by Amy Daws
Our eyes lock for a tense moment, and it’s as if our bodies have some instinctual understanding that our minds haven’t caught up to yet. You can almost hear the sexual tension crackling like dry kindling in a fire.
Miles clears his throat and states, “Well, Red, don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” He gives a silly ‘Scout’s honor’ pose and adds, “If you’re all done, we should head back to Tire Depot for my bike.”
“That’s right!” I exclaim and quickly stand from my chair. “Yes, I’ll totally take you back.” My eyes wander off for a moment before I add, “You don’t happen to have a key to the Customer Comfort Center, do you?”
“Mercedes!” he chastises and stands up in front of me, grabbing my shoulders in his big, manly paws. “You need a damn break, girl. Working this hard can’t be good for your ‘vibe’ or whatever you called it.”
I stare down at his warm hands on me. They are rough and hard looking, but not greasy, as one might expect of a mechanic. And the way his mouth curved when he said vibe has managed to send an instant jolt of awareness through my entire body. I actually feel my pelvis tilting toward him like it’s developed a mind of its own.
“What do you do when you’re not working?” I husk, and my hand flies up to cover my mouth. Did I seriously say that out loud? Jesus Christ, Kate. Get hold of yourself. This isn’t one of your books!
Miles seems amused by my mortification, but then a wall comes down over his features, something that I haven’t seen before. “I like to…ride my motorcycle. Hike. Read. Occasionally, I go to the lake.”
I purse my lips together and nod. “Cool, I’ll go shopping for a Harley this weekend.”
“You do that.” He smiles and throws his arm around my shoulders in a friendly, bro sort of way. “Come on, let’s get out of here before I start boring you with why you should get an Indian instead of a Harley.”
I giggle at that. “Oh, mechanic talk, sounds kinky.”
You know that moment in the movie Sandlot when Squints sees the lifeguard, Wendy Peffercorn, walking on the sidewalk? He quickly cleans his Coke-bottle glasses with his shirt, romantic music swells, and the video shifts to slow motion of the curvy blonde?
Well, for the next week at Tire Depot, I’m the creeper, Squints, and Miles is Wendy frickin’ Peffercorn.
The first day I came back to write after Miles and I had pizza together, I ended up stopping at the open garage door in the back alley. I had a perfect view of Miles hard at work, and I just stood there, laptop bag on my shoulder, jaw dropped, heart racing.
He was stacking a bunch of tires. So many tires. They must have just gotten a shipment in or something because he was sweating profusely. At one point, he stopped what he was doing, unzipped his charcoal coveralls and pulled them off his shoulders to cool down. He was wearing another one of those hot, tight athletic tanks. Nike brand. Black. But I could tell it was soaked through with sweat. His arms were glistening in the light as he wiped his brow on his grease-covered forearm. He grabbed a bottle of water, took several long drinks, his thick neck contracting with each swallow, and proceeded to pour the remaining contents down his face.
You just can’t make this shit up!
The next moment, he turns to look over his shoulder at a co-worker, and his blue eyes were glowing so brightly against his tan complexion that he didn’t seem real. I seriously felt my knees wobble and it wasn’t because I skipped lunch that day.
Suddenly, the billionaire I was writing about in my novel seemed all wrong. His six-pack too artificial. Sex appeal wasn’t created in a gym with weights and treadmills. No, it was born in powerful, grungy garages where men, real fucking men worked with their hands. Where they got so dirty, they had to use a special manly soap to clean themselves up. You can’t find that shit at Bath & Body. Pure fucking testosterone.
Feeling inspired like never before, I scurry off to the comfort center to take two pages’ worth of notes for a new series. Jesus Christ, why had I never considered a mechanic before? My readers would salivate all over this! I can’t help myself as I begin writing the first chapter, the voices of the characters so clear, I have to get them out. Right fucking now.
It’s hours later when I’m ripped from my fictional world by a strong, overwhelming presence in the room. I look up from my laptop to find Miles watching me from the doorway, his mouth tipped into a lazy smile. His eyes are smoldering with something I’ve never seen before.
