Wait With Me

by Amy Daws

  I smile brightly and throw my leg off the bike. “Show me the inside!” I have to stop myself from jumping up and down like a doofus.

  He chuckles softly. “Okay, but then we’re getting dirty in the garage.”

  “Okay,” I chide and let him drag me upstairs and through his front door.

  He’s in a hurry to get back down to the garage, but as I take in the space through his rushed tour, I can see that Miles has vision. Most people probably wouldn’t have looked twice at this property, but he’s already turned it into something really unique and special.

  He first points at where a big wall was knocked out last summer that originally separated the dining room from the living room. Since it was a load-bearing wall, he put in knotty wood support beams stained a deep espresso color that contrasts nicely with the white shiplap on two of the living room walls. The desired effect is a rustic, shabby chic farmhouse feel that oozes charm and natural light.

  His furniture is minimal. Masculine. A leather couch and loveseat face a giant big screen TV. His kitchen is his current work in progress, but the new slate countertops were just installed last week, and now, he’s refinishing the cabinetry. The cupboard doors are all removed and apparently down in his garage awaiting their next coat of varnish.

  He shows me to his bedroom, and it has a giant bed screaming practical comfort. But when he walks me around the corner to his master bath, it’s clear where all his money has been going.

  A huge two-headed waterfall shower occupies one whole wall of the bathroom with a perfectly clear glass door to showcase his incredible tilework. I may have sprouted a lady boner when he told me he did the work himself. He also removed the wall that separated the bathroom from the spare bedroom so he could turn that space into an attached walk-in closet.

  Honestly, his ex is a fucking idiot. This man is husband material right here.

  He quickly shows me a spare bedroom adorned with shag carpet and wood paneled walls. He says it’s next on his list, but it’s kind of fun to see because it shows how much work he’s already put into this house. Miles is clearly not someone who sits idle.

  As we walk down the interior steps and he opens the door to his garage, he smiles over his shoulder and tells me this is where the magic happens.

  You know the kind of sex that’s fumbling and messy and shit gets knocked over a lot, and you feel like you’re apologizing for everything the entire time, but you still somehow manage to have an epic orgasm and break something?

  No?

  Yeah, me neither…until tonight.

  Not only did Miles show me his filthy garage and list all of his tools that seriously sound like they were meant for a sex toy room. He also gave me a hard and rough quickie by bending me over his toolbox and getting my arms all grimy from some spilled brake fluid. I had to wash up in his paint-splattered work sink afterward just to get the smell off me.

  Whatever was bothering Miles earlier, the tour of his house and the quickie he gave me seemed to have helped calm him down immensely. And considering I had a glass-shattering orgasm, I’m not complaining one bit.

  Before heading upstairs to clean up in that stunning fucking shower, Miles walks me over to his second garage to show me a project he’s been working on.

  He pulls on a couple of metal chain switches on the ceiling, and the illuminated bulbs swing over our heads, showcasing a stunning classic truck.

  “It was my grandpa’s,” he states, sliding his hands in his pockets, his muscles extra veiny from our efforts in the other garage. “It’s a ‘65 Ford pickup. I just got the white paint completed a couple of months ago, and the interior done last week. All it needs now is this special carburetor that only works in this particular model. It’s really hard to find and crazy expensive because of that. Most of my money has been going into house renovations, so I’m waiting until I have the funds to get it up and running again.”

  “So it looks pretty, but it’s not functional,” I state, sliding my hands over the glossy white paint. It’s perfect. The chrome finishes shinier than a mirror. I smile and add, “It’s like art.”

  “You could say that,” he replies, watching me curiously from the doorway.

  I continue my perusal. “It looks like it belongs in a Pixar film,” I muse with a smile, checking out the front end and imagining the grille opening up to talk.

  This makes Miles laugh, which is nice because I’ve missed the happy-go-lucky demeanor he had when we were camping. I should have guessed classic cars were boner-worthy for mechanics.

