Chased

by Hazel James

  “No, sorry. It’s been a long night, and I’m just tired.”

  “Relax, Paige. I’m just fucking with you.” He threads some black stuff through a giant needle with a handle on one end, then uses a different tool to punch a hole next to the area he marked. “I did that,” he points to the hole, “to make room for this.” He holds up the needle, then shifts his position on the ground and uses two hands to work the plug into the tire. From the way he’s exerting himself, it’s not an easy task. The muscles in his arms flex and strain, making his shirt look more like a relief map than a piece of clothing. It’s quite a lovely show.

  “It’ll go in, it’s just a really tight fit,” he grunts between breaths.

  “Sort of like anal.” I clap my hand over my mouth in horror. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Pretend I never said that. Please. I have no filter when I’m tired.” Heat washes over my face, which is now the same color as my car.

  DH props his arm on his knee in a fit of laughter while I think of ways to remove the foot from my mouth. “Jesus Christ, woman. You sure know how to wake a guy up in the morning, don’t you?” He finally shoves the needle into the tire and starts working it back out again, leaving the rubbery stuff behind.

  “Like I said. It’s been a long night, and I’m tired. I didn’t mean to…” Make an ass of myself? Give him the wrong idea? Tell him that I once had anal sex? Though maybe that one isn’t so bad. That’s gotta rank up there with skydiving and bungee jumping, right? “Say something so unprofessional.”

  DH looks up from the tire, glances over both shoulders, then looks back at me. “Unprofessional? Last I checked, I was on the side of the road fixing a tire. What’s that got to do with professionalism?”

  “Well, you were my patient. I should act like a professional around you.”

  “Right. Past tense.” He reaches over and pulls the machine closer to the tire. “I’m not your patient anymore, so please, feel free to talk about whatever you’d like. Tires. Tornadoes. Anal sex.” He laughs again and connects a hose to the tire, then flips a switch.

  Pointing to the machine, I shout, “What’s that thing called?”

  “An air compressor,” he hollers back. “It’s what fills your tire up.” A minute or two later, he shuts it off and begins tossing his tools into the toolbox.

  “So that’s it? It’s fixed?”

  “Yup. Good as new.” He closes the lid and walks his equipment back to the truck.

  “It’s not gonna go flat on me again?” I ask when he returns to my car. I glance at the tire and sure enough, it’s still holding air. DH basically performed minor surgery on my tire, and fuck me if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve seen in a while. Well, minus his face. Because that’s fuck-hot too.

  “Not unless you drive over another nail.” For the first time, I notice just how tall he is. Even in my Danskos, I only come up to his sculpted shoulders. Christ, I need my vibrator. I walk around to the driver’s side to get some space, but he follows close behind me.

  I fumble for my door handle, unable to look away from his gaze. “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. Consider it repayment for my excellent care in the ER.”

  “Well, thanks again for stalking me.” I grin, dropping into my seat and bringing Ruby to life.

  “It was my pleasure, Paige the narcissistic nurse,” he quips. “I actually live out this way, so I wasn’t stalking you.”

  “Sure, I bet that’s what you say to all the girls.”

  “Just the pretty ones with blue eyes who like anal sex.”

  I buckle my seat belt as heat creeps up my face. I don’t think I’m ever living that one down.

  HE’S NOT COMING.

  Fuckkkk!

  I read the message six more times, but it still says the same thing.

  Chad: Hey babe. I’m texting because I know you’re sleeping. Dad threw his back out. Gotta stay home and help him. Sorry. Call me later. Love you.

  I toss my phone on my bed and rub my hands over my face wondering what I did to piss off The Powers That Be. And on top of that, the batteries in my vibrator died. I had to take matters into my own hands—literally—during my shower this morning. I’d ask for a do-over, but what I’d rather have is a fast-forward button to four weeks from now when I’m scheduled to go see Chad. I’m going to beg and plead with him to move up here this summer instead of next year. Transferring schools isn’t that hard, right?

