Casey: I’m exhausted because you woke me up.
I can almost hear the words dripping from her mouth in that sweet little twang of hers.
AJ: Since you’re up, meet me for breakfast.
Casey: You don’t give up, do you?
AJ: Nope. ;)
Casey: Can’t do it, have errands to run today.
AJ: What errands?
Casey: Nosy, much? If you must know, I have laundry to wash and my car needs an oil change.
The smile that spreads across my face is so big it hurts. Casey obviously has no idea what I do for a living.
AJ: An oil change, huh? Meet me at Morello and Tate Restoration in an hour.
After sending off another quick text with the address, I jump out of bed, still laughing about her oil change comment and wondering if it was fate.
The old, yellow building sits back along the edge of the highway, so bold and bright you can see it from a distance. That was my dad’s grand marketing plan. Make it bright enough to notice from the road and ridiculous enough for the customers to remember when they need to come back. As absurd as it sounds, it actually works. Whenever I tell people who I am, commentary about the obnoxious yellow building is sure to follow. He was a crazy old man, but he knew what he was doing when it came to business strategies.
Back then, it was Morello and Son’s Restoration. We changed it after Jillian got married and Jameson became our partner. He earned it. Our history is spotty, but after all is said and done, he’s more than my brother-in-law. I give him a lot of shit, but that dude’s my brother in every sense of the word.
It’s not long before a Pontiac Grand Am pulls into the empty lot. The black paint glimmers in the sun, but nothing compares to the golden shine of Casey’s hair as she emerges from the car.
For a brief moment, I feel like I’m still in a coma. All the blood leaves my brain as she sashays toward me. Her little beige dress flows in the gentle wind, floating around her bare legs. In the sunlight, I can just make out the outline of her body through the thin, almost see-through material. Brown cowboy boots match the braided leather belt cinched around her slim waist, and her hair blows wild and free as she moves. She’s a country boy’s wet dream. All she needs is a friggin’ cowboy hat. I thought she was sexy in jeans, but Casey in a dress takes the cake, and my twitching dick approves.
“Well, you got me here. What’s your plan?”
A slow smile spreads across my face as I extend my hand. “Anthony Morello Junior. Nice to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” I quip in my best attempt at a Southern accent, tipping my hat.
“First of all, your Texas drawl sucks. Don’t do it again. Second, you own this place?”
“That’s my name on the sign, isn’t it?”
The office door buzzes overhead as I push it open and usher her inside. A dozen donuts and two coffees sit on the monstrosity of a desk, waiting for her arrival. “I promised you breakfast, and I’m a man of my word.”
“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”
“You have no idea. Keys?”
The tinkling strips of metal dangle from her delicate fingers as she turns her palm toward the ceiling. I grab them with one hand and a glazed donut with the other. “Make yourself at home,” I say, backing out of the office door.
Banjo playing blasts through her car speakers when I turn the key, followed by a drawling male voice. Casey’s country roots run deep, right down to her taste in music. Never been a fan myself. It’s not that I’m opposed to it; I just haven’t been acquainted with it. I grew up on a steady diet of loud and brash rock ‘n’ roll from as far back as I can remember. My old man was as hardcore as they come. He was all about fast cars and fast music. It’s no surprise Jill and I turned out the way we did. It’s in our blood.
In no time, the car’s jacked up and I’m in the zone. Oil changes are monotonous work. Lift the car, drain the oil, check the filter, and so on and so forth. It’s mindless. A job any jack-hole with half a brain could do, but nobody likes to get their hands dirty anymore. Not that I love what I do or anything, but it beats sitting in some stuffy office staring at a computer all day. I couldn’t do that shit. Thankfully, Jill’s good at it. She runs this office like a pro, and she’s anal as hell. She has her system and doesn’t allow anyone to mess with it. It’s the reason she hasn’t given in and hired someone to replace her now that she has Zakk. She can’t give up control of the office. We’re a great duo. Well, trio.
