“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.
He clears his throat, making me lift my gaze to his face while continuing my appraisal. He’s wearing a black baseball hat backwards with dark, almost black hair peeking out around his ears. His strong, square jaw frames the fullest, most sensual pair of lips
I’ve ever seen on a man.
“Ray, this is Jonah Slade.”
Yeah, no kidding.
My head tilts to the side at Guy’s voice, but I’m physically incapable of taking my eyes off the man, no, the god, in front of me. I’ve seen him on posters and billboards all over town, but they don’t compare to the breath-robbing, live version.
“He has an old Chevy he needs help fixing up. I told him you’d be up for the job.”
I hear the smile in Guy’s voice, but still can’t move my eyes to look at him. Car. He said something about fixing up a car.
Pushing through my shock, I reach for my sanity. “What kind of—” My words break on a squeak. This is embarrassing. I clear my throat. “Car? What kind?” That sounds slightly better. I can—Oh my gosh!
Jonah Slade is smiling.
Framing his perfect straight teeth and his luscious full lips are two freakin’ dimples. Sanity gone, fan-girl lust-buckets owning and operating my mind, I bite back an audible swoon.
He crosses his muscular arms across his broad chest, still smiling. “Ray? You’re, Ray?”
He said my name. My cheeks heat.
“Raven. My name is Raven. Guy calls me Ray.” My voice sounds weak and irritatingly pathetic. I try to sound more confident. “I guess it makes him feel better about having a girl working in his garage if he gives her a man’s name.” I study my feet and kick a pebble that isn’t there.
“Raven. Great name.” The compliment is said under his breath, almost to himself. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He’s continues to smile. If he doesn’t stop that soon, I’m never going to be able to concentrate on not making a fool out of myself. More than I already have.
His arm extends to shake my hand. I look at it like it’s a live scorpion. Guy nudges me with his shoulder and motions for me to shake. I wipe my palm on my coveralls, hoping he thinks it’s grease I’m removing, rather than my nervous sweat.
His large hand swallows mine in a firm handshake, the simplest gesture communicating strength and reliability. My shoulders relax, and I fall into the safety of the feeling. Static electricity buzzes between us. His thumb moves over my skin in the tiniest caress. Or did I imagine that?
I’m captivated. I’m unable to see his eyes behind his dark glasses, but I feel them boring into mine.
Without warning, his smile falls, and his eyebrows lower behind his shades. Oh, no. A simple handshake has now turned into holding hands. He thinks I’m weird. I pull back from his grip.
“You, um, have some grease on your . . .” He motions to his own forehead. “Here, I’ll . . .” His hand moves toward my face. I lean back, but keep my feet firmly planted as he swipes his thumb across my forehead: once, twice, three times, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“Oh, yeah. I shivered earlier and . . .” I wipe my head, deciding not to disclose the fact that his voice made me feverish.
I peek at Guy from the corner of my eye and watch the corners of his mouth twitch. Glad someone thinks my embarrassment is funny.
“Your car . . . er . . . what—”
“Jonah here is restoring a ’61 Impala.” Guy shows me mercy and saves me from making things more awkward.
“That’s great. Old Chevys are my specialty.” I could dance with joy at my ability to speak in full sentences. “You want to bring it by?”
“Actually, I . . .” His voice cracks. With a fist, he taps his chest and clears his throat. “Sorry, what I mean is I was hoping you might be able to work on it at my house.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline, my jaw loose and swaying in the breeze.
“I have a decent garage that has all the tools you should need.” He must’ve read confusion on my face rather than the earth-shattering shock I’m feeling.
Guy nods with a Cheshire-cat smile.
“The thing is it isn’t in running condition yet, and Guy said you get pretty busy around here. I don’t live far. Come by and check it out tomorrow. I could really use your trained eye to tell me what parts I need.”
My mouth hangs open.
Guy coughs away a laugh. “Sure, she can do that.” He looks back and forth between Jonah and me, his lips rolled between his teeth. What is so freakin’ funny?
“Okay. What time?”
He gives me the address to his house, and we agree to start at nine-thirty tomorrow morning.
I’m going to be fixing up a car with Jonah “The Assassin” Slade.
What have I gotten myself into?
Two
Raven
“Jonah freakin’ Slade? Are you shittin’ me, Rave?”
I sip my overpriced cup of coffee to hide my smile. I decided rather than call Eve after work yesterday I’d wait for our coffee date this morning to tell her in person. I’m glad I did. The look on her face reminds me of a balloon that’s inflated past capacity. She’s about to burst.
“You and ‘The Assassin’? Working together at his house? Like, alone?” Eve rattles off her list of questions, her last word ending on a squeal. I keep quiet. If I know Eve, she’s only getting started.