  I shuffle to the kitchen and grab my two-liter bottle of cherry limeade from the fridge. It’s not a cherry limeade from Sonic, but it’ll do for now. I pour some in a glass and return the bottle to its spot next to the steaks Chad and I were supposed to grill for supper, since Ali’s staying with her boyfriend tonight. She’s a labor and delivery nurse at Barton Memorial, and is friends with the nurse recruiter who hired me. After I signed my paperwork, she mentioned that Ali was looking for a roommate. It works well since she’s on days. As the newest nurse on staff, I usually work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and she mostly works Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

  So basically, I live alone in Ali’s adorable two-bedroom, two-bathroom childhood home. Her mom and dad bought a bigger one when they became foster parents. They gave the house to Ali because her sister is already married and has her own home. Ali insisted that I take the master bedroom. She couldn’t bear the thought of living in the same room her parents had sex in.

  I don’t mind at all; I haven’t met anyone in her family yet. And because the house is paid off, I only have to pay for utilities. Not bad for being twenty-two. My parents are also glad that I found a safe place. I haven’t lived at home since I left for college, but I’m still their only daughter and they frequently remind me that I’ll always be their baby girl no matter how old I am. It’s sweet, if a little annoying.

  I finish my drink and walk back to my bedroom to call Chad, but he doesn’t answer. That means he’s probably watching sports in his dad’s man cave. Mr. Grifka is a fanatic and has three different televisions mounted on the wall of their den, which I’m convinced act as a force field against cell phone signals. The good part about me moving to Oklahoma is not having to pretend to enjoy six consecutive hours of games. A girl can only fake it for so long before falling asleep.

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me of the sad death of my evening plans. One thing’s for sure—I am not cooking for one tonight.

  I pull into the parking lot of Cattlemen’s Steakhouse wearing my new red shirt. I bought it specifically for tonight because it makes my boobs look amazing. I wore it anyway, even though Chad isn’t here, since red is my favorite color.

  I may have also sent him a cleavage shot on Snapchat to show him what he’s missing.

  What can I say? One benefit of never losing my freshman fifteen is having a spectacular rack. I may not be the skinny teenager I once was, but according to my jeans, I’m a ten and who doesn’t love a perfect score from the judges?

  About an hour later, the waitress brings me my frozen mango pineapple margarita and takes away the remnants of my sirloin and baked potato. If I’m being totally honest, the steak was better than the one Chad would have made me. He only knows two ways to grill—rare and well-done. I’m more of a medium kind of gal. I close my eyes and savor the first delicious gulp of my margarita. It was a toss-up between this and a vodka cran, but the margarita came with a blue plastic sword and a wedge of pineapple, and cute garnishes win every time.

  “Is this a party for one?”

  I open my eyes and see DH pulling out the barstool across from me. The bandage on his head is gone, revealing a neat row of stiches. Dr. Williams has an amazing hand, and I’d bet money DH won’t be left with a scar for long.

  “Seriously? Stalking is so not attractive.”

  He smiles and settles himself on the seat. “It’s good to see you too, Paige.” The waitress comes back to the high-top to take his order, but he doesn’t bother with a menu. “Just a Shiner, thanks.” He never takes his eyes off me. I’m no
t sure why I notice something as small as that, but it makes me feel equally excited and uneasy. “So why are you here by yourself?”

  “I’m not. I brought my friends.” I smile and tap the book I brought with me.

  “But you didn’t plan on coming here alone.”

  I pull my lip gloss out of my purse and make a quick pass over my lips as DH’s eyes dip down to my shirt. “What makes you say that?”

  “That’s not something a woman wears when she’s out by herself.” The waitress returns with his bottle of beer and a coaster, and he gives her a quick nod, but again keeps his attention focused on me. “Or maybe you didn’t plan on leaving here alone?” He sounds almost hopeful at that remark.

  Please.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, my plans changed, but I didn’t see any reason to sit inside all night.” I lay my pineapple wedge on my napkin and remove the blue plastic sword.

  “So what changed?”