“How’s it going out here?”
“All set.”
Casey twirls a wavy tendril around her finger and leans against the wall as she sips her coffee. “So what do I owe you?”
I smack the button on the lift, and the car begins its slow descent to the ground. “Don’t worry about it,” I reply with a dismissive wave.
“You have to let me give you somethin’.”
“Go out with me this week.”
“Are you extorting a date out of me?”
“No. I’m asking you out. If you say no, it’s still no charge.” My boots scuff on the dirty concrete floor as I walk over to where she’s standing. “But say yes, Case.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I’ll just keep asking until you do.”
Standing this close, I notice her blue eyes have flecks of topaz and sapphire in them. There’s no usual green ring around her irises dulling their brilliant color. They size me up as if she’s contemplating her answer. She wants to say yes, I can tell, but she's hesitating. This Tom and Jerry game excites her. The thrill of being hunted is what drives her. "You really interested in takin’ me out, or you just hopin’ to get your hands on my chassis?"
Car metaphors. I like this girl.
"These hands will stay in these pockets, I swear."
Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth and slides out slowly, leaving the tiniest bit of saliva on her plain pink lips. All it would take is one step forward to close the distance and press my mouth to hers. “Fine.”
“Excuse me, what was that?” I say, cupping my hand around my ear.
“You win, city boy. I’ll go out with you. Afterward, you stop, okay? Stop askin’ me out, stop with the pickup lines. Deal?”
“Sure, cowgirl. Whatever you want.”
6
Casey
“So what are you going to wear?”
Marisa lies sprawled out on my bed, watching me apply mascara. Two gigantic, messy buns flank each side of her head, like flames shooting out of her skull.
“Uh. This?” My usual wardrobe is jeans and a tank top, which is the exact outfit I’m wearing right now. I’ll wear a skirt or the occasional dress, but it’s best if I keep this casual. I don’t want to give off the wrong impression.
She slides off the bed and pads to my closet. “Bor-ing,” she singsongs, punctuating the syllables of the word. The hangers clang together as she pushes them across the bar in search of something better. “You have legs like a thoroughbred. Wear a skirt or something.”
“Legs like a thoroughbred?” I laugh, pausing mid-mascara stroke.
“Yeah, you know. Strong, long, elegant. Thought you knew all about horses?”
“Ridin’ them, not checkin’ them out!”
A squeal echoes from the interior of the closet. “How about this?” A black strip of fabric—hanger and all—flies out and hits the floor with a thud. I turn and eye the satin garment on the ground as Marisa extracts herself from the closet and picks it up.
“That’s a slip, Missy. Not a dress.”
She looks at the slip then back at me with furrowed red brows. “So? It’s hot. Give the stud horse a run for his money.”
“Put it back,” I say with a smile.
The old metal frame creaks under her weight after Marisa finishes her tour of my closet, and plops back down on my bed. “Show off a little skin, babe. That’s all I’m saying.”
Show off a little skin, she says. I’m half tempted to call this whole thing off and get back in m
y sweats. Butterflies flap inside my gut every time I think about AJ. Knowing he’s on his way here has kicked the little suckers into high gear. “Am I makin’ a mistake here?”
“I’d wear more eyeshadow, but that’s just me.”
“No, I mean goin’ out with AJ.”
In the mirror’s reflection, I see Marisa pull herself to a sitting position. “No. You need to get out, Case. It's been long enough.”
“I know you’re right. It’s just …”
“Listen.” She slides to the edge of the bed as I turn to face her again. “I know you think God is smiting you or whatever, because of Austin, but that’s crazy. You aren’t meant to wander the Earth alone for all of eternity because you broke some good ol’ boy’s heart. It’s just not logical.”
“I did a little more than break his heart, Miss—”
The ringing doorbell cuts through my point. She doesn't get it. I broke a sacred oath. I promised my hand to a man fully knowing I never intended to deliver. I’m an awful human being and a poor excuse for a Christian.
