Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice

by Kimberly Raye

  “No wife,” Tuck went on. “No girlfriend. No mother. No father. I’m twenty-two, driving solo and lovin’ every minute of it.”

  Clint ignored him and pulled the blonde off to the side to speak to her privately. “Thanks for calling me instead of the newspapers.”

  “I doubt they would risk coming in here after he hit the photographer who tried to take his picture after the contest. He broke the guy’s nose and knocked out a couple of teeth. The guy tried to hit back and accidentally hit one of the bystanders. That’s when everybody just started swinging at everybody else.”

  She motioned to a young guy wiping down the bar. “Travis over there helped me persuade Mr. Briggs to hide out back until the ruckus died down and the police left with most of the troublemakers.”

  “I’ll take things from here.” Clint pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “Call my office and they’ll hook you up with free tickets to any NASCAR race. Your choice.”

  “That’s awesome.” A smile lit her face. “My little boy loves NASCAR.” She turned toward Tuck. “That’s why I was so excited about tonight’s contest. But he’s not at all what I would have expected.”

  “You and me both,” Clint growled as the blonde walked away and he turned back to Tuck.

  Clint’s boots made quick work of the few feet separating them. He motioned to his driver. “Time to go home.”

  “But I’m still having a good time.” He leaned back in his chair, a belligerent light in his eyes as he held up his glass. “Good enough for one more round.”

  “You’ve had enough.” Clint grabbed the glass and set it on the table. He reached for Tuck’s arm, but the young man shrugged him off.

  “Hey, hey, watch the jacket, man. This is my lucky racing jacket.”

  Clint towered over Tuck, his hands on his hips as he stared at the smiling man. “Get your ass out of that chair right now and come with me.” Clint’s words were low and dangerous, fueled with the anger boiling inside him.

  Tuck let loose a low whistle. “Looks like somebody’s mad.” He leaned back and squinted up, his gaze guarded. Sober. Despite how he seemed to try to act otherwise. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mad.”

  “Well, take a good look because if that jacket is doing its job, you’ll get lucky and this will be the last time. You’re embarrassing this race team.”

  “I’m taking this race team to Victory Lane.” He tapped his chest. “Me. I’m the one who just won at Sears Point. I racked up the points. Me.”

  “You, my car and an entire crew. We’re a team. You’re a driver. Just one of a dozen team members. No better. No worse. You need to keep your perspective.”

  Tuck frowned. “And you need to realize who you’re talking to. I’m Tuck Briggs. The Tuck Briggs. Nobody can beat me.”

  “You’re good, but there’s always somebody better, somebody right there dogging you, just waiting to pass. Forget that and you won’t last too long in this business.” He leaned down until they were nose to nose. “Keep fucking up and you won’t last past New Hampshire next weekend.”

  Tuck sat silent for a long moment, as if weighing Clint’s words and trying to figure out if his boss was as serious as he sounded.

  Finally, his face split into a grin. “You wouldn’t fire me. You need me. It’s too late to find another driver who can gain enough points to win the championship. You won’t break a seven-year winning streak. That’s why you stepped aside and let me in. You want to win.”

  “Actually, I want to punch you in your face, but I won’t. You’re young and stupid, Tuck. You need to grow up.”

  A dark look passed over Tuck’s face. “I don’t need to do anything, and I sure as hell don’t need anyone telling me what I need to do. You’re not my daddy.”

  “I’m better. I’m your boss and I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money, and it isn’t so that you can go around disrespecting women and punching out the press. You’re a professional driver. Start acting like one.”

  The anger faded into that annoying grin. “Yessir, Mr. Cowboy, sir. You want fries with that load of bullshit? Because I seem to recall a certain driver way back when who raised a lot of hell every chance he got.”

