So why are you still thinking about him? Come on, you’ve been so restless, wanting something like this to happen....
Tamara shut down that thought hard. Nothing was going to happen, Zee was the very opposite of her type and she shouldn’t be feeling any of this stuff for him. She needed to get a handle on herself, lock it all down.
Not exactly the right behavior for a Lennox, after all.
Yet . . . her thigh burned from where he’d held it. And she could almost feel the imprint of each finger even through the denim of her jeans. The sheer strength of that grip and the speed with which he’d moved . . .
Robert had never held her like that. He had always been very restrained and respectful. And he certainly had never made her feel that tight, half-scared, half-excited feeling.
She swallowed. Why the hell was she thinking about Robert? And why was she comparing him with Zee? Okay, she was really insane now and she should definitely be paying attention to her surroundings, not thinking about stupid Zee.
She took another look around.
The youths across the street were shouting about something, and one of them had his head turned in her direction. Down the sidewalk to her right, the door to a building opened with a crash and a group of guys burst out of it, all laughing hysterically.
A deep sense of unease settled in her gut.
Zee hadn’t been wrong. Hanging around here on her own was a really bad idea. In her designer gear, she looked exactly like what she was: a poor little rich girl stuck in the wrong part of town. She should have worn something more inconspicuous, except she’d thought she was wearing something inconspicuous. Which was stupid in retrospect. Grosse Point jeans and a T-shirt was obviously going to be different from Royal Road jeans and a T-shirt.
She shouldn’t have insisted she was fine. She shouldn’t have let him get to her.
Forcing away the gathering panic in her gut, she scrabbled in her purse for her phone. Time to call a cab company and see if someone could come and pick her up. Yet when she pressed the button on the phone to turn it on, the screen lit up briefly, then went dark.
Shit. She was out of power. All that sitting around in the gym checking her e-mail must have drained the last of her battery. What the hell was she supposed to do now?
“Still here, pretty girl?”
Tamara turned sharply to see Zee closing the gym door behind him, then locking it.
A peculiar relief gripped her. He was an asshole and she really didn’t want to ask him for help, but it was either that or she continued standing here like an idiot, putting herself at risk of being some wolf’s breakfast. And she didn’t want that. She had things to do.
“Oh hey,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as scared as she feared she did. “I was going to ring the cab company, but . . . well . . .” She waved the phone at him. “I ran out of power. I don’t suppose I could borrow yours, could I?”
Zee glanced at the phone, then gave her a long, silent look that made her feel like she was five years old.
“Okay, so you were right,” she said, now both annoyed and afraid. “Standing out on the sidewalk here was a really silly idea. But I’m trying to take care of it and I could really use your help.”
A smile that looked suspiciously smug curved his mouth. Then he turned away from the gym door, already starting down the sidewalk. “Come on,” he said. “We’re gonna have to go by the garage to get my car.”
“Wait, what?” Tamara stumbled after him, unwilling to let him vanish into the darkness and leave her stranded. “What do you mean get your car?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll need it if I’m gonna give you a ride home.”
“A ride home?” An inexplicable thrill went through her. A thrill she forced away. “I don’t need a ride home. Just let me borrow your phone and I’ll call a cab.”
Zee shook his head. “Like I told you, cabs don’t come down here after dark. So unless you’re planning on standing on the sidewalk all night, you’re gonna have to go with me.”
Tamara hesitated. She really didn’t want to go with him. She didn’t know him from Adam and apart from anything else, the thought of being stuck in a small space such as a car with him for any length of time was . . . exciting?
No, not exciting. Definitely not exciting.
“Make up your mind, pretty girl.” Zee was already turning, heading down the sidewalk again. “Not gonna wait forever for you to decide. I got shit to do tonight.”
Well, it wasn’t like she had a choice. If she didn’t go now, she’d be stuck here and being stuck here was a very bad idea.
Swallowing her trepidation or whatever the hell it was, Tamara followed him wordlessly, having to walk quickly to keep up with his long stride. Thank God she’d gone for trainers instead of heels.
He didn’t speak as he walked or glance over his shoulder to make sure she was behind him and that suited her just fine. She definitely didn’t want to talk to him, not that she would know what to say. It wasn’t like they would have had much in common anyway.
Eventually he stopped outside a big metal roller door near the corner of the block, the words BLACK’S VINTAGE REPAIR AND RESTORATION spray-painted artistically on the front of it. There was a small door at the side, which he pushed open, jerking his head at her to indicate she was to go in first.
After a slight hesitation, Tamara did so, walking into a huge garage space brightly lit by fluorescent lighting along the ceiling. There were motorcycles everywhere, with parts neatly arranged along workshop counters that ran the length of the walls on either side of her. Banks of metal shelves full of tools and paint and other mechanical paraphernalia stood near one of the counters, beside a massive row of grimy windows. Some of the panes were cracked, others replaced with different colored glass, and it looked like it would let in a lot of light during the day. Right now, neon flashed across the glass, and through some of the open windows, the sounds of a raucous summer night filtered in.
God, it was hot. Her T-shirt was already starting to stick to her back.