“I’ll get it.” Marisa saunters out of my room, red buns bouncing as she goes. The word Juicy written across her slender backside sways with each step. Sometimes, I wish I had half her self-confidence. Everything about Marisa just screams, “Here I am! Love me or hate me, fuck you either way!”
Voices trickle in from the living room as I finish getting ready. Exhaling long and slow, I give myself one last look. “The Lord is merciful and forgivin’, even though we have rebelled against him. You can do this, Case.”
How did I get here? Back home, I felt like a big fish in a tiny pond. All that wide-open space was suffocating. I had plans. I was gonna be somebody. But who am I? A twenty-six-year-old bartender who’s afraid of her own shadow and can’t even stand her own reflection. Davis was supposed to save me, but he did the exact opposite.
Pushing off the dresser, I force myself through the door and out into the living room, where AJ leans against the arm of our ugly floral couch, talking to Marisa.
Holy hell.
He looks about as mouthwatering as a steak does. The graphic tee and black hat combo are nowhere in sight, replaced by a button-down shirt that hugs every curve of his torso. The light blue color is a perfect contrast to his olive skin and dark chin scruff. His hair is messy like he’s a few days past a haircut, but it looks so dang good. I wouldn’t doubt it’s on purpose, much like the day-old stubble perpetually covering his jaw. When I first met AJ, I thought he was cute. The man standing in my living room is so far beyond cute it’s scary. He looks good enough to eat, and I’m suddenly starving to death.
“You ready for me, cowgirl?” he says with a grin.
No, I’m definitely not ready for him. I expected to be going out with the goofy sound guy from The Wreck. The one with an easy smile who’s full of jokes. But instead, I’m greeted at the door by a smoldering, sexy businessman with deliciously dirty hands who’s looking at me like I’m a tall drink of water on a hot day. A far cry from the guy spouting pickup lines who literally gave me the shirt off his back last week. Underneath that cocky grin and stubble is more than meets the eye, and so far, I really like what I’m seeing.
The rocks in my stomach continue to tumble as we walk side by side through the parking lot. “This is your truck?” I ask, coming face to face with tires. The red pickup is lifted to a monolithic height; there are actually steps to get into it.
“Yup. I like to be in charge of the road, not the other way around.”
AJ pulls the truck door open for me then grabs my hips to help me step inside. Warmth envelops my waist along with his hands and travels into all my limbs, before finding its home between my thighs. Being this close to him, I'm overcome by the strangest combination of feelings. Extreme anxiety with an acute sense of calm.
The bench seat in the Chevy is old, but the leather is soft and remains warm from the balmy spring day. The dashboard is sleek and shiny. There isn’t a speck of dust inside this thing, which is shocking considering his profession. Most of the boys I knew back home had pickups that were filthy and full of dirt and hay and empty containers of Skoal.
“Where we headed?”
“A little place a few towns over called The Saloon. You’ll like it.” He moves the stick shift around with expert precision, letting his hand rest on the knob as he pulls out of the lot.
The Saloon, huh? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended, but I’m keeping an open mind.
The only sound on the way to the place is the low hum of rock music filtering out of the speakers of his truck. He doesn’t say much, just concentrates on the road while tapping lightly on the steering wheel. AJ never stops moving. The constant bounce of his fingers and toes is a clear sign of the music in his head trying desperately to get out.
I reach over and switch the station on his radio. He glances in my direction for a split second and chucks me a lazy grin. “You’re as bad as my sister is.”
“Oh?” I reply, returning his smile.
“Yeah. She plays DJ every time she gets into anyone’s car. Except for mine.” He reaches out and taps the button on the radio back to where it was. “I’m the king of this castle on wheels.”
“Who are you, Ralph Kramden?”