  Clint passed a hand over his face. He was tired and frustrated and, worse, he was horny thanks to Skye and her demonstration, and the three didn’t make for a pleasant mix. “Just get your ass out of that chair, go home and get to bed. You fly out to Dover Downs tomorrow for some test sessions for next month’s race and I want it to go smooth.” His voice lowered as he caught Tuck’s stare. “And if it doesn’t, you’ll be back driving those dirt tracks out in the middle of Assbackwards, Texas, faster than you can blink. Is that clear?”

  Tuck eyed Clint as if he were trying to make up his mind whether or not to tell him to get fucked. “You’re the boss,” the young man finally muttered. “I’m getting the hell out of here.” He pushed to his feet and rummaged in his pocket for his keys.

  “Forget it. I’ve got a cab outside. I’ll drop you at your apartment on my way back to the airport.”

  “I can get home just fine.”

  “I’m sure you can because you’re not near as shit-faced as you want me to think.” At Clint’s comment, Tuck’s gaze narrowed. “But I’ll rest easier tonight knowing that you’re safe and sound and home, instead of out at some after-hours club doing more damage.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “And I don’t need any more trouble. This is it. No more.”

  It was all about sex.

  Clint admitted that to himself a good hour later as he watched the lights of Austin fade. He pulled back on the throttle and the plane gained altitude. The sky stretched in front of him like an endless black void and his hand adjusted the Cessna’s controls.

  He usually loved to fly. Like driving, flying gave him a sense of power. Control.

  But tonight he didn’t feel the typical rush of adrena-

  line, the bubble of satisfaction that overwhelmed him when he was in control, calling the shots, making things happen, doing something important when he’d been told his entire life that he could never do anything at all.

  Instead, he felt hot. Frustrated. Desperate. Disappointed.

  It was definitely all about the sex.

  Skye Farrel wasn’t even remotely interested in him. She’d proven as much tonight when she’d been much more eager to kiss him than talk to him.

  He’d given her the benefit of the doubt. He’d tried to start up a conversation, to get to know her, but she’d killed his attempt with one helluva kiss.

  As much as he’d started to think that maybe, just maybe they connected on more than a physical level, he’d been wrong. She probably hadn’t even really liked the football and the wrestling. It had been an act to get close to him.

  He’d suspected as much. Women like Skye Farrel didn’t go for men like Clint MacAllister. Not in a forever kind of way. They got close because they wanted something.

  Obviously, it wasn’t because he was all that in the sack. Darla had opened his eyes to that all-important fact, though he’d been somewhat disillusioned about it during his teen years.

  He realized now that the attraction back then had been because he was the most popular boy at his high school. He’d excelled at sports and raced in his spare time. In a sense, he’d been a celebrity. An amateur stock car driver with a future. Then he’d turned professional and his appeal had grown. Women had been wowed by the image, attracted to the fast and furious persona of a successful race-car driver. They craved a brush with greatness. They didn’t want the reality of the man. They wanted a fantasy, and sleeping with him fulfilled that fantasy. No matter how mediocre the sex.

  Skye was obviously no different from all the women in his past. Women who’d pretended interest in him merely to get close, to get what they wanted.

  In tonight’s case, a kiss and possibly more if they hadn’t been interrupted.

  You poor thing, a voice whispe
red. You’re such a victim.

  Okay, so he’d kissed her back and he’d wanted more, too, but it was understandable. He hadn’t had sex for nearly five months, and he’d obviously never had the good, quality, state-of-the-art sex that Skye lectured about. With all that moaning and groaning in the background and the fact that Skye was so skilled at her job, he hadn’t been able to resist.

  She’d wanted him and he’d wanted her, and so things had heated up.

  His groin twitched. Things were still up.

  For now.

  Because Clint was attracted to her. But that attraction would fade the more he saw her true colors and realized she wasn’t half as interested in all the guy stuff—his stuff—as she pretended to be. It was merely an act to get close to him because of his fame. She didn’t want him.

  Women like Skye Farrel—the high-brow, sophisticated, feminist types didn’t go for simple, down-to-earth, macho men like Clint MacAllister. They liked to go slumming once in a while for a charge of excitement and a change of pace, but they didn’t want to live there.

