house. Before he knows it, she’s making breakfast and stuffing his
bathroom drawers with tampons. Poor shmuck looking for a one-night
stand finds himself with a live-in wife. When she finally does
leave, the guy’s fucked because she knows where he lives. He never
calls, but she doesn’t care. She’ll just show up at his house or,
even worse, drive by or park across the street and stalk him.
No thanks.
“Fine.” Her reply sounds deflated. The excitement
tarnished, but I can tell, this chick doesn’t give up. “I’ll meet
you out front. Give me five minutes?” She perks up, her thin
eyebrows high on her forehead, anticipating my answer.
I nod.
With a long, firm grind of her pelvis on my crotch,
she disappears into the crowd. Blake has his tongue down the throat
of a busty redhead.
“Hey, bro. I’m gonna bounce.” I say it loud enough
for him to hear.
He doesn’t break his lip-lock, but waves me off with
one hand while skillfully sliding a fifty-dollar bill into the
girl’s g string. And they say they aren’t prostitutes.
I down the dregs of my beer, throw some cash on the
table, and head for the door. The club is busy for a Tuesday night,
and the bar is three-deep, standing room only. People move out of
my way a little quicker than usual, probably due to the
don’t-fuck-with-me look this headache is giving my face.
Shoving through the club’s front door, I’m hit with
desert air and cigarette smoke. The flashing neon sign makes
everyone’s skin look pink. I scan the parking lot and consider
bolting. Maybe a hot shower and good night’s sleep are all I
need.
Just then, a small hand grabs my elbow. Too late.
The stripper looks up at me from under her eyelashes. She licks her
lips and presses her tits against my arm. She slides her hand into
my palm and laces her fingers with mine. “I hope you’re ready for
some fun. One night with me and you’ll be begging—”
I pull my hand from hers. “Where’s your car? I’ll
follow you.”
Her eyes flash with something that looks like
disappointment.
Chicks and their inflated ideas about romance. This
isn’t a date. This isn’t an all-night sexual rendezvous. This is
simple: Itch. Scratch.
She nods her head in the direction of her car.
Feeling a little bad for my brush off, I walk her to it.
I’m not
a complete asshole.
She settles in and turns the ignition. I take off to
my truck, telling myself that going home with . . .
Ah hell,
I don’t even know her name.
Oh well. Won’t be the first time I bang a nameless
face.
It’s a short drive to her apartment. I back my truck
into a spot in the visitor’s section to ensure a quick departure.
She waits for me at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m right up here.” She runs her hand down my chest
hooking my jeans with her fingertips.
“Don’t.” I remove her hand.
Her eyes narrow before they soften into something
more sexual. It’s as if she wants to be pissed at me, but doesn’t
want to lose the prize.
“If control is your thing, sexy, just say the word.”
She spins around and I follow her up to her place.
Once inside, she throws her bag on the couch and
walks back to what I assume is her bedroom. I head towards the
glowing clock in her kitchen. It’s almost midnight. Pulling a
condom from my wallet, I vow to be home and in bed by one.
I walk down the short hallway to the room with the
light on. She’s lying on the bed, naked. The visual alone has my
body charged and ready.
“You want to hit the light?” I work the button fly
of my jeans.
Her face twists in anger. “What is it with you?” She
props herself up on her elbows. “No touching. No foreplay. No
lights! What do you think this is? Some quickie with the
stripper?”
My hands freeze at my fly. Is she kidding? Of course
that’s what this is. I shrug. No use in leading the girl on.
“Yeah.”
Her eyes sweep my body from head to toe then back
again. “Whatever.” She rolls to the side and clicks the light,
plunging us in darkness.
Much better.
I focus on the task before me: Meeting a need, no
connection, no feeling anywhere above my waist. A goal set before
me, a finish line that I’m racing to breach so I can go home and
get some sleep.
She moves for a kiss, and I turn away. She tries to
engage me in dirty talk. It’s easy to ignore. Finally, she gives
up, allowing our bodies to take what they want.
