“Fuck yes, Cowboy.” She sounds as relieved as I am to get away from the table for a minute.
As we take to the dance floor, Morgan Wallen’s Chasing You pours out of the jukebox and over the swaying couples. We start to move, nothing fancy now, though I showed her how to two-step earlier and she can follow a lead for some simple turns and switches. But we need to talk, so I just sway her back and forth. “How bad was it in there? You running on me?”
A grin stretches her lips, but there’s a tinge of fear deep in her eyes. “You have a great family and they obviously love you . . . a lot. They were singing your praises, how you’re so good with animals which means you’ll be a great dad one day, how you look after everyone so you’ll be a good husband, how you’re smarter than you let on so don’t let the dumb redneck act fool me, and that once you’re in, you stay in, hell or high water.”
“Shit.”
It’s nice that they said those things, really, it is. But I can feel the foundation rumbling beneath Erica and me from their assumptions. She’s quiet for a second, our eyes locked. It hurts my neck a little to look down when she’s this close, and her fiery eyes make it hard to say this. I pull her in even closer, and she lets me, laying her cheek to my chest.
“You know how you said everyone thought you were gonna marry Reed?” I feel her nod. “My family wants me to get married. It’s sweet, and mostly because they’re all so happy that they want everyone to be in love, but it doesn’t have anything to do with what I want. Nothing’s changed from what we said.”
The tension dissolves and she melts in my arms. “You sure?”
“Hell, you don’t have to be so excited that I’m not dropping to a knee.” I sound harsh, but I’m fighting back a laugh and she knows it.
She smacks my chest. Feels like a butterfly landing on me—okay, not really, because she can pack a punch I’m sure, but she’s taking it easy on me. “We met a fucking week ago. I’ve already tried to kill you with a wrench, almost sucked your soul out of your dick, damn near killed you with marathon sex, done the meet-the-family deals for the most part, been on two dates, and texted like teenagers who got their first phones yesterday. I think we’re good.”
By the end, she’s laughing too.
“What?” I grab my ear with two fingers, wiggling it. “I didn’t hear a thing you said after ‘suck my dick.’ Was it anything important?”
Her head shake, smile, and the light in her eyes tells me our foundation just steadied. We’re back to where we were, thankfully. Or mostly, at least, but my family damn near fucked this up for me with their expectations. Haven’t they figured out that I’m not good at meeting those by now?
I glance over and they’re watching us on the dance floor. I sway Erica around so her back is to them and flip them my middle finger, eyeballing each and every one of the nosy, gossipy, intrusive, meddling family members at the table. They smile as if I just told them all ‘thank you.’
“Give it a little extra ‘fuck you’ from me too.” Erica knows exactly what I’m doing, and why. I think she wishes she could tell her family the same thing, probably the same way, knowing her.
Instead, we dance. That moment fades to be replaced by the simple pleasure of holding her in my arms and moving around the floor. I add back in the turns I taught her, catching her and pulling her in tight every once in a while, building a fire between us each time our bodies press together. I pick her up and tilt her back for a dip, which makes her hoot with surprise, and when I stand back upright, she’s high enough on my body that I can kiss her lips easily.
It’s a sweet, quick kiss, but damned if I’m not rock-hard for her. She doesn’t taste like sour cherries the way I thought she would. No, it’s something deeper and more layered, uniquely Erica. And I want more of it, already addicted to her. I let her slide down slowly, enjoying every inch of her against me. When I’m sure her feet are on the floor, I spin her out again, teasing us both, and that fire lights up in her eyes again. “Brody.”
Just my name, but so much in the two syllables. Lust, need, desire, challenge, an order.
I pull her back in, aligning our bodies. I know she can feel that she’s not alone in her current predicament, being in the middle of a dance floor instead of in her bed, my bed, or shit, my truck in the parking lot, for all I care. But I don’t move toward the door. I just keep shifting right and left, and she follows me, damn near trying to melt into each other’s skin through our clothes.