  He knew that firsthand.

  Sue Anne Randolph had been the head cheerleader, president of the National Honor Society and the mayor’s daughter, and his first lesson in uppity-up women. They’d gone out a few times. She would sneak out and meet him at the racetrack on Saturday nights to watch him compete. She would get up close and personal in the front seat of his car, and the backseat, too. But she wouldn’t go to the prom with him.

  Clint and Sue Anne had had fun together, but they were going different places. While she liked him, she didn’t like him. That’s what she’d told him. What he’d heard thereafter in his head every time he spotted a classy woman and even thought about getting close to her for more than just sex.

  It simply wasn’t going to happen. Women like Sue Anne and Skye and the entire uppity-up population were too refined for him. Too complicated. Too smart.

  He pushed aside the last thought.

  It was all about the infamous Holy Commitment Trinity that Skye preached with so much fervor. Shared interests? Nada. Mutual respect? A definite nada. Great sex? A nada on her part.

  Clint thought back to the previous evening. He could hear her labored breaths and see the desire flaring in her eyes and feel the frenzied desperation in her fingertips as she’d clasped at his neck. She’d seemed so genuine.

  So real.

  But all it was, he told himself, was a carefully played out act to seduce him and gain bragging rights. No way did she really like all this guy stuff, any more than she really liked him.

  And Clint knew just how to prove it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “This certainly looks interesting.” Skye stood in the open doorway of room number twelve of the Catfish Castle on Ocean Front Road and stared at the ancient furnishings. She wrinkled her nose. “It smells interesting, too.”

  Clint grinned. “That’s not the room. It’s the guys two doors down. They’re cleaning the day’s catch.”

  The Catfish Castle could have doubled for the one-story motel featured in the Hitchcock classic Psycho, with its side-by-side rooms that extended down and around, and its wooden walkway running the perimeter. She glanced down to see three guys several doors away. They hunkered near an open ice chest. The hum of an electric knife filled the air, mingling with a slow Dolly Parton tune that whined from a portable radio. “They’re chopping up Nemo on the front porch.”

  “They’re not chopping. They’re fileting, and it’s not Nemo. It’s a pretty decent-sized redfish, and being able to filet on the front porch is one of the motel’s amenities. You don’t have to find a place to freeze and store your catch while you’re here. You can take care of the nasty stuff right away. That way it goes home ready to eat. Each kitchenette is also fully stocked with freezer wrap and masking tape for packaging, and equipped with a small freezer for storage.”

  Her gaze shifted from the double bed covered in a polka-dot lime green and red bedspread, past a small TV with rabbit ears, to the opposite side of the room that served as a kitchen. A mustard yellow refrigerator hummed in the corner. Cracked Formica covered the countertop next to a large sink. There was no microwave or hand towels or even an ice bucket. An orange plastic Tupperware glass sat on the sink’s edge.

  “You okay?” Clint asked from behind her. “You seem a little shell-shocked.”

  And how.

  She ignored the thought, turned toward him and forced a smile. “I wouldn’t say shocked. I’m just surprised.” She tugged at the collar of her new bright yellow, short-sleeved, button-up shirt with its fishnet lining—for breathability, the clerk at the sporting goods store had assured her.

  She looked at Clint, who wore an old white T-shirt with the words FISH TEXAS in cracked red and blue letters on the front. Worn denim shorts frayed at the edges and flip-flops completed the ensemble. A direct contrast to the crisp tan shorts and boat shoes she’d also purchased in preparation for lesson number three.

  She could still hear Clint’s instructions when he’d called on Tuesday—the day after her personal demonstration of the lap dance and the hottest kissing of her life.

  “Pack your bags. We’re going on a fishing trip.” She’d spent the rest of the morning clearing her schedule for the following two days—Wednesday and Thursday since Clint had to be at Dover Downs on Friday— and watching the Outdoor Channel so that she wouldn’t seem totally clueless about the sport itself.