Still completely clothed, except for the fly of my
jeans, I stand from her bed to leave. This girl probably has
something more to offer a guy. But that guy ain’t me.
Just the thought of having some needy chick hanging
on my arm, making me buy her crap, taking up my time with her petty
issues about girl shit makes me shiver. I need to get the hell out
of here.
“Will you call me, you know, if you ever want to
hang out again?” Her small voice reaches my now-sated brain.
Fuck. This is uncomfortable.
I grab my phone and press a few buttons. “What’s
your number?”
And your name
. She rattles off seven digits,
and I pretend to program them into my phone.
“Right, I got it. Go to sleep.”
I have a Jiminy Cricket moment with my conscience.
“Thanks for . . . that.”
She mumbles something I can’t quite make out and I
slip from her room.
~*~
Raven
“Holy crud.” Shooting straight up in bed, I cover my
ears. “Stupid thing.” I pound quiet my obnoxious alarm.
Usually waking on my own, I forget how that thing
buzzes like a swarm of bees with megaphones glued to their butts.
Next paycheck I’m clock radio shopping.
The heels of my hands dig into my eye sockets to rub
away my sleepy haze.
Why did I stay up so late?
I swing my
legs over the side of the bed and push up with a big, feline
stretch.
Coffee.
That’s what I need. I step in the
direction of my kitchenette and kick the large wooden box on the
floor.
“Ouchie, ouchie, ouchie.” Cradling my injured foot,
I give the darn box my most evil glare, the evidence of what kept
me up so late, punishing me still.
The box is full of every
Car and Driver
magazine I own. I got sucked into some old issues last night and
couldn’t put them down until I kept falling asleep and face
planting into the pages.
I shove the box under my bed and stir together my
morning pick me up. A few teaspoons of freeze dried granules,
cream, and sugar.
Voila.
A perfectly crappy cup of
coffee.
I plop on the edge of my bed and gaze around my
small but cozy home: four walls, one window, and one door. The
doors to my bathroom and closet are nothing more than shower
curtains on rods. Not my first choice, but the rent is cheap, and
it’s close to work—like right above it.
Work.
I check the time.
“Twenty minutes? Plenty of time.”
After sipping my coffee, I strip out of my PJ’s and
jump in the shower. The heat from the shower combined with the
caffeine help to chase away the last of my drowsiness.
Wrapped in a towel, I open the top drawer of my
dresser and gaze at my bra and panty collection. “Good morning, my
pretties.”
It’s my little addiction. Over fifty percent of my
paycheck goes toward my balance at Victoria’s Secret. Vivid
memories of my mom folding her laundry flicker before my eyes. Yes,
her lingerie was appealing, but the reason why she—no. I shake the
memories loose. Not going there.
My eyes scan each perfectly matching set. What color
do I feel like today?
“How about you?” I grab the purple satin and lace
duo and slide them on. Something about wearing beautifully sexy
stuff under my uniform always brings a smile to my face.
With a quick dry of my hair, I pile it on top of my
head. Throwing on a tank top, I slide my blue uniform coveralls up
over my hips, tying the long sleeves around my waist. A swipe of
mascara and a couple passes of cherry Chapstick and my look is
complete.
Keys in hand, along with a small can of cat food,
I’m out the door. Hopping down the stairs to the alley, I scrunch
up my nose at the smell of rot and debris from the dumpsters.
“Good morning, Dog.” In a crouch, I pet the black
alley cat that showed up at my door months ago.
“You hungry?” I pop the lid and place the can of
food on the bottom stair, smiling at his answering meow. Dog scarfs
it down, as he does every morning, and I rub behind his ears.
“I still can’t believe you like it out here.” I
won’t try to take him inside. Last time he clawed my arms until
they were bloody. Whatever terrible thing happened to him ruined
him for others. I can relate.
“I’ve got to go to work. I’ll see you tonight.”