  “My boyfriend was supposed to come here for a couple of days, but he had to stay home at the last minute.” I stab the pineapple with the sword. It’s oddly gratifying. I know it’s not Chad’s fault, but that doesn’t lessen the suck factor any.

  DH raises his eyebrows and takes a drink from his beer bottle. “Boyfriend?”

  “Yeah, I told you about him earlier.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I’m sure I did. He lives back home in Louisiana. We’ve been together for about three years.”

  “Let’s see. Since I met you, we’ve talked about chasing tornadoes and how it compares to sex, flat tires, and anal sex.”

  I open my mouth to object, but he’s sort of right.

  Huh.

  “Well, I meant to. I guess I got distracted.” I take a sip of my drink and jab the sword into the pineapple again. It’s DH’s fault with his muscles and mechanical abilities.

  He smirks. “Distracted by how ruggedly handsome I am?”

  Yes. “No, just thinking I should have ordered a CT for you. Obviously, you have a bigger head injury than I thought.”

  “I admire your dedication, Nurse Paige, but I assure you I’m fine.”

  “Don’t you have some other table to sit at?” I look around the restaurant. I see three empty high-tops toward the front and wonder why the waitress didn’t put him at one of those.

  “How’s your tire?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “Fine,” I reply, trying to keep from sounding ungrateful. I’m glad he fixed my flat, but he doesn’t seem to know when to give up on the advances. Not that I mind too much. Don’t all girls like being made to feel attractive by a man who looks like he knows his way around a bed?

  “So the plug is still in there nice and tight?” My heartbeat spikes at the word “tight.”

  I lift the plastic dagger and continue piercing my garnish. “Are we still talking about my tire?” I counter.

  DH emits a low chuckle and takes another drink, and I pretend that the sound does nothing to my insides. I make a mental note to buy more batteries on the way home. “You know, it’s a shame that you have a boyfriend,” he murmurs in a husky voice. He spends the next several seconds staring at my mouth as if he’s thinking about all the things he wants to do to it.

  “Chad’s a great guy.” I feel like I need to say his name again. Chad. Chad. Chad. My boyfriend. Who loves me. Who has been nothing but supportive of me while I pursued my dream. It’s not his fault that his dad threw his back out and needs help around the house. See? He’s loving and dedicated to his family.

  “I can’t believe Chad let you move all the way to Oklahoma.” DH doesn’t bother hiding his condescending tone.

  What the hell is this guy’s problem? “Chad didn’t let me. It’s not like that. I didn’t have to ask for his permission. And it’s only seven hours away. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “All I know is if you were my girlfriend, there’s no fucking way I’d let you move that far away.”

  I raise my right eyebrow. “Is that so? Like to keep your women on a tight leash?” What a pompous asshole. Whatever redeeming qualities I thought he had earlier have flatlined. Time of death: seven-oh-two p.m.

  “It’s not like that,” he replies, mirroring my earlier statement.

  “Then enlighten me, oh wise one.”

  “Seven hours is too far away from my bed.” At that, he looks away and takes a long draw of his Shiner beer.

  Heat creeps up my neck. What the fuck am I supposed to say? I clear my throat and turn my attention back to my pineapple wedge.

  Stab, stab, stab.

  “Do you always do that when you’re nervous?” DH asks. I look up mid-stab and see his deep brown eyes fixed intently on me. I exhale slowly, but don’t break eye contact. I once watched a Netflix documentary that said prey should always look their predator in the eyes. It’s supposed to help them appear more powerful.

  “Do what?” I ask quietly. Why didn’t I notice the gold flecks that ring his pupils earlier? They’re like beacons luring you right into the depths of his soul.

  “Hold your breath.”

  “I don’t hold my breath when I’m nervous.”

  “Sure you don’t,” he chuckles, rubbing his beard.

  “I don’t. And even if I was, I’m not nervous.” I sit up taller on my barstool and gulp at least a third of my margarita. Yeah, I know. Liquid courage, right? Except I’m not nervous. Nope. This drink is more like liquid Xanax because I’m so calm.

  Shit. I just looked away. So much for appearing powerful.