I pop out my earbuds out when he walks over to me. “You look hyper-focused,” he drawls as he drops down on the leather chair next to me.
My eyes fly wide as I quickly take my pen out of my hair and nervously mess with my top knot. “Yeah…I, erm…got a new book idea today.”
“Oh, really?” he asks, running his hands down his denim-clad thighs. The smell of his manly soap invades my nostrils. He’s showered. The sweat and dirt that were all over him hours ago are long gone, and he smells like a fucking mountain after a fresh rain.
“Do they have showers here?” I ask curiously, so I can make a mental note for my work in progress.
He laughs at that peculiar question. “Yes, why?”
My cheeks flame red. “You smell nice and fresh. Your hair is even still damp, right?” I reach out and comb my fingers through his short, black strands, moisture coating all five of my digits. My insides squeeze at the intimacy behind this embrace.
His eyes flutter closed like he’s enjoying my caress as much as I am, so I take the opportunity to continue my path from the top of his head down to the base of his taut, strong neck. Jesus, this guy is all man.
I suddenly realize we’re not alone and quickly force myself to stop petting the hot mechanic.
Miles’s blue eyes flutter open. “Does that mean you abandoned your other story idea?”
I laugh at that notion. “Lord, no. I just have to write stuff when it comes to me, or it’s gone forever. These are only notes and the first chapter, so I can dive in easier when I come back to it. I’m still very much working on my original story.”
“Well, I’m glad the comfort center is still giving you good vibes.” He looks down at my computer. “Are you almost done for the day?”
I bite my lip. “Maybe?”
“Do you want to go grab something to eat?”
“Like a date?” I ask because Jesus, I have a big mouth and no filter, and I can’t help myself.
His brow furrows. “Nah, just food.” He shrugs.
“I like food,” I reply, trying not to take his reply as a complete rejection as I begin closing my laptop.
Suddenly, reality crashes in on me. “Shoot, I’m sorry…I actually can’t. I promised my girlfriend I’d go for a walk with her like…” I quickly look at my phone for the time. “Now. Shit, I need to go.”
He nods and smiles, looking slightly disappointed. “I understand.”
“Rain check?” I ask, and begin packing up my gear.
“Definitely.” And with that, he gives me a friendly wave goodbye and exits the room like the stunning fucking stallion he is.
I’ve never been more excited to come to work each day. I’ve certainly never entered the Customer Comfort Center this much in one week. I keep telling the guys at the front desk that I forgot my lunch and I’m stocking up on Betty’s baked goods, but honestly, it’s just to see Mercedes.
She’s so fucking cute when she’s writing. I find myself pretending to be on my phone in the doorway so I can watch her work for a while. Her eyes drift off into space a lot, and occasionally, she does some weird physical movements, like she’s trying to figure out how to type an action in a book. One time, I had to bite my fist to stop myself from laughing out loud when she dreamily closed her eyes, licked her lips seductively, and air-kissed the room. She totally writes dirty books.
I love how she’s in her own little world, completely herself, and completely unaware of the world around her. And she’s doing it in a tire shop waiting room. I’ve never met a girl like her.
&nb
sp; I find myself drawn to her every day. I like to stop in before I leave to see how her day was. Sometimes, she tells me how many words she wrote, which means nothing to me because I have no clue how many words it takes to write a book. But she seems excited by her progress, and I love the look on her face. Then she usually asks me how my day was, and I watch her eyes gloss over when I start talking cars and tools to her. It’s a game we play, drenched with flirting, but nothing ever comes of it.
I haven’t asked her to hang out after work again like I did earlier this week. I feel like the first time was a mistake, and the more I talk with her, the more I realize she’s not just some chick I can hook up with. She’s…cool. It’s best to keep our relationship “Tire Depot exclusive.” Lord knows I can’t be trusted around someone who’s beautiful, funny, and not crazy.
“Another week of work down,” I state, dropping into the seat beside her and looking around the empty comfort center. It’s the end of the day and Friday, so nobody is coming in for a late service.