Sparks abruptly lit an area off to her right, where an old-looking motorcycle was up on a stand. A powerfully built man in faded blue overalls stood bent over it, a welding torch in his hand. Beyond that was parked a huge, black muscle car, the garage lighting gleaming over the glossy paintwork.
Zee’s car, no question.
Another movement caught her eye, the sound of a light female voice filling the quiet as the welding torch shut off. A woman sat on the worktop, legs dangling. She had black curly hair caught in a ponytail on top of her head and glasses on the end of her nose, and she wore frayed denim shorts, a black tank, and motorcycle boots.
Footsteps sounded and Tamara looked up to see another woman coming down a set of metal stairs that led up to what looked like an office. This woman’s long hair was loose over her shoulders and dyed a brilliant electric blue. She wore the tiniest denim miniskirt Tamara had ever seen, a black T-shirt, black platform boots, and a studded metal belt. The bright colors of a full-sleeve tattoo covered one of her arms and a silver ring gleamed in her nose. “I ordered,” the woman said as she came down the stairs. “Zee’s not eating with us tonight is he? ’Cause if he is, he’s going to be hungry.”
“I’m not,” Zee said as he stepped past Tamara. “I’ve got a fight later tonight.”
Everyone turned in the direction of Zee’s voice and Tamara braced herself.
“Who the hell is this?” The blue-haired woman had stopped on the stairs, her dark eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“This is Tamara.” Zee moved over to the black car. “She was at my class. I’m giving her a ride home.”
“I thought you didn’t fuck the women in your classes?”
“Rachel.” The man in the blue overalls put back the welding mask he wore over his face, his voice deep, and rough, and a touch reproving. He was tall as Zee and as broad, but older and more heavily muscled. His features were roughly handsome, his nose crooked, as if it had
been broken at one time or another. Black stubble lined his strong jaw, while shaggy black hair curled over his collar. If Zee was the lithely muscled martial artist, this man was the heavyweight boxer. “Hey, Tamara,” the man said, giving her an easy, friendly smile.
Tamara gave him a tight smile back. “Hi.”
“I’m Gideon and this is Zoe.” He jerked his head toward the younger woman perched on the bench. “Oh and ignore Rachel. She’s pretty much rude to everyone.”
Rachel folded her arms, scowling.
“Hey.” Zoe lifted a hand. There was a smile on her face, but the big golden eyes behind her glasses were guarded.
Tamara felt her expression become fixed. She felt like she’d just crashed a small, exclusive, and intimate party, where everyone knew everyone else and strangers were definitely not welcome.
“I just need to grab the car,” Zee said, pulling his keys from the pocket of his sweats.
“Sure.” Gideon put down the welding torch. “Want me to get the door?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Zee glanced at Tamara. “Come on, get in.”
The two other women were gazing at her speculatively as she made her way across the garage to where the big black car stood. She tried to ignore them and the awkward tension that had suddenly pulled tight in the garage as she pulled open the passenger door and climbed in.
The car had black leather seats and smelled of polish and oil. Kind of like Zee, now that she thought about it. Did that mean he worked here? Obviously he knew the people and they seemed like friends. Perhaps one of the women was his girlfriend? Then again, the blue-haired woman, Rachel, had said something about him not screwing the women in his classes, so maybe not.
Zee got in the other side as the grinding rattle of the roller door being drawn up echoed through the space. He stuck a key in the ignition, turned it, and the car’s engine started in a low, smooth rumble.
“What’s your address?” he asked as the car slid out of the garage.
She didn’t want to tell him all of a sudden. If he knew where she lived, that meant he could find her again. And she didn’t want him finding her again.
What makes you think he’d even want to?
Well, he might not. But then again, he was a total stranger. She knew nothing about him other than the fact he could move fast and could probably kill her before she was even aware of being in danger. Which made it far better to be safe than sorry.
She gave him Rose’s Midtown address instead. She could easily take a taxi from there to her own apartment.
Zee pulled out into the traffic while Tamara tried to pretend the heavy, tense silence that filled the car didn’t exist. Their encounter in the hallway was all too fresh in her head, not to mention her own reaction to it, and she didn’t want it there. She didn’t want to talk either, didn’t want to interact with him in any way. All she wanted was for the car journey to be over, to be in her own apartment, with his disturbing presence out of her life.
“You’re really pissed with me, aren’t you?”
The husky rumble of his voice, not to mention his observation, sent a little pulse of shock through her. How the hell had he picked up on that? “No, I’m not,” she managed, at least sounding relatively calm.
“Bullshit. You’re fucking mad as hell.”
She held her purse on her lap, her fingers tight on the leather. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you’re holding yourself all tense and your knuckles are white.”
Tamara flashed him a glance. He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze firmly out the front windshield. “I’m not.”
“Sure you are. You’ve got a death grip on that purse of yours and you’re sitting in that seat like if you move it’s going to eat you alive.” His head turned, his eyes a gleam of silver. “Or maybe it’s me you’re worried about. People usually get mad when they’re afraid.”
He’s not wrong. It is him you’re worried about. Though not for the reasons he thinks . . .