Leaving Dog to his breakfast, I round the corner of
the building to face the garage front by the bay doors. Through the
window, I see Guy sitting at his desk with a grim look on his face.
Not unusual for him.
I throw open the door, hearing the bell jingle above
head and getting Guy’s attention.
“Mornin’, Ray.”
“Good morning, Guy. How was your night?”
“Shit! Got sucked into some stupid show about a
bachelor and some bimbos who were all trying to get his rose. Those
girls were pathetic. And drunk!”
I giggle at Guy’s retelling the episode of The
Bachelor, one of the few shows I get on my tiny television.
“Watched that stupid show for an hour, and that
sorry sack still couldn’t make up his mind.”
“That’s what happens when you give a guy a choice
out of twenty-five beautiful women. Why choose one when he could
have them all?” I shrug and grab the schedule for today from his
desk.
“Them all? Hell, I couldn’t stand to listen to just
one of them talk for more than five minutes. They’re
irritatin’.”
I didn’t have the heart to remind him that he did,
in fact, watch the entire hour-long show. How irritating could they
have been?
He points to the schedule in my hand. “You got a
couple oil changes waiting for you in the bay. You do what you can.
I got Leo comin’ in to close.”
“No Mickey today?”
“Nah, he’s got some shit going on at home he needs
to deal with.”
I throw my backpack into a locker.
“That’s too bad. I hope everything’s okay.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. Little shit always works through
stuff. Even when we were kids, our mom always said Mickey could
shine his way out of a shit storm. Anyway, better for you to work
solo since you’ll be taking over the place someday.” He gives me a
wink and goes back to the papers on his desk.
Butterflies dance in my stomach when I think about
owning this garage. Guy has no children, and he’s the closest thing
I have to a father. He and his brother Mickey took over Guy’s
Garage from Guy senior when he got sick. Mickey’s kids have fancy
city jobs and want nothing to do with this place, so they’ve asked
me to take it when they retire.
“I’ll be in the bay if you need me,” I call over my
shoulder while heading out.
I take a deep breath, allowing the smell of gasoline
and oil to soothe me. The garage has always been my sanctuary. I
plug in the boom box and hear Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” fill
the silence.
Lost in my work, buried under the hood of a ’99 Ford
Explorer, the rumble of a powerful engine draws my attention. A
deep bass beat accompanies the engine’s growl as it pulls up to the
bay. I attempt to figure out what kind of car it is just by
listening, one of my favorite games. My guess is a large—no, a very
large—pickup truck. American made.
I hear rather than see Guy head out to greet the
truck’s driver. The engine and bass go quiet, and I faintly make
out a deep voice. The low vibration sends a tingle down my body and
goose bumps race across my skin.
What in the heck was
that?
I check my forehead.
No fever. Hm.
“Ray! Ray, get out here!” Guy’s beckoning call yanks
me from my thoughts.
I grab a towel to wipe my hands.
“Ray! Now!”
Jeesh, he’s impatient.
Walking through the bay doors into the Las Vegas
sun, my eyes adjust to the bright light.
A monstrous, black, Ford FX4 pickup looms out front.
Ah-ha! I was right.
It’s a twin turbo, kitted out with
thirty-five inch wheels, black rims, and a six-inch lift. The
limo-tinted windows and black headlights make it look alive.
Whoever drives this beast has a passion I can relate to. My gaze
swings to the truck’s owner to commend his choice in
automobile.
“Nice Ford—” I’m frozen, feet glued to the asphalt,
voice stuck in my throat, and gawking at the Universal Fighting
League’s local-celebrity-hot-guy, Jonah Slade.
At my
work!
He’s well over six feet tall, six-five if I had to
guess. A jersey-like, sleeveless shirt hangs artfully from his
broad shoulders. His well-muscled arms are covered with brilliantly
colored tattoos that beckon to be touched. My fingers itch to trace
each swirl, to touch him to see if he’s real.