She grunts. I’m fluent in them, though, known for speaking the language myself, so I hear her permission to leave Bessie overnight. I’m also planning to be here when the tow service comes to get Bessie, just so I can get another eyeful of Lil Bit. Maybe see if she’s as ornery when I haven’t scared the shit out of her right out of the gates.
I nod to Reed and Manuel and step toward the open bay door to dig my phone out of my back pocket.
I could hit up one of the guys at the ranch to come get me, but it’s a long drive over the mountain, and Katelyn, my boss’s wife, is at the resort right between me and home. She’ll be heading toward the ranch shortly when she gets off work, so I shoot her a text thinking it’ll consolidate trips, if nothing else.
Me: Bessie died. Stuck at Cole Automotive. Need a ride home.
Yeah, not so much on the manners, but of anyone, she’s the most used to it since she’s married to Mark. Mark is, to put it as kindly as possible, an utter asshole and even quieter than me. Once upon a time, we’d been sworn enemies, but he’d come through for us Tannens when the shit hit the fan, and I’ll be forever grateful for that, even if I have to work for the motherfucker now.
Katelyn: Busy. Will send Marla. Hang tight. Mark loves that truck.
See? She’s accustomed to it. And she’s giving me fair warning that Mark is going to kick my ass for being the unlucky son of a bitch who was driving Bessie when she finally gave out. She’s had a good life, though, and hopefully isn’t ready to be sent to scrap. She just needs a good mechanic. One not at Cole Automotive.
Not meaning to, I overhear Reed. “Hey, you wanna grab a bite tonight?”
He’s nervous, the question weighted with intention beyond grabbing a burger with a coworker. His possessive look comes back to me, and I realize something. Reed is sweet on the ball-busting, wrench-wielding woman and doing his best to flirt with her. I chuckle under my breath. “Good fucking luck, man.”
Anybody who ever tells you women are the gossipy ones ain’t never spent time with men. We might not sit around and gab about shit like women are wont to do, but we have our own ways. Like me right now, leaning against the doorframe, hat pulled down low so it seems like my eyes are on my phone. But I’m watching everything go down like a bored housewife at church on Sunday.
Lil Bit ain’t having it. She’s wiping down something under the hood with zero interest in, or even the slightest awareness of, Reed. “Nah, heading home early to catch the game tonight.”
He shoots, but instead of scoring, he goes down in a blazing ball of flames. But he’s not done.
“We could watch together?” Give the man points for gumption and perseverance. I don’t, but somebody should.
“You don’t know the first thing about baseball, and I’m not spending three hours explaining shit to you, Reed.” She manages to make it sound like he’s not worth the spit it’d take to explain a strike-out, but then she laughs, softening the insult like it’s something they’ve done a thousand times before.
From my undercover vantage, I see Reed shake it off. Manuel looks back and forth, from her to him, and then he follows Reed out the door like a catty hen ready to get to clucking about the situation.
See? Gossipy guys are the worst.
I wait a few minutes in silence, examining Lil Bit’s ass in those coveralls, and when that doesn’t yield any useful information, I scan the rest of the shop. It looks busy, several vehicles in the lot and every bay filled. There’s a long workbench along the front with organized tools arranged on a wall of pegboard. The left side of the garage holds an old refrigerator, a cheap pressed wood cabinet with a hanging door that’s topped with a small microwave and a coffee maker, and a desk piled high with file folders. It reminds me of Mark’s office, bare-boned and functional, nothing that’s not useful and necessary. It tells me something about the woman who’s still busy working under that hood.
“What’s wrong with your truck?”
“Oh, she speaks.”
Sarcasm drips from my lips because I know she heard me tell Reed about the transmission. Apparently, I’m a recent convert to masochism because I’m looking forward to her vitriol-filled comeback, but Lil Bit doesn’t respond. Eventually, I give in. “Bessie was doing fine, then started jerking. Seemed like the tranny was slipping.”
“Bessie? What is she?”
I swear I hear a smile, but when her head pops up, her lips are pressed straight. But trucks seem to be an interest, so I indulge her. “Ninety-six Ford F-250, Power Stroke diesel.”