“Big plans for the weekend?” Mercedes asks, closing the laptop on her legs and resting her hands on top of it. She’s adorable today in a little red sundress, quite different from the typical activewear I usually see her in.
“My buddy and I might go down to Golden Gate Park tomorrow. We try to hit this great hiking trail there every summer.”
“That sounds fun and suuuper masculine,” she states, turning to face me. Her blue eyes drop down to my lips, then she quickly looks away.
I frown and shift to face her more as well. “What about you?”
She exhales heavily. “Oh, I’ll probably do some more writing. Maybe check out a real coffee shop.”
I gasp dramatically. “But you’d have to actually pay for your coffee.”
She deadpans, “I know, but Tire Depot doesn’t have a suggestion box for me to ask if they’ll start offering weekend hours.”
“I’d rip that suggestion right up,” I retort with a serious tone. “I like my weekends. Don’t encourage them to mess with my weekends.”
She smiles, and I get a flash of that dimple in her cheek. “Fine, go. Be a man. Catch some fish. Get some dirt all up in ya.”
Her eyes drift down my body, and she pulls her lower lip into her mouth. Her brows pinch together in the most adorably intense way. Goddamn, she’s cute. And if I could read her mind, I’d swear she’s picturing me naked. I sure as hell have pictured her naked about eight times a day since the moment she collided with me in the alley. But I’m a dude, we do those things. Girls are usually a lot less obvious.
That’s why I’m ninety percent sure she writes erotic books. I get the feeling that she has a dirty mind, and I really fucking dig that. I tried googling the author name Mercedes, and with only a first name, I didn’t find anyone resembling her. And if I asked for her last name at this point, I’d be too obvious. So for now, I shall respect her wishes and not push for intel on the writing part of her life. Especially because she asked me not to.
“Well, you have a good weekend,” I state. Leaning across the armrest, I kiss her on the cheek. I pull back and freeze, staring into her wide and clearly surprised eyes. She smells like fucking flowers, but that’s besides the point. “I have no idea why I just kissed you on the cheek.”
“Me neither!” She giggles, her cheeks and neck turning a rosy hue before my very eyes. “You know, since we’re basically co-workers, this could be grounds for a sexual harassment claim.”
I groan and stand, running my hand through my hair with embarrassment. “You should. I’m pathetic. And horribly inappropriate.”
“You’re not pathetic, and it’s too soon for me to tell how inappropriate you really are.” She smiles and waggles her eyebrows mischievously at me. “If you knew the dirty thoughts that run through my mind every day, you’d know I’m certainly no victim.”
“I knew it!” I laugh and snap my fingers in triumph, reaching out and stretching my arms out wide. “There’s something about you that screams…dirty mind. I think it’s your red hair.”
She bites her lip and eyes my torso, her gaze slowly falling to my groin area. My dick does a jump. More like a thump considering the fucker has its own pulse right now.
With a simple shrug, she replies, “I blame a lot of my problems on the color of my hair. Redheads have it rough as kids.”
“Your hair is fucking gorgeous, and little kids are pricks.” I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, grateful no one else is around to hear me make a damn fool of myself right now. “On that note, I’m going to go, and I swear to you that I usually have way more game than this. I hope this interaction doesn’t negatively reflect on my book boyfriend status in your mind.”
She laughs heartily. “Don’t worry about it, Miles. Your book boyfriend status is still very much secure.”
With a big smile, I turn and head out, calling over my shoulder, “See you Monday, Mercedes.”
“See you around the coffee machine, Miles.”
“What are you fucking waiting for, bro? She tells you she has dirty thoughts and you don’t think…‘yep, I’m gonna tap that’?” Sam shouts, slamming his beer down on the bar and running a hand over his blond buzz cut.
“Nah.” I shake my head adamantly and shoot a dirty look at the dude pressing up against me to order a drink. It’s Friday night, so The Pearl Street Pub is packed, but that doesn’t mean I need to be able to smell this guy’s deodorant. The dude smartly takes a hint and gives me some space. I turn back to Sam. “I can’t tap that, she’s too cool. Then I’d have to see her every day in the comfort center. It’d be awkward as fuck.”
