Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice
Page 11
“What’s up?”
“It’s what’s off.” Vernon handed Clint the sports section of the local newspaper.
Clint stared at the latest picture of Tuck. He had a beer in his hand and a smile on his face. If Lindy had been offended by the last picture of Tuck out on the town, she was definitely going to go ballistic over this one.
A woman’s bra dangled from around Tuck’s neck, while another draped over his head. Two attractive blondes—obviously the respective owners of the lacy lingerie—stood on either side of him. Minus their shirts, of course. The newspaper had printed black bars over their ample chests, but it was still painfully obvious that they were completely topless.
“While all the other drivers were meeting and greeting the reporters,” Vernon went on, “Tuck, here, was out back with the Budweiser girls.”
“They were the Bud Lite girls.” Tuck winked and took a long pull of his bottled water. “And they were fans.”
“I think that’s obvious.”
“I was just having a little fun,” Tuck said again. “Your fun is going to cost us money.”
“Lighten up.”
“Listen here—”
“Tuck’s got a driver’s meeting to go to.” Clint motioned to the rows of chairs set up in the far corner of the massive garage. “You’d better head on over.”
Tuck eyed both men. “You’re the boss,” he finally said, before turning and starting toward the meeting area.
“I am the boss,” Clint said, turning to Vernon. “I own the race team. I’m the one responsible. You’re a sponsor, Vernon. A silent sponsor who’s here for exposure.” Clint motioned to the newspaper. “Speaking of which, what’s the circulation on that paper?”
Vernon shook his head. “What?”
“The circulation.” Clint glanced at the top. “This is one of San Francisco’s staples, which says the distribution is pretty large, which means a lot of people are seeing this.”
“That’s my point,” Vernon went on. “This is bad publicity.”
“You and I both know there’s no such thing.” “Maybe not,” Vernon consented, “but there is a thing called image. We’re not interested in sponsoring some flyby-the-seat-of-his-pants driver who makes mistakes on the track because he’s too much of a hell-raiser in his personal life. We want a winner. That’s why we backed your team in the first place, Clint. Because you’re a winner.”
“I am, and this team will have a Rookie of the Year. Trust me. Have I ever let you down?”
“You’ve given me all these gray hairs and nearly
caused a heart attack a time or two and you’re definitely to blame for the onset of my ulcer back in ’87 when those first pictures came out, but your word has always been right on the money.”
“Which means you should relax and trust me when I tell you my team’s going to bring home a championship this year.”
“He’s already wasted two races.”
“But he’s not far behind in total points. We’ll make it up.”
Vernon gave him a pointed stare. “I trust you, Clint. But you’re not behind the wheel of that car this time.”
“I might as well be. Tuck’s just as good.”
“He’s stupid.”
“He’s just young, that’s all, and that’s no cause to boot his ass off this team. He deserves a chance.”
“We’re embarrassed, Clint,” Vernon stressed. “Very embarrassed.”
“More embarrassed than the time the press caught me doing donuts in the parking lot the night before the Bud Shootout back in ’94?”
Vernon was silent for a long moment before he finally shrugged. “Maybe not that embarrassed. You were the one topless then. And bottomless.”
“I was a little drunk.”
“You were a lot drunk and you had good reason. You raced a helluva race. But Tuck isn’t just celebrating after the big event. He’s sowing his wild oats twenty-four-seven and it’s affecting his racing.”
“Last week didn’t have anything to do with sowing his wild oats. He choked. It happens sometimes.” Clint knew that firsthand. “He’ll be back in form today.”
“I hope so. I’m tired of the bad publicity.”
Clint grinned and clapped him on the back. “How many times am I going to have to say it? There’s no such thing, buddy. There’s no such thing.”
Lindy Beckendorf wasn’t sure what infuriated her the most about Tuck Briggs. His total lack of respect for the sport of stock car driving itself—as clearly evidenced by the newspaper article now doubling as a drip pan beneath the front fender of Cowboy, Inc.’s #62 Chevrolet—or the way he grinned at her when he glanced up from his powwow with CI’s crew chief, Jeep McGraw.
“Hey, there, Sis.”
“I am not your sister.”
“You look like my sister.”
“She has red hair?”
“No, she’s blond.”
“She has brown eyes?”
“Blue as the sky on a hot summer day.”
“Then how do I look like her?”
“You look like her. Like you’re ready to skin somebody alive. She always looked at me like that.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
He scratched his head and winked, his mouth curving into that all-too-familiar shape. “Me either.”
Okay, forget his lack of regard for the sport. It was totally that grin punching her buttons.
“You act like her, too.”
“Mature and responsible?”
“I was thinking bossy and pretentious. She never smiled either.” Another grin. Lindy barely resisted the urge to reach out and grab a hunk of his muscular bicep and pinch for all she was worth.
“At the moment, I don’t see anything to smile about. I
do see plenty to worry over, however. I even see a few things that make me want to frown, yell, and maybe do bodily harm. But smiling isn’t anywhere on the list.”