I hear a throat clear behind me, and I open my eyes, already pissed that someone’s interrupting my moment with Erica.
“I hate to do this . . . you have no idea how much . . . but Rix, your phone is laying on the table and it’s blowing up. Somebody named Reed called several times in a row and texted too.” There’s a big question mark in Shay’s tone, asking who the fuck Reed is.
Sweet sister looking out for me when it’s always been the other way around.
“Shit. Fuck. Damn. Something must be wrong at the garage.” Erica’s eyes meet mine. “I need to see what’s up.”
I let her go and she struts to the table, grabbing her phone before heading to the bathroom hallway for a little bit of quiet to make her call.
Shay hisses, “Who’s Reed?”
Slowly and lazily, I cut my eyes back to her. “Her employee at the garage.” Shay relaxes. “And her ex.”
Jaw tight, she hisses again. “Well . . . don’t just stand there, do something.” She flaps her hands around, gesturing me toward the hallway.
What does she expect me to do? Charge back there, take Erica’s phone, and tell Reed not to contact her again? That’d work out pretty shitty when he needed to show up to work on Monday morning. More importantly, that’s not my place. Even if we were something else and I was dropping to my knee—which I’m not—it would be a bitch move to tell your partner who they can and can’t be friends and work with.
“Shayanne, calm your tits. They’re not like that because Erica doesn’t want them to be. And we’re not like that either. Just chill.” She looks at me like I’m stupid, and also, like she’s about to go ten ways of beatdown on me. I bend down, getting in her face so she hears this loud and clear. “Y’all need to slow your roll, because whatever shit show you pulled in the bathroom damn near ran her off. Back off. I’m good.”
She obviously has her doubts but doesn’t get the chance to tell me so because Erica walks up. “I gotta go. Reed’s broke down and I need to get the tow truck so I can get his car to the garage. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, daring Shayanne to say otherwise. “I’ll drive you home so you can go get him. I’m happy to help if you want a spare set of hands too.”
She shakes her head. “I already called an Uber to pick me up. No sense in us both leaving. Stay and have fun with your family. But can you walk me out?”
I’m disappointed, but I escort her out front. I walk her over to my truck, away from the door at least, and drop the tailgate. I lift her under her arms to set her down.
“I could’ve hopped up here myself, you know.” Stinging words meant to hurt a little.
“I know, but we don’t have much time and I was in a hurry to do this . . .” I step between her knees and cup her jaw, my lips hitting hers a breath later. Under the cover of night, I can do what I’ve wanted to do all night on the dance floor. I trace a hand down her neck, across her collarbone, to palm her breast. No bra. Fuck, does she even own one? I hope not.
She arches into my touch and I take the kiss deeper. Her legs wrap around mine, locking me in place as if I have anywhere else to be, and her hands grip my shirt, pulling me in closer. She kisses me back ferociously, our teeth clacking together and tongues invading, and that’s before she nips my bottom lip, pulling it sharply.
“Fuck, Erica.” I’m contemplating just how out of sight we are in this dark corner of the parking lot when her phone buzzes.
Her posture changes instantly, going from straining toward me to straight-backed. “That’s
my ride. Go back in and have fun with your family. Don’t let me ruin a fun night before Shay and Luke leave town.”
“Yeah,” I say, though I know I’m not going back inside to listen to everyone’s opinions on what I should and shouldn’t do. “Is it a bitch move if I say that I’m really pissed at Reed right now? I was hoping to be balls deep in you again tonight.”
Erica tilts her head, teasing laughter in her words. “Aw, Cowboy. You say the sweetest things.”
“You sure Reed’s a good mechanic? Seems like a good one wouldn’t have his car break down.” Fine, so I’m a bit pouty.
“He’s good. Just bad luck, probably.”
“Yeah, ours,” I say darkly, pressing one more kiss to her lips.
I let her push me back and hop down from the tailgate. “Goodnight, Brody.” She rights her skirt and walks the few steps toward the silver sedan that’s picking her up before turning back. “Oh, and you were right . . . the meatloaf was good and the music didn’t suck too badly.”