  “You said this was your grandpa’s?” I ask, walking around the hood toward the passenger side door to check out the interior a little closer. The white leather bench inside the cab is beautiful.

  “Yes.” Miles nods, his posture visibly tensing as he adds, “He passed away two years ago.”

  My eyes lift to his, and instant sympathy casts over me. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  He exhales heavily and offers a sad smile. “Yeah, it was a shock to all of us. I mean, he was seventy-seven, so it’s not like he didn’t live a good, long life. But he was one of those guys who seemed like he’d live forever.”

  “Never aging? Always just in that perfect grandpa look?”

  “Yeah,” Miles agrees. “Do you have a grandparent like that?”

  I laugh softly. “My grandma who schedules meetings for me with her priest. She’s going to live forever, I’m sure of it. And if she dies, she’ll definitely haunt me from her grave.” Miles shakes his head, but I stave off his sympathy. “In some ways, I like pushing the old bird. It’s like our special connection, you know?”

  He nods, moving to the front of the truck and staring down the hood. “I get that. For my grandpa and me, it was cars. I remember working on this with him as a kid. He taught me so much. I knew the names of tools before the names of my cousins. Drove my mom nuts.”

  I giggle. “God, I bet you were a cute kid. Dark hair, bright eyes. I bet you got whatever you wanted from your grandpa.”

  Miles lifts his brow. “Well, he always kept candies in the glove box for me.” He walks over to where I stand and moves me out of the way so he can open the passenger side door. Leaning in, he presses the button to the compartment and grabs a bag of round, pink candies.

  “Want one?” he asks with a tipped smile, the scent of wintergreen hitting me right in the nose.

  I laugh and shake my head. “No. If those were your grandpa’s, they should stay right where they are.”

  He nods and replies, “They’re so old, but I can’t bring myself to eat them or throw them away.” He leans back into the truck and puts them back where he found them.

  When he pulls back to close the door, I think I see a sheen to his eyes that wasn’t there before. He props himself on the door and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think that brake fluid is still stinging my eyes.”

  I reach out and rub my hand on his arm in a smooth, comforting motion, a knot forming in my throat at the pain he’s trying so hard to hide.

  “What is it?” I ask, my thumb rubbing the inside of his wrist in slow, gentle circles.

  He shakes his head with a sad smile. “Nothing.”

  “Miles,” I repeat, looking up at him encouragingly. “Just tell me.”

  He exhales and leans his back against the open door. “I wish I had it running already.” He looks up at the ceiling as if he’s trying to get the sprouting tears to go back into his body. “It was kind of a dying promise I made to him, and I feel bad I haven’t finished it yet.”

  “Miles,” I say with a sad laugh. “Look at this thing. It’s gorgeous. It’s art! You’ve already done so much to it.”

  He shakes his head and gives me a laugh. “He’d give me shit for not having it done, though. He liked to pretend to be this grumpy old man, but he had a soft side he only showed to a couple of us.”

  This image makes me smile. “Those are the best kinds. It means more when you’re one of the lucky ones who get that side of them.”r />
  “Exactly,” Miles replies, looking back down at me.

  “Did he like your ex?” I ask, the question tumbling out of my lips unexpectedly.

  Miles seems puzzled by this question but shakes it off. “Nah, he pretty much hated her. The first time I’d ever heard him use the word bitch was in reference to her.”

  This makes me giggle so hard I have to cover my mouth. “I think I would have liked your grandpa a lot.”

  Miles tilts his head thoughtfully at me, assessing me up and down for a moment. “For some reason, I think he would have liked you, too.”

  “Oh?” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning on the car. “Why would I get special treatment, you think?”

  He shrugs. “I think because you’re so real, Mercedes. You don’t put on a show for people, and everything you say is exactly what you are. It’s a rare quality—to be exactly what you show people.”

  Guilt crushes down on me at his words. Then the words from Dean the other day pile on top of that. I need to tell him my name. This was the point of tonight. It’s gone on long enough. I’m playing games, and when you play games, someone always loses.