“Do you like barbecue?” Tuck wiggled his eyebrows, obviously oblivious to her outburst. “I know a place in Austin that makes the best barbecue.”
“I know. They also serve up lap dances.”
“That sauce can be mighty messy.”
She was not going to pinch him. Or slap him. Or grab the nearest oil gun and nail him smack dab in the middle of his forehead. She drew in a deep breath and tried to focus on seeing the good rather than just the bad.
Okay, he was a smart aleck. But physically, he was male perfection. His overalls accented a toned, tanned, trim body that would have made her mouth water if she’d been interested in the reckless pretty boy type.
She wasn’t, and so she didn’t even feel the slight stirring in her middle or the heat creeping up her thighs, and she wasn’t the least bit put off by the way her heart rate was speeding up.
“You’re looking at me,” Tuck said.
“It’s a free country. I can look at anyone I want.” “But you’re looking at me and you’re not talking. That’s a first for you.”
“I was just thinking. That’s a new thing, in case you haven’t heard. It actually involves using your head for something other than wearing a bra.”
He actually frowned at her then, a complete break from his typical it’s-all-good-and-so-am-I expression that grated on her nerves. Lindy smiled.
He eyed her for a long moment before his expression slid back into place. “You really should lighten up,” he drawled. “That’s a new thing, in case you haven’t heard. It involves pulling the corn cob out of your ass and actually enjoying yourself once in a while.”
Her smile disappeared. “It’s not about enjoying myself. This is my job. I take it seriously.”
“My point exactly. You take it too seriously. It’s an adrenaline rush. Fast cars. Screaming fans. Lots of money. Hell, it’s entertainment.”
“This isn’t WWE. This is a real sport.”
He touched his hand over his heart. “On behalf of Stone Cold and the bunch, I’m mightily offended.”
“You
don’t get offended. You’re the offendee.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re irresponsible.”
“It’s called laid back.”
“It’s going to be called laid off if you screw up like you did in the Poconos. I told Clint we should have hired Linc Adams. He knows how to get the job done and he takes it seriously.”
Tuck’s grin widened, but something flashed on his face. Something deep and intense that told her she’d punched a few of his buttons.
As if he had any. He was a wind-up toy if she’d ever seen one. Simple. Silly.
“Stand back,” he said. “You’ve got that look again. You’re definitely thinking.”
“You’re right. I was thinking what a waste of an incredible set of buns.”
Shock wiped the smile off his face and satisfaction rushed through Lindy. Temporary reprieve from the heat pulsing through her body. She turned, satisfied that she’d killed the strange feelings, and stomped away.
Let him think about that.
Chapter Eleven
“Ireally need a man,” Skye said the minute she heard Xandra’s “Hello?” on the other end of the phone line.
“That’s why God invented the King Kong Deluxe with its ten different speeds, three variable heat settings and the ever-popular vibrating head.”
“You’re the one to blame for that, and I’m talking need from a completely different perspective.”
“No hot and horny?”
“More like frustrated and fed up.” She blew out an exasperated breath and hooked the phone between her head and shoulder and stared at the instructions spread out on the floor in front of her. “Thanks to a fifty-two-inch RCA big-screen television with dual picture control.”
Xandra let loose a low whistle. “The lessons must be paying off. You’re turning into a he-man’s wet dream.”
“I’m so confused I could scream. You would think that you could just pull off the cardboard box, plug it in and be good to go. But no. You have to unpack, then hook up the cable.”
“Yep, you’ve got to have cable.”
“Then you’ve got to program the blasted thing.”
“Yep, you’ve got to program.”
“Then you turn it on only to find out that it doesn’t work.” She shook her head and barely resisted the urge to hurl the remote control at the blank screen. “I knew there was a reason I never bought one of these things. I hate this.” She pressed a few buttons and the screen turned a bright purple before she snatched up the directions and reread steps one and two in the programming section. “I’m doing what it says.” Another button press and the screen blazed neon green. “Mine has to be broken. They sold me a lemon. Either that or my brain’s still recovering from Friday night’s malfunction and I can’t think straight.”
“What happened Friday night?”
“I went over kiss specifics with Clint MacAllister.” “And this caused a brain fart in what way? You know that lecture like the back of your hand.”
“It wasn’t the lesson itself that caused the problem. It was the demonstration.”
“You gave him a demonstration?”
“Actually, he initiated the demonstration and I reciprocated.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“It was.” The kiss itself wasn’t the problem. They had great chemistry and so a kiss had only seemed natural. It was everything leading up to the kiss that had her so freaked out.
When they’d been talking and he’d revealed his dyslexia she’d actually felt a kinship with him. A connection. Despite the fact that she’d had only one macho lesson and they had virtually nothing in common.
“Then was he a bad kisser?”
“Let me just put it this way. Skipper and I had a showdown over a leftover graham cracker after I got home, and it wasn’t pretty.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question. Did you freak out because you expected it to be great and it wasn’t so great and it threw you for a loop? You only freak out when something catches you off guard.”