I grin at her parting words, waving as she climbs in and disappears into the night. I look at the door to Hank’s, knowing my family expects me to come back inside. Instead, I send the family chat group—yes, Shay added me back in—a middle finger emoji and get in my truck.
Fuck those fuckers. I’m going home, maybe reading a book before bed, and waiting to see if Erica texts me tonight when she’s done with Reed’s shit.
Chapter 13
Erica
I should change. I knew it before the Uber driver dropped me off at the garage. But I don’t. I’m mad that Reed interrupted the fun I was having with Brody and pissed at the cock block. So a small piece of me wants to irritate the fuck out of Reed in return.
Petty? Yes, admittedly so. Am I doing it anyway? Also, yes.
So I climb up in the tow truck, knowing that Reed will have to do all the work of hooking up his car while I stay in the relative comfort of the driver’s seat. Serves him right. I’m not a monster. I don’t typically blame folks when their vehicles break down. Like I told Brody, sometimes it’s just bad luck, or maybe maintenance snuck up on them and they couldn’t afford it, or a laundry list of reasons a piece of machinery might stop working unexpectedly. But Brody is right . . . a mechanic shouldn’t break down. It’s bad for business.
I pull up to the lot where Reed told me he was parked to find him sitting on the hood of the Camaro he overhauled himself, leaning back against the windshield and staring at the stars. He looks lost in thought, small against the big blackness of the night surrounding him.
My petty anger dissolves. If it were me, he’d rescue me without a second thought. I should afford him the same, especially since we’re friends. Also, maybe partially because we have so much history. I know I hurt him when I left, more than I thought I would. But I shouldn’t have to keep apologizing for wanting to actually live my life according to my own dreams and wishes. Stupid, eighteen-year-old me hadn’t had words for that and had immaturely bolted, but I’ve tried to man up and explain since then. Reed doesn’t want to hear it. But at the minimum, I should pick him up in his time of need without being a bitch about it.
“Find anything new up there?” I ask, pointing to the sky.
A smile blooms on Reed’s face. When I was too young to know any better, I used to love that smile, but now it makes my stomach turn to stone with sorrow. In a way, I wish I could just change, want what Dad and Reed want too. It’d make everything so much easier if I simply settled into the life they designed for me. It wouldn’t even be a bad life. Reed’s a great guy, after all. He just isn’t The One.
Shit, I sound like Emily.
But as much as I goad her about finding Mr. Right on every corner, I know there really is someone out there for everyone. I’ve seen it with Mom and Dad. And I won’t settle for less than that. And less-than is what Reed and I had.
I’m not looking for more-than, though, not right now, except with the garage.
“Nah, just searching for shooting stars and contemplating life.”
I nod, not wanting to open that door to deeper conversations. “Let me get in position so you can hook it up.” I let off the brake, pulling forward and shifting in front of the Camaro. I back up, quick and efficient, getting aligned, and then I can hear the chains rattling as Reed gets everything set. It’s a rule that you don’t tow something you don’t check yourself, but I’m breaking that rule tonight because I’m not getting out until we’re back at the garage.
The passenger door opens, the overhead light coming on and illuminating me. Reed stops halfway into the truck, one leg in and one leg out as he scans me from head to toe. I see his nostrils flare and his jaw clench. “Shit. Didn’t mean to interrupt a date, Rix. Sorry.”
He’s not sorry. He’s pissed as fuck.
“Didn’t mean to rub your nose in it. Sorry.”
I’m not sorry either. Not really.
It hurts him, I know it does, and I am sorry for that. But maybe seeing me dating and fucking other people will help him to finally move on. I know he hasn’t been just waiting on me either. He’s dated and fucked around, even bringing one girl to the garage a few times. But it’d seemed more like an attempt at making me jealous than a show of being over me. He deserves more. He should have a woman who wants him the way he wants her. And that’s not me.
“Tannen?” he asks, climbing in and buckling up. His voice is tight, strangled in his throat.