  Miles’s stunning blue eyes are full of pain and passion, and so open to me that I feel like I can see his entire soul. I know the time for the truth is now. I need him to know all of me. The boring and the brave. “Miles, I need to tell you—”

  I can’t finish my sentence because his mouth is on mine. His huge frame hunched over, and my face cradled in his hands as his tongue sweeps between my lips to caress my tongue.

  My hands reach up and grab the back of his arms, holding on for dear life as his lips possess me in such a tender way that I feel butterflies erupt in my toes, in my legs, in my belly, my head. Even in my chest. Especially in my chest, right in the place that thumps harder as he presses my backside flush to the cool metal behind me.

  He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, thoughtfully paying homage to both my upper and lower lip before his tongue dives into my mouth, massaging against my own, artfully giving and taking. Ebbing and flowing. A gentle claiming.

  I feel his arm shift and flex under my hand before hearing the audible opening of the truck door. Without taking his lips from mine, he slides me over so my butt hits the soft bench of the truck. He kisses me all the way into the truck until I’m laid out flat on my back, my thighs squeezing tight around his sides as his weight presses down on me, hard and heavy.

  Finally, I break away, our bodies rolling uncontrollably into each other. “Miles, are you sure?” I croak because I want him to be aware of where we are right now. “You want to, here?”

  “Shhhh, Mercedes,” he husks, dropping a soft kiss to my lips before opening his pleading eyes to mine. “Just give me this moment. Please. No research. No thinking. I…you feel so good, and I need to feel good right now.” He exhales heavily and adds, “I need this.”

  I swallow down the agony of his voice, my own guilt consuming me entirely as he pulls back and undoes my jean shorts, slowly pulling them down and off my legs along with my underwear. He presses his palm to my mound and swipes between my folds. “You’re always ready for me. Always.” He says it with such reverence that I almost feel guilty.

  He falls back down on me, taking my lips again and kissing me feverishly, unceremoniously shoving my shirt up and pulling my bra cups down to pull a nipple deep into his mouth. So hard.

  My hands slice through his hair, raking through the thick, short tresses as I pump my hips up into him, riding the delicious punishment he’s giving to my body.

  We grind against each other so much my clit is almost raw from his jeans. “Miles, I need you,” I husk softly, no longer able to withstand another moment of this painful torture.

  He lets out a deep grumble. “I don’t have a condom on me.” He presses his forehead against my chest, clearly tortured by the idea of having to go upstairs.

  I don’t want him leaving me like this, so I reply quickly, “I’m on the pill.” Miles’s head pops up, his eyes so serious on mine. It makes me nervous, so I quickly add, “And I trust you.”

  He stares at me, blinking several times and taking me in for a long moment before asking slowly, “Are you sure?”

  I nod because honestly, I’m the untrustworthy one here. Miles is perfect.

  I reach down between us and begin shakily fumbling with his jeans, a frenzy overcoming me with every minute that ticks by that he’s not filling this ache inside me. I need him just as badly as he needs me. Pleasure will take away the guilt and anguish consuming me. I need to lose myself with his weight and his body and not think about everything I’m hiding from him and how badly this could all come to an end.

  I push his jeans down his butt cheeks and fist his girth tightly in my hand, positioning him between my slit and right where I need him.

  “Miles,” I cry out in a beg. “Do it.”

  “Mercedes,” he growls and thrusts into me. Deep. So deep.

  “Yes,” I cry out because the flesh against flesh contact is wonderful. The fullness is miraculous. The pressure is life-affirming.

  “Mercedes,” he moans again and again, alternating between my name and kisses to my neck and collarbone. And it isn’t long before I feel tears prick the backs of my closed eyes. Tears of my impending doom.

  He’s never going to forgive me.

  I frown down at my phone clutched tightly in my hand, mindlessly willing it to ding. To ring. Something. Anything. It’s been days since I took Mercedes out to my house, and I haven’t heard a word from her.