Lil Bit hops off her stool, her thick-soled boots making a small thud. Her hands go to her coverall pockets as she eyes me. I’m not sure what measure she’s taking this time, but I’m eye-fucking the shit out of her. She moves toward me, and my cock stands up at hopeful attention. But she simply frees one hand, holding it out palm-up. “Keys?”
I don’t question it, just drop them into her outstretched hand as she passes me by. She pulls open Bessie’s door and literally hops inside. Vaguely, I wonder how many things she has to hop up on and down from in a day.
A second later, the loud engine breaks the silence. Lil Bit looks thoughtful, and I realize she’s listening to the chug-chug-chug sounds as if they hold the secrets of the world. Hell, maybe to her, they do. To me, it sounds like a truck. Loud and ready to work, except I know Bessie ain’t doing so well once she gets in drive.
A four-door sedan pulls into the lot, drawing my eye. I can see Marla, Katelyn’s assistant, waving at me. She’s a good helper for Katelyn, though I know more of her from Katelyn’s stories than I actually know Marla. This makes the third time I’ve ever met her face-to-face. Luckily, the other two times, she rambled nonstop about her husband and twin girls, and I assume today will hold more of the same and I won’t have to say a word.
I lift two fingers in a wave to Marla and the truck silences.
Lil Bit hops down again, walking toward me already talking. “I’ll take a look at her. It’ll be a couple of days before I can get to it, though. Once I’ve done diagnostics, I’ll call before I fix anything to get approval on the charges. Number?”
She puts the keys in her pocket, smart businesswoman taking the truck hostage until I agree. But I’m desperate and she knows it.
I’m not usually one to be at a disadvantage with anything, and certainly not with women. But damned if she doesn’t have me dead to rights intrigued, and she seems wholly unaffected by me.
“Sure. There’s a business card for my boss in the visor. Call him to approve the money stuff.”
Lil Bit nods and keeps on walking, past me and right back into the garage. She grabs a chain off a hook and the door rolls down between us. A loud click sounds out, letting me know she’s locked the door. It reassures something in me that she’s locked safely away for the night to watch the baseball game she didn’t want to explain to Reed.
Dismissed and striking out just as badly as Reed, I amble toward Marla’s car. Just before I get in, heavy metal music starts blaring again and I look up to see Lil Bit watching me leave through the row of glass windows in the blue garage door. Maybe not a complete strikeout, then?
I expect her to jump, maybe act like I didn’t bust her clear as day looking at me. She does nothing of the sort. She simply stares at me as I fold my long legs into Marla’s sedan.
Chapter 2
Brody
“Thanks, Marla.” I’m back to one-word responses with bare pleasantries. I was right. She talked about her girls and husband the whole time so they’re literally the first words I’ve said to her.
“No problem, Brody. Katelyn is finishing the setup for the breakfast meeting in the morning, so she might be a while. Grab a beer and dinner in the bar. I’ll let her know where you’re parked.” She hustles off, and I can almost see her tick off the item on her mental to-do list. Pick up Brody . . . check. Deliver to resort . . . check.
I pull my cap off, curling the brim, and slam it back on my head. I’m not dressed for the resort bar. It’s
not what most folks would consider fancy, but around here, it’s as fancy as it gets. And as Lil Bit reminded me, I’m wearing dirt like an accessory from head to toe. Deciding I don’t give a fuck because a beer sounds good, I head in and find a stool off to the far edge of the room where I can watch the comings and goings and not be easily seen in the shadows.
The bartender starts listing off drink specials, the first of which is something called a Great Falls Flyer, which sounds like a shitty name for a ski resort drink to me. Not that anybody asked me. I hold up a hand, stopping his recitation of fancy mixed drinks, and slide a fifty across the bar. “Bud. Bottle. Start a tab.”
He blinks, his face a mask of ‘yes sir’, and grabs me a bottle. He sets a frosted mug down beside it, the question in his eyes asking if I’d like to pour it myself or have him do it. I pick up the bottle and take a swig from it, skipping the mug completely. He dips his chin and disappears, taking the mug with him.
