A Taste of Bliss

by Adrian R. Hale

  Dear baby Jesus. He’s a menacing wall of muscle and full of scathing disdain, but hot as all-mighty fuck. I scoot to the edge of the car and hop down, meeting his intense and murderous gaze. No way in hell is anyone going to get pissed at me for taking Ollie’s directions.

  “What’s your fucking problem? You have no respect for cars, you stupid twat. There are thousands of dollars worth of parts under that hood and you could have fucked them up by laying your fat ass on them.” He stops just short of me, our eyes nearly even as I stand just short of six feet in my five inch heels. A fire blazes in his blue-eyed stare, rage hunching his shoulders and making him seem to dwarf me with his considerable size.

  I push against his chest to give myself some breathing room. It’s solid and unyielding, but he gives me the barest inch of space. His energy is crazy scary, but also incredibly attractive, if he weren’t intent on pissing me off. And what the hell, I do not have a fat ass. It’s round and perky from hundreds of squats.

  “Excuse you, asshole, but I was just doing what I was told. This is a fucking photo shoot, for this team, and the cars involved. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with Paul and Ollie, who were letting it happen without a care. But first, you can apologize for being a dipshit and calling me names.” My chest is heaving with my anger and his unjust treatment. His eyes dip to my boobs, and I cross my arms to hide my hardened nipples. His eyes return to my face, but there’s still anger there, along with lust.

  Oh, hell fucking no. This caveman is not going to think about sex while he yells in my face. I narrow my eyes at him and dare him to try to start shit with me now. He will be on his knees begging me to release his sack from an iron grip if he continues to get in my face with the name-calling.

  “I don’t owe any disrespectful bitch anything, you got that? This is my car, and I don’t want you anywhere near it.” He points to the car next to us, his arm decorated with brightly colored tattoos that at once capture my interest and then ground me in reality. He’s a fucking asshole who paints his body with permanent ink. I’m not above body art, especially good tattoos, but it makes me think he’s just another poseur with a taste for bright colors.

  “That’s your problem, douchebag.” I poke him in the chest again, probably because I want to touch him, even if I worry he’ll bite my finger off in the process. “You can take it up with Paul, the owner of this race team, and the guy calling the shots today.” I shoulder past him and march toward Ollie and Paul, who looks a