“It was as great as I expected.”
“So what’s the deal? You’ve been kissed by hot men before and not once has it scrambled your brain.”
Because she’d never felt any sort of closeness before a kiss. It had always come after a kiss, and certainly not to the degree she’d felt it with Clint. As if she not only knew him, but she understood him.
“That’s because they were available hot men,” she blurted, grasping at an obvious explanation, unwilling to voice the truth to even Xandra. Just thinking it scared the bejeezus out of her. “Clint is not available. He has a significant other. I shouldn’t be kissing him.”
“You like him, don’t you?” Xandra asked.
“I hardly know him.”
“You’re attracted to him.”
“There’s a difference between being attracted to someone and actually liking them. I don’t know Clint well enough to like him and I don’t plan on getting to know him that well.” If only she didn’t feel like she already did.
She forced away the thought. “Actually, I’m starting to hate him. He’s the one who suggested I buy this damned TV in the first place.” She slapped the remote control against the carpet several times and punched another button. Pink lit up the screen followed by an orange zigzag that worked its way down the middle. “I really suck at this guy stuff.”
“You’re making this harder than it is. We’re talking about TV programming here, not rocket science.”
“Easy for you to say. The delivery man did yours.” “True, but if I had to, I could have figured it out, and so can you. You’re a smart, vivacious, successful woman who teaches sex for a living. You’re rarely intimidated.”
“True.”
“You can do this and when you do I’ll send you the King Kong Ultra Deluxe I’m working on.”
“A second model?”
“This one’s got fifteen speeds, a vibrating head, three variable heat settings and it talks to you.”
“Mark’s off on another business trip, isn’t he?”
“He came home for two days, and then packed up and left for Paris this morning.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
“I have a business of my own to run. I can’t just up and leave. I’m a busy woman.”
“He didn’t ask, did he?”
“He told me to be sure and feed the cat and then he left.” “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I know he’s really busy on these trips and he doesn’t have much free time.”
“You want a cigarette, don’t you?”
“I’d give up my firstborn child and streak naked through the halls of Georgetown High for a teeny, tiny puff. I think about cigarettes. I dream about them. I even caught myself sniffing an old butt I found in the bottom of my purse and my mouth actually watered.”
“It should get easier with each smoke-free day.”
“It should, but it isn’t. At the rate I’m going I’ll be working on King Kong’s tenth edition before I get the craving completely licked—hey, that’s it!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve done the chewing and the sucking until I’m blue in the face. It’s time to pull out the big guns.”
“I’m still not following you.”
“A lollipop to replace the cigarettes. Lollipops have sticks, not to mention you don’t have to lick them. You can suck. If I’m sucking—that’s where the candy comes in— and have something to hold in my hand—a stick is nothing but a skinny version of a Marlboro Light—maybe I’ll forget all about a cigarette.”
“You think?”
“Not really, but at this point, I’m running out of ideas. If I don’t do something soon, I’ll be lighting up again and I promised my lungs I wouldn’t give in.”
“I promised my thighs the same thing.” Skye wouldn’t give in to her cookie craving, no matter how stressed she got, or how much she wanted Clint MacAllister to kiss her again.
“It’s just you and me, buddy,” she growled as she started programming the sequence for the third time. “And I’m taking no prisoners.”
“It’s about time you picked up the phone. I’ve let it ring ten times—are you watching a football game?”
Skye stabbed the Mute button on the remote control. The TV blared louder, proof that while she’d managed to get a picture and sound, she hadn’t worked out all the programming bugs. She tried for a nonchalant laugh that came out more like a nervous giggle as she bolted for the TV. “What makes you say that?”
“I can hear the Hank Williams Jr. music.”
Skye stabbed the Mute button once, twice and the screen finally fell silent.
“I don’t hear any music.” Not anymore, thankfully. “Something is wrong, I just know it. First I can hardly get you on the phone and when I do you find some excuse to let me go and now you’re watching a football game and no daughter of mine would ever watch such a violent, pointless, male-dominated sport—”
“I’m not watching a football game.” She was watching football highlights. Big difference. Especially to a woman who’d never perfected the art of lying.
“I distinctly heard football,” her mother said again. “Maybe we’ve got a bad connection. Maybe we’re picking up a country station. One of my clients can pick up a local weather station with her daughter’s baby monitor. It’s something about the signal for a cell phone being similar to the signal for other mobile devices—”
“I’m not on my cell phone and I didn’t call you on your cell phone.”
“Wow, you’re right. Listen, Mom, I’m really busy right now. I’ve got to go over a new booking and give the hostess a call before dinner and—”
“Did I or did I not hear football?”
“You did not hear a football game,” Skye said. Guilt snaked through her, settling in the pit of her stomach. Skye knew then that she was about to crack. One more question, and she was going to spill her guts about the whole Clint thing.