Finally alone.
Yeah, in a bar. But with a beer in hand, no one to talk to, and no expectations to be polite. I can just sit and be alone.
Most folks probably think I spend a lot of my time alone. They’d be wrong. I spend all day, every day with a thousand head of cattle. Those animals are my friends. I know when one’s feeling aggressive, I see when they’re favoring a leg or ready to get inseminated, I see the friendships between the big creatures as they group together among the larger herd. They might not talk to me in English, but they say plenty. Same goes for me. I might not say much, but I say a lot if you know how to listen.
But now, I don’t have to watch the cows or talk to family or anything, really. I can just sit here anonymously in peace and quiet.
After a bit, I order a burger, which comes out huge and delicious. I nod my thanks at the bartender, who’s picked up on my silence and twenty minutes later, quietly takes away my empty plate and delivers another Bud.
The bar starts to fill up as it gets later and the sun goes down. It gets louder, and I start to people watch. There’s a noisy table in the corner, some sort of bachelorette party or girl’s night out, I think, because it’s a group of women dressed to the nines for the resort bar. I might be underdressed, but they’re overdressed from what I can see.
The group shifts around the table as some pop song I don’t care to know comes on. They’re singing and have their arms around each other’s shoulders, swaying like it means something.
And then I see her.
A dark-haired stunner amid the group. She’s got on ridiculously high heels but seems to know exactly how to move in them because the pseudo-dance doesn’t make her wobble a bit. Her skirt is so short, I’d bet it measures in the single-digits for length, her flat chest is barely covered by a thin scrap of cotton that does nothing to hide the little perks of her nipples, and her face is expertly painted with smoky eyes and a bright red lipstick.
There’s something vaguely familiar about her, but she’s not the sort that runs with dirty cowboys. Still, I try to place her as I watch her hold court over her group of friends.
Maybe she was a previous resort fling? It’s not something I’ve done often, but there’s a certain type of woman who likes a one-night vacation when they come to town. And occasionally, a night of no-strings-attached is a release of a too-tight valve for me.
But that doesn’t seem right about her.
She’s obviously the ringleader, loud and happy as the other women follow her cue. Hell, maybe it’s her birthday or she’s the bachelorette?
I scan the rest of the room, but as the women take to the floor to start dancing, she pulls my eye again. It’s not that I’m attracted to her, exactly. It’s that it’s irritating the hell out of me that I can’t figure out where I know her from.
Suddenly, it hits me.
It’s Lil Bit. But sure not looking like she was before in those dirty coveralls, steel-toed boots, and grease.
I take another appraising look at Automotive Barbie on the dance floor. I wouldn’t have thought Lil Bit’s hair was that long, but it’s brushing far down her back, almost to her ass. Her freckles, which I wanted to count earlier, are all but invisible in the thick makeup she’s got on. Her body’s tiny and tight, barely a curve to be seen, but she moves with womanly grace. At least she is now when she’s not threatening my life with a wrench.
The difference is remarkable.
At the shop, she’d been all-business and snappy like a rabid raccoon. Now, she’s flirty and girly. But the idea jolts something inside me other than my cock.
I think I prefer the way she was before when she was about to take my head off. I can’t help but watch, fascinated at the difference.
A cheer goes up across the bar, and I turn to see what the ruckus is about. The baseball game is on, and Lil Bit didn’t even so much as glance toward the TV. ‘Watching the game,’ my ass. I can’t help but cringe a bit at her giving Reed the brushoff and then coming out with her girls to dance the night away. Kinda shitty to just not say ‘hey, dude, never happening’ and let the chips fall where they may. She’d seemed that type before, but I guess not.
I feel a bit like one of those old guys on National Geographic, in the natural habitat of these people but not a part of it. I’m just a sideline observer of it all—the guys watching the game, the girls on the dance floor swaying to get their attention, even Lil Bit’s transformation. All woefully unfamiliar to me. Not that I suddenly want to become a native.
No, thank you. I’ll be heading home soon to my family, where I know what makes everyone tick, what buttons to push, and when I’m stepping too close to the line. Where things make sense.