  I know going without a rubber is dangerous, but is she worried she caught something from me? I’m fucking clean. We even spoke more about it afterward. I never go without a condom. Even in all those years with Joce, we still always used condoms. She was so paranoid about getting pregnant, which is ironic, considering it was an accidental pregnancy she had with that rich fucker.

  And I know I’ve slept around some since then, but I’ve always been careful. So fucking careful. I don’t know what came over me that night in my grandpa’s truck. I guess I just had two worlds collide. The old and the new and it felt so right, so natural, so…real. I had to have her. There. In that truck.

  My gramps would have been fucking proud, too. He’d have patted me on the back and probably told me to put a ring on any girl’s finger who’d spread her legs in a vintage truck.

  I laugh at that thought and take a long pull of my beer, then gesture to the bartender for another.

  “Dude, have you been listening to me at all this entire time?” Sam says, turning to face me, his ginger beard long and scraggly, his eyes narrow and angry.

  “Yes, I listened to you. Your uncle wants you to buy him out at Tire Depot. That’s fucking awesome, man.”

  “It’s awesome for both of us, numbnuts.”

  “Huh?” I reply, mindlessly ripping apart a Pearl Street Pub coaster. “What do I have to do with anything?”

  “If I’m running Tire Depot, I want you by my side. Maybe as a manager or a fucking parts director. I don’t know, man. Shit, maybe you can open that vintage garage under the Tire Depot umbrella. You can finally work on classic cars more often. We can advertise it and shit. Could you imagine how cool your gramp’s truck would look in our showroom? Fucking white wall tires. Goddamn, I get hard thinking about it.”

  I shake my head and hand the bartender my empty bottle when he hits me with a fresh one. “I guess that wouldn’t suck.”

  “You’re damn right, it wouldn’t,” Sam bellows and clinks our bottles together. “Jesus Christ, we’d have everything in one shop. Tires, auto repair, and antique car restorations. We could advertise in Denver for that because you know people with classic cars will drive for good work. And you’re a fucking king at the classics, bro. You know this.”

  I nod mindlessly, knowing what he’s saying is something we’ve dreamed about together a lot, but for some reason, I can’t get my mind off Mercedes.

  “Dude!” Sam punches
me hard in the shoulder.

  In a flash, I’m on my feet, my rage billowing up faster than anticipated. My jaw is clenched so tight I think I hear my teeth crack.

  Sam holds his hand back in surrender. “Chill the fuck out. I’m just trying to get you to snap out of this pissy mood. You need to get laid.”

  “Fuck off,” I growl and drop back down on my barstool.

  “It’s true. You’re pining over a fuck buddy, and it’s stupid.”

  “She’s not a fuck buddy,” I growl and shove him in the arm. “Watch how you fucking speak about her. I’m not joking, man.”

  “Okay, okay. But you gotta get your priorities straight. Don’t let that girl get in your head and force you to miss out on a great opportunity. I’m saying we can be business partners in the near future. I’m saying we’re going to make Boulder our bitch, and it’s going to be fucking fantastic.”

  I nod solemnly and let his words sink in. It’s clear that Mercedes has been occupying all of my thoughts tonight, and that’s exactly the kind of shit I don’t need in my life. If she’s not going to call me, I’m not going to fucking stress about it. We’re casual. That’s what I wanted.

  I did not want drama.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, I smack my hand on the bar. “You’re fucking right, Sam. This is going to be awesome.”

  “You’re goddamn right it is!” He clinks his beer with mine and watches me with confusion as I stand. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving? Leaving to where?”

  “We’re celebrating, bro. We have a new future to look forward to, and it’s time we get out of the same old scene. Let’s head down Pearl Street and see what kind of trouble we can get into.”

  Sam laughs hard and claps me on the back. “I’m in!”

  “Oh, I see a table that just opened up!” Lynsey squeals, rushing off with her Long Island Iced Tea and practically falling over the top of a stainless steel table before the couple currently occupying it have even grabbed their jackets to leave.