"Bang ... zoom ...," AJ snaps, pointing at the moon. It surprises me. Very few people our age would understand a Honeymooner's reference, never mind being able to zing one back without thought. I guess I’m not the only one addicted to late-night television. “You really like this country shit, huh?”
“Yeah. Is it that bad?”
“The music’s good, but I could do without all the religious undertones. There’s too much Jesus talk.”
“Some of it, sure. You got a problem with Jesus?”
“Never met the man.” He glances in my direction with a cocky grin before turning his attention back on the road. “But I don’t buy into this whole God and heaven stuff. Death is the end.” The curt cut of his hand across his neck drives his point home.
That theory is too depressing to fathom. All my life, my faith has been what’s gotten me through. I’m no religious zealot, but I hold strong to the idea of a higher power watching over us, aiding us as we make our way through life.
I flick the button again. The whining sound of the fiddle cries through the cab as Tim McGraw sings his homage to small town life. AJ looks my way again. The heel of one hand rests over the steering wheel, while the other continues to rest on the stick shift. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I love this song.”
I ignore the compliment and hang on every word sung and every note played. Country music gets a bad rap. Most people think it’s all depressing songs about lost loves, but it’s not. It’s deeper than that. It has a soul. It worms its way into your heart and stays there.
Unlike rock music that screams in your face—loud and relentless—country music comes together with a vibrant mix of instruments and sounds. It speaks to me in a beautiful, eloquent voice, whispering in my ear like a lost love. It takes me to another place, away from my problems, and somehow makes everything better.
Music, in general, has a power all its own. One single line or chord has the ability to change a person’s entire outlook. It’s magical, when you think about it.
7
AJ
“Gimme the biggest margarita you got!” Casey shouts over the loud music in the bar.
“Budweiser,” I add.
Her dimpled grin makes my insides tingle. “How the hell did you find a honky-tonk in New Jersey?”
“A wise woman once pointed out that I had a vast resource of information right at my fingertips.”
I lean back on the bar with both elbows and bring the bottle to my lips. I’ve never seen so much concentrated plaid in my entire life. Hundreds of dudes in tight jeans and cowboy hats doing the two-step with girls in denim skirts. It’s bizarre. This weird sense of displacement must be what Casey feels every time she goes to work.
The Saloon promised “Southern charm,” and it seems to be holding up its end of the bargain. Not that I have any idea what I’m talking about, but the cavernous divots on Casey’s cheeks tell me that even if it’s all wrong, I’ve done something right. Making her smile is starting to become my number one goal. Her ass, tits, and legs are nothing short of perfection, but that smile blows them away. It blows me away.
“So what’s it like in Texas?”
“Dry, hot … barren. You could see for miles in any direction.” She takes a sip of her drink then flicks the tip of her tongue against the rim of the glass, picking up a few thick granules of salt. My dick perks up like a dog waiting for a treat. Down, boy!
“And your folks?” Small talk is not my specialty, but I can’t get enough of the sound of her voice. It’s like birds chirping outside your window. All sunny and pleasant and shit.
“I never knew my dad, and my mom was in and out. She was still in high school when I was born. My gran raised me.”
“Is she still around?”
“Yeah, she’s still kickin’. Gets up early, checks the horses. I grew up on a horse ranch in a tiny town most people have never heard of.”
Thankfully, the music is loud enough that she can’t hear me groan. She rides horses. As if the salt lick wasn't bad enough, all I can think about now is her riding me. Hard and fast, squeezing me to death with those long, tan legs of hers. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from busting out of my jeans like a loser. At almost thirty, I should have more control over my body, but at this exact moment—hell, since the moment I met her—my junk is a puppet, and Casey is the one holding the strings.
“Ever ride a bull?” Casey turns to follow my gaze. In the corner of the bar, a mechanical bull spins lazily, waiting for its next rider. “Bet I can stay on it longer than you can.” Just the very thought of her on top of that thing makes my dick press against my zipper so hard it’s begging for salvation.
“You’re on!”
Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology Page 6