“You wouldn’t have to see her. Just don’t go in there anymore after you bang her. Problem solved.”
“I like seeing her,” I reply and frown over the fact that seeing her is one of the best parts of my days.
“You’re so lame,” Sam says, pulling his phone out of his pocket and checking the time. “Shit, we’d better get going. My buddy goes live at eleven, and I don’t want to end up stuck in a line.”
We pay our tabs and walk the two blocks down Pearl Street to The Walrus Saloon. It’s a dive bar that’s partially underground and usually swarming with college students, but since it’s summertime, it shouldn’t be too bad. Plus, I’m single. It’s good for me to hit the meat market venues on occasion.
I don’t necessarily dig younger chicks, but I’m guilty of taking home a college girl once last year. I could tell she was a lot younger than me, and I was so fucking paranoid that I asked to see her ID before we left the bar. I’m not proud, but I needed someone to help get over the final breakup of many with Jocelyn.
That girl fucked me up.
Ten years of ‘will they or won’t they?’ We were worse than Ross and Rachel. And the mind games she played will stay with me permanently, I’m sure. Whenever we were broken up, which was a lot, she would find out what bar I was at that night and show up just to make out with a random dude right in front of me. She was fucking nuts. I’d probably still be living that sweet hell if she didn’t get knocked up by some rich prick during our last “break.”
After some dark days, I’m in what I like to call my ‘bang and bail’ period. One night. No repeats. No strings. Time to add some long-neglected notches on my bedpost.
Tonight, I’m looking forward to finding a girl who will help take my mind off the redhead I know I shouldn’t bang.
The music is loud as we make our way down the stairs to the Walrus Saloon. It’s got a dark, grungy feel to it, but it’s the only place in Boulder that offers any kind of real dance floor. My boots crack on the peanut shells scattered all over as Sam and I head to the two newly vacated stools at the end of the bar.
Sam works on flagging down a bartender while I stand behind my stool and do a sweep of the bar. It’s mostly dudes except for a big group of girls hoarding most of the dance floor already. They are all surrounding a girl in a little white dress with a veil tucked into her hair. Bachelorette parties are u
sually a good time, and I tip my chin to a couple of girls who are eyeing me and whispering to each other. Being big and tall is always a draw for the ladies. And the fact that I’m not ugly makes it pretty easy to take my pick of a group like that.
I pass over another group of girls collectively sucking blue liquid out of a giant fishbowl-sized drink and think I see one that might interest me when a familiar shock of red catches my eye.
I swivel my gaze to see Mercedes walking down the entrance steps. She’s laughing hard at something someone behind her said, but to be honest, I’m not looking at her face for very long.
She’s dressed in a skimpy black and white striped skirt, her sculpted legs on full display and looking even sexier than the time I saw them in those Daisy Dukes. She has a low-cut black tank top on with a long pendant necklace hanging right between her full breasts. I’d be concerned she wasn’t wearing enough clothes if it weren’t for the sexy, tight black leather jacket unzipped and layered over the top of the ensemble. At least that covers some of her body.
Her red hair is straight and shiny over her shoulders, like a curtain of color, and styled in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s a lot less natural than usual but definitely still sexy. This is a far different look from what I see at Tire Depot.
She’s a fucking knockout.
My dick roars to life between my legs, and I have to close my eyes and concentrate, so it doesn’t get a mind of its own and say hello to the crowd. Dicks can be such…dicks.
She turns her head and smiles at the guy who follows her down the steps. Draping his arm around her shoulders, he’s wearing glasses and dressed like he’s headed to a fucking wedding, not a dive bar on Pearl Street. A small brunette flanks her other side and is digging in her purse to pay the cover charge to the bouncers.
Mercedes laughs again at something the glasses dude says. Her smiling eyes begin to peruse the bar and finally land on me. I tower over pretty much everyone here, so it’s no surprise she spotted me. But the look on her face isn’t the easy smile I’ve grown used to seeing this past week.