“The tabloids call him The Las Vegas Casanova. He’s a total skirt chaser. Oh my gosh!” She slams both her palms on the table, getting the attention of everyone in the small coffee shop. “He’s totally going to hit on you. This is so exciting. I’m seriously going to pee my pants.”
“Please don’t.” I try to keep my voice level but lose the battle as Eve’s exuberance brings out my own.
She casually leans back in her chair while a wicked smile cuts into her perfectly made-up face. “Rave, you may be handing over your V-card by the end of the day.” She flips her straight, long blond hair. “I think UFL actually stands for the Universal Fu—”
“Eve!” My eyes dart around the room. I’m hoping no one can hear my very loud, equally tacky friend.
She shrugs her shoulders, a smile splitting her face. “What? I’m just saying . . .” Her eyebrows bounce beneath her perfect bangs.
“Oh, stop it. He’s like my boss or something.”
“Or something,” she mumbles through a chuckle.
Evil butterflies churn in my chest at the thought of being touched by Jonah again. A simple handshake had me drooling like a dog in heat. A kiss would probably send me into a seizure.
“It’s no big deal. He’s just a guy who needs help with a renovation.” Now if I could just get myself to believe that.
My mind has been in a permanent state of shock since Jonah left the garage. I went through the rest of my day on autopilot as I tried to come to terms with what I’d agreed to do. I’m a bunny rabbit who’s stumbled into a bear cave.
“No big deal? No big deal!” I’m in for it now. Her voice gets uncharacteristically serious. “You’re going to be working side by side with Las Vegas’ most eligible bad boy. He’s been linked with every actress, model, and showgirl in town. And you are superduper hot, girl. ‘The Assassin’ is going to take notice of you.”
“But like you said, he has every woman in Vegas at his fingertips.” Jealousy flares in my gut at the thought of Jonah with a woman. “I bet he doesn’t even notice women who aren’t wearing miniskirts and six-inch heels.” Beautiful, glamorous women whom any man would be proud to have on his arm. I take in my current wardrobe: nothing beautiful or glamorous here. Working on cars all day doesn’t exactly call for anything other than denim and cotton.
“Just make sure he pays you.” Eve’s demand takes me from my self-pitying thoughts. “He can certainly afford to. No more working for free.”
“I don’t work for free.” My words are laced with the acid of my envy.
Eve’s eyes get soft. She leans across the table. “You know what I’m talking about. What about that guy who couldn’t pay you to fix his alternator? Or the lady who couldn’t pay you to rotate her tires and change her oil? Hmm?”
I roll my eyes and blow an errant hair from my face. “They didn’t pay me money. They traded. The guy gave me my tattoo as payment, and
that lady was a single mom.” I play with the fraying threads on my jeans. “She gave me that chair in my apartment.”
“I swear, Rave, you’re good through and through. Not a bit of bad in that sweet ass of yours.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Maybe you can pull out a little naughty for ‘The Assassin.’ Work out some kind of trade for your services.” She waggles her eyebrows.
I suck in a breath on reflex. I know she’s kidding, but the joke hits too close to home. I thought moving out of my mom’s house would distance me from her line of work, but, apparently, geographical distance doesn’t equal emotional distance. She reads my expression and mouths a quick sorry. I wave her off and smile. It’s not her fault I’m damaged.
“So what time is ‘The Assassin’ expecting you? Wouldn’t want to leave a hot piece like him waiting.” She moans and rolls her eyes back in her head. “He’s so sexy.”
“Stop calling him ‘The Assassin.’ It’s Jonah or Mr. Slade to you,” I tease, kind of, and then slurp down the rest of my coffee. “I better get going. I told him I’d be there at nine-thirty.” My stomach flips as my own words sink in.
“You better call me as soon as you’re done.” She flashes an evil grin and a wink. “And I want details.”
~*~
Jonah
“You heard me, Blake. I’m not saying it again.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, praying for patience.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re cleaning your kitchen because a girl is coming over. Like a real one, over to your house. Is that correct?” His Perry Mason tone has me grinding my teeth.
“Yeah, bitch. Except it’s not a girl. It’s a mechanic who happens to be female.” Why I’m even wasting my time to explain is beyond me. I remind myself to never answer phone calls from Blake again.
“Potato fucking poe-tah-toe. God, you’re testy. Are you on the rag? I tell you what, grab a Midol and a brownie and call me in five to seven days.” He’s laughing at his own joke.
“Moron.” I shut the dishwasher door and hit start.
“I’m just stating the facts. You never have chicks over. It’s weird.”
“News flash, pickle dick. The person who decorated my house was a girl. My cleaning lady, also a girl. This is no different.”
Fighting for Flight Page 2