  “So, when I mentioned my bed earlier, your heart didn’t beat faster?” He takes another swig of beer. I pretend to not notice the way his lips curve around the opening of the bottle.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie.

  “No? I’m sorry. It must have been the other attractive blonde sitting at my high-top.”

  “You’re such an ass, DH,” I mutter, reaching for my straw again.

  “Relax, Paige. You don’t have to be ashamed. It’s not uncommon for women to dream about being in my bed.” His lips curve upward, revealing his dimples. Fucking figures. I purposely look away so they don’t exert their power over me.

  “There is no way in God’s green earth I will ever be in your bed.” I’d probably need a level three decontamination afterward. I reach for the blue plastic sword and continue murdering my garnish. Maybe he’ll take the hint and leave me alone. I’d leave myself, but this was an eleven-dollar drink, and I’m not wasting it.

  He clutches his heart in mock offense. “Ouch.”

  “Please, like you couldn’t snap your fingers and have five willing candidates lined up and ready to go.” I roll my eyes. It pains me to admit that if it wasn’t for Chad, I’d probably be one of those girls. Stupid beard and dimples.

  He tips his bottle and drains the last of his Shiner. “I’m not particularly interested in snapping my fingers. Besides, I’m a patient guy. I don’t mind waiting.”

  “I hope you don’t mind waiting forever, then. Because me and you,” I say, moving my plastic sword in the space between us, “will never happen.” I stab the pineapple for effect.

  “I beg to differ, Nurse Paige.” He leans forward on the high-top, bringing the upper half of his body too close to my personal space for comfort. He carefully takes the sword from my hand, lays it on my napkin, and lowers his voice. “One day I’ll have you in my bed, and you’ll be screaming my name.” He says it like it’s final. Done. No room for negotiation.

  “Let’s get one thing straight.” I lean forward, too, and we’re inches away from being nose-to-nose. Jesus Christ, he smells so fucking good. “If I’m ever in your bed screaming your name, it’s because you kidnapped me, and I’m trying to let the cops know where to find me.”

  DH throws his head back and laughs. Like, really laughs. It’s a full-on production involving his chest, shoulders, and mouth, and the resulting sound is beautiful. He coughs twice, trying to regain his composure, and moves even close
r on the high-top. Forget nose-to-nose. We’re just about mouth-to-mouth. His grin is gone, but a small smirk lingers.

  “I promise you, Paige, when you’re in my bed screaming my name, the cops will be the last thing on your mind.” His deep voice sends a shiver through my body. My traitorous, sexually-frustrated body. “The only thing you’ll be able to focus on is how fucking good my dick feels inside you and how many times I make you come.”

  I know I should stop looking at his mouth, or wondering what his beard would feel like between my legs. I know I should back away, grab my purse, and leave. Or, at the very least, slap him for the way he’s talking to me. Instead, I do nothing. No moving. No blinking. No breathing.

  “You’re holding your breath again,” he chides in that cocky, sexy, confident voice. “And your cheeks are flushed.”

  “My cheeks always flush when I drink.” I lean back, needing distance. Lots of distance. He makes me think of the time I was five and my mom told me the stove was hot. I didn’t listen and had to see for myself, earning me second degree burns on three of my fingers. Lesson learned: stay far away from things that can burn you.

  “I bet your cheeks flush when you do other things, too.” A small smile plays at his lips as he rubs his beard. Chad doesn’t have a beard. He believes the clean-cut look is more professional, which is important in the world of CPAs. Chad also doesn’t have dimples. But I love Chad. He’s a good man, and I can’t wait until he moves up here. Maybe then, I won’t be sexually frustrated in a bar. Maybe what I need is a good FaceTime session with him. Just because he can’t come here doesn’t mean we can’t take advantage of modern technology, right?

  Yes.

  With my new plan in mind, I signal for the waitress.

  “Aw, leaving so soon? But we were having so much fun,” he teases.

  I’d love to smack the smirk right off his beautiful face.

  “Yes, I’m going home and calling my boyfriend, thank you.”