I flag the bartender down and order a third beer, not giving a shit because Katelyn’s driving home. As I take that first cold swallow, I feel someone sit down next to me.
“I’ll take another one of those Flyers,” a sweet voice says to the bartender.
Ah, shit, here we go. Lil Bit’s seen me. Hell, she probably saw me looking at her and is coming over here to threaten my life again. Might be warranted this time, at least.
“I saw you over here by yourself and thought I’d come say hi, so . . . hi.”
I swear to God I was given a brain at birth, and have even been known to be decent with ladies. But I’m so confused at the complete one-eighty of her personality and appearance that what comes out of my mouth is, “Huh?”
She blushes, nibbling at her lower lip, the white of her teeth bright against the red lipstick. “I just wanted to say hi.”
Not sure this isn’t a trick, I drawl out, “Okay, well . . . hi to you too.”
The bartender sets down a pink frozen drink in a swervy glass. Lil Bit takes a sip and moans happily. “Mmm, this is so good. Though I should probably stop because it’s my third. Don’t want to make too many bad decisions.” She sounds like I’m a bad decision she really wants to make, and a couple of hours ago, I would’ve indulged that choice with at least three orgasms. Now, my cock is damn near shriveled up in revolt. “Want a taste?” She holds the straw my way, and what strikes me the most is how clean her hands are.
Stupid, but the truth. I glance to my own rough, dirty hands, knowing I’ll see the jagged, stained cuticles, short nails, and scarred skin. I’d expect a mechanic to have similar hands from all the hard work, but Lil Bit’s are as clean as a whistle and look soft as a baby’s ass.
“What soap do you use?” I lift my chin, indicating her hands.
Her brows fall together. “What? Oh, uhm . . . lavender vanilla. Do you like it?” She pulls her hair over her shoulder, and I get a whiff of something floral and light. Guess that’s what she’s talking about.
I wonder if the flower shit does something for the skin? I should tell Shay about that. Maybe she could add it to her recipes for her goat milk soap business because if it’d get our hands that clean, all of us ranch guys would use it, even if we did smell like floral crap twenty-four seven.
She’s looking at me expectantly, and I realize she asked me a qu
estion. I don’t remember what it was, so I go to my default grunt.
My phone buzzes against the counter, the screen bright in the now dimmer bar. I glance down.
Shayanne: You missed dinner, asshole.
Shay speaks my language. What she means is ‘I missed you at dinner, are you okay? Because I’m worried.’
I send her a middle finger emoji, which she’ll take to mean, ‘I’m fine, home soon,’ even though what I really mean is ‘fuck off.’
Lil Bit seems to be reading over my shoulder because she asks, “That your wife?”
I look at her through narrowed eyes, not happy that she’s all up in my business. Hell, I don’t let Shay get in my business and she is my business. Though now that she’s married to Luke Bennett, I pawn her off on him as much as I can because he signed up for that gig with a diamond ring. She’s his problem now, I think happily. Shay did good with him, much as I hate to admit it.
“Family business.” The implication is clear.
She seems to hear me say ‘no’, though, as in I’m single, because she goes right back into some smiley, hair-twirling version of flirting.
And it’s doing nothing for me. Earlier, I’d thought she was hot as she was handing me my balls for daring to disturb her. Now, this whole getup and flirty thing feels like a split-personality show. I don’t like it. Fake and filtered makes my bullshit meter go off. And it’s clanging in my head like a damn siren bell. It’s a pity because her flirting like this earlier would’ve been more than welcome. Maybe it’s because she was at work?
Off the clock, she’s doing all the right things, sending me every damn signal she can—laughing even when I don’t say anything funny, touching my arm . . . and nothing. I’m not encouraging her in the least, have barely grunted at this point, but still, she’s trying.
I’m mostly thinking she’s got Bessie and I shouldn’t piss her off, so I sit here sullenly and let her gush girliness all over me, knowing I’m gonna need a shower later. And not to jack off, but just to get the fake off. And maybe to try to figure out which is the real Lil Bit. Not that it matters to me.
Rough Edge Page 2