She gave a laugh that didn’t sound as natural as she hoped. “Why would I be afraid of you?”
“I shoved you up against a wall. Tried to make you fight me. You were afraid, pretty girl, don’t try to deny it.”
Her jaw was tight with denial anyway, even though of course he was telling the truth. She had been afraid, just like she was afraid now. But she didn’t really want to think about why that might be.
Or is it him you’re worried about? Maybe it’s yourself you need to watch.
Tamara refused the thought. “Well, what do you expect?” she said. “You’re a complete stranger. I don’t know you from a bar of soap. And one minute you’re offering me a lift home, the next you’re shoving me against walls.”
“I’m not apologizing for it.”
“You should. Being an asshole isn’t a good way to drum up business.”
His head turned again, his gaze sharp, gleaming. One corner of his long, beautiful mouth curved. “Calling me names now? Shouldn’t you be minding your manners?”
She gritted her teeth. Yes, that’s exactly what she should be doing. Her parents had brought her up better than that and as her mother had always told her, manners went a long way.
All she had to do was ignore the fact that the scent of him kept making her feel hot and restless. Rein in her awareness of the powerful muscle of his thigh inches away from hers. Of the long-fingered, blunt-tipped hands on the steering wheel.
No, damn—no looking at his hands.
“You’re right,” she said stiffly. “That wasn’t polite. I apologize.”
He laughed and the sound trailed down her spine like a velvet-covered finger. “You’re just fucking with me now. I’ve been called worse, believe me.”
“I’m sure.” Despite herself, her gaze was drawn inexorably back to his hands on the steering wheel, hypnotized by those long, scarred fingers.
“I wasn’t drumming up business anyway,” he went on, seemingly not picking up her don’t talk to me vibes. “I was only proving a point.”
“By being threatening and intimidating?”
“Yeah. You needed to feel how vulnerable you are.”
“Right, so I would know how stupid I was?” She tore her gaze resolutely away from his hands. “If so, point made.”
“It’s not about you being stupid. It’s about being able to protect yourself.”
“I can protect myself just fine.”
“Like you did back in that hallway? That’s why you accepted my ride, right? Because you could protect yourself and weren’t afraid standing around out there on the sidewalk by yourself.”
Anger roiled in her gut. She didn’t want to have this conversation with him. It picked at an old scab, one that was painful. One that had been healing very well on its own. “Violence is not the answer.”
“You think it’s about violence?” He gave her another searing glance. “Pretty girl, it’s about control.”
* * *
She stared at him like he was insane. Well, whatever. He wasn’t wrong. People who spouted all that anti-violence bullshit generally had no appreciation of the realities of life. It was all violence as far as he was concerned and pretending otherwise was just putting your fucking head in the sand.
What mattered was the control. In life, in the fight. Control of your actions, your decisions, your emotions. Every damn thing you did. Because once you lost control of yourself, you were fucking meat. He’d learned that lesson very early on.
That’s what he enjoyed about his fights. They were a carefully controlled burn-off, allowing him to let a little of the darkness inside him out, in a place where everyone knew the rules. Where there were no surprises. You either won or you lost, there was nothing in between.
Because you couldn’t fight the darkness. Everyone had it, everyone. Possibly even her.
But then what would she know? She was fucking money from head to toe. She reeked of it. Polished and perfect, she probably had never had to fight for anything in her whole damn life.
Christ, why was he pushing her again? If she didn’t want to join the class, she didn’t want to. He sure as shit wasn’t going to force her.
What he was going to do was take her home—if the address she’d given him was indeed her home and he suspected it probably wasn’t. Then he’d go back down to Gino’s for this evening’s fight, let off some of the steam that had been building up inside him.
Silence fell inside the car. She didn’t ask him any more questions, withdrawing into herself, hiding behind the walls he’d seen in her cool, dark eyes.
If she’d been a different woman he might have found that intriguing. But she wasn’t a different woman. She was the kind he’d never touch, not in a million years. Not after what had happened to Madison.
Christ, if he wanted pussy there’d be plenty of it at the fight anyway. The girls there never asked for his number afterward. They were as happy to fuck and run as he was.
They were drawing up to the address she’d given him, some nice-looking Midtown brick building with a café at street level and apartments up top. The gentrification had well and truly happened here, nothing like the first stages that were going on down in Royal Road, his own neighborhood. There were a few things that had been revived, an old warehouse—much like his shitty gym—that was now a nightclub. An abandoned row of stores that had been converted into a restaurant and café. The old building housing Rachel’s tattoo studio that she was looking to turn the rest of into an art gallery. Yeah, it was happening all right. Part of why he’d stayed in Detroit when common sense should have told him to get out and get as far away from the city as possible. Because, fuck, if Detroit could rebuild itself, come out good as new, then so could he.
Slowly he drew the Trans Am up beside the curb and stopped.
She began to fiddle with her seatbelt. “Thank you. I appreciate the trouble you took to—”
“I know this isn’t your real apartment,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear all her polite bullshit. “So I’ll wait here until the taxi to take you home arrives.”
Dirty For Me (Motor City Royals) Page 3