  She’d watched six thirty-minute fishing episodes back to back, and all of them had featured breathtaking scenery, comfortable lodging and state-of-the-art equipment.

  Not one had mentioned anything about front-porch fileting or fish stench or the all-important fact that she could have worn comfortable flip-flops rather than the blinding white canvas shoes that made her average size eights look and feel like size twelves.

  She looked stiff and new and totally out of place, while he looked comfortable and in his element. Especially when the fish-gutting guys down the walk lifted a hand and said hello.

  Hello? They’re guys and he’s Cowboy MacAllister. Of course they know him. He’s been on every major sports show. He’s been on the news. He’s been on the front of a Wheaties box. Everybody knows him.

  She prepared herself for the typical hoorah that usually followed the initial recognition. The charging fans. The plea for a picture and an autograph. The gushing and panting.

  But the men simply turned back to their catch, testimony to the fact that men were, indeed, a different breed from women. A trio of females would have been on them in a matter of seconds, begging for everything from free tickets to the chance to have Clint’s baby.

  The thought brought her up short and killed her smile. Not that she was jealous, mind you. She didn’t have enough invested in Clint to be jealous.

  You like him, a voice whispered.

  True, but she didn’t want to like him, which meant she wasn’t a complete goner. There was hope for her as long as she kept things physical and not personal.

  No talking about the past, the present or the future, unless it directly involved sex.

  Or fishing.

  “The rooms also offer a live well to keep bait—” “Let me guess,” she cut in. “Alive and well?” He nodded and she tried for another smile. She could do this. Already she was starting to think like a man.

  It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t that smelly. It wasn’t. “It’s really not that bad,” Clint said as if reading her mind.

  “No, no, it’s great. Sure it’s not the fully stocked mini-bar and complimentary bathrobe great, but still pretty awesome in its own way. A definite break from the normal routine. I can see why you guys love it.”

  “This is a fishing trip, not a luxury retreat.” “A mini-bar isn’t a luxury. For some, it’s a necessity. Not for me, mind you. I go with the flow.” She cleared her throat. “But I’m sure there are a few fishermen out there who would appreciate a free, fluffy bathrobe.”

  “Most of the me
n I know barely shower on these trips.” At her raised eyebrows, he added, “It’s like this. Men come to Rockport to fish. To catch the Big One. To get away from the trappings of civilization and enjoy the great outdoors. Besides,” he shrugged, “the fish smell is so strong it masks everything else.”

  “So if you can’t smell it, it doesn’t exist?”

  “You’re starting to catch on.”

  Unfortunately. “These rooms do have bathrooms, don’t they?” At his odd look she added, “Since you guys don’t shower, you probably just hang it over the side of the boat if you have to pee or out the window when you’re here. So it seems like a bathroom would be wasted space.”

  “Now you’re starting to think like a guy.”

  “It was a joke.” He didn’t crack a smile. Instead, he walked past her and set one of her suitcases down on the bed.

  She followed him inside, panic rising with each step across the lime green shag carpet. “There is a bathroom, isn’t there?”

  He didn’t reply right away, which sent her anxiety through the roof. “Sure there is,” he finally said. “A guy comes here to get away for a little while. Not go completely AWOL. A man’s still got to have his daily Sports section.”

  His meaning hit her, almost as hard as the smell when she crossed the room to the one doorway. Hinges creaked as she pushed the door open and flipped on the light. Lime green tile covered the floor and crept halfway up the walls of the small bathroom. A bright yellow toilet sat off to the side, a sink perched on the wall next to it. Water drip-dropped from the faucet head, adding to the rusty round water stain near the drain. A dingy yellow shower curtain covered a small shower stall that looked barely big enough to accommodate her, much less any of the bulky men perched on the front porch next door. Then again, according to Clint, showering wasn’t a top priority.

  Her gaze shifted to the small magazine rack wedged between the toilet and the wall. Old newspapers overflowed the small space.