I level him with a stare. “You wanna do this?”
That shuts him up, and the rest of the trip to the garage is silent. We get the Camaro into bay two and park the tow truck.
“Take my truck home if you want. You can work on the Camaro tomorrow or Monday, whatever you want.” The dismissal is a kindness because I know he wants to get away from me right now.
“Yeah, I’ll come by tomorrow so I can see what’s wrong. Think I popped a belt, but it was too dark to tell out there.” He grabs the keys to the garage truck out of the desk drawer and is gone without a look back.
Until he gets in the truck. He watches to make sure I lock up, mostly because he’s a good guy and wants to be sure I’m safe. But deep inside, I know he’s checking to see if I’m going back out, going back to Brody.
I don’t answer the question in his eyes one way or the other, but I lower the overhead door, lock up, and turn off the light. I don’t need it to get across the garage I know like the back of my hand.
* * *
Three days.
Reed is giving me the silent treatment. Manuel is walking around on eggshells because of the tension at the garage. And Brody is ass-deep in work, splitting time between cattle care with Mark and crop work with Brutal and Bobby.
I’m not even entirely sure what all that entails, even though he told me. But dirt quality and growing seasons, calf weights and contracts? It’s like he’s speaking a different language, but the final result is that he’s so tired at the end of the day, he keeps falling asleep on me.
And I don’t mean literally on me, unfortunately, but rather after a few texts, he apologizes for being boring company and zonks out. At this point, I’m eating cheeseburgers with layers of tomatoes and lettuce in protest for the cows and crops getting all the attention from Brody that I want myself.
It shouldn’t be like this. That’s part of the deal of keeping things casual. I shouldn’t miss him after a few days.
But I do.
I miss that intense way he looks at me, like he’s thinking of filthy things to do with me. I miss the peek at his humor that he’s stingy about sharing with most people but not with me. I miss the rumble in his chest when he says my name. I miss feeling like I’m enough when I’m in his arms and the sole owner of his attention.
Not that I’m sitting around pining like some sappy-sentimental bitch, though. That’s definitely not my style. I’ve been working after hours on a special project of my own.
The roar of the engine doesn’t purr as it breaks the quiet of the garage. It growls, blub-
blub-blubbing as it fights to idle because it was designed for speed.
My 1984 Ford Mustang GT.
Once upon a time, it was probably some douchebag’s version of a gas-guzzling, poor man’s sportscar to get to and from work. But it ended up in the junkyard, where it was waiting patiently for me to rescue it. I found it a couple of months after getting home.
I’ve worked on every bolt and bit of it now, customizing it for myself. That’s not to say it’s pretty. No, it’s not a trailer queen hot rod that never touches actual asphalt. But it doesn’t have to look pretty to go fast.
It’s got some of its original navy paint, but mostly, it’s washed out to gray and rust since I’m saving paint for last. The original seats have been replaced with five-point harness racing seats, and under the hood has been gutted and replaced with a custom Frankenstein of my own design.
And fast is putting it mildly.
My baby is a screaming demon that begs to be let loose even when I put the pedal down, and I’m not shy about pushing it to the metal floorboard. I can hit 120 by the time I hit third gear on a straightaway.
I yank the cover off Foxy and pop the hood, tinkering here and there. But I’m restless, have been all day.
That’s probably why I called Emily earlier and invited her over for a sister night, with ideas about ice cream and popcorn—yes, in the same bowl. Don’t knock it. Vanilla ice cream with the crunch of salty, buttered popcorn on top like sprinkles is divinity in a bowl. But you gotta eat it fast so the popcorn doesn’t freeze. It’s like racing but with food—who’ll win, you or the popcorn? Only the dentist bill will tell.
But she’d had plans with her friends. Oh, she’d invited me along, promising me a great time, and while I love my sister dearly, her friends are all just a bit much. So I opted out of it, even though it was my idea to hang out, with a ‘remembered’ engine checkup I needed to finish.
Rough Edge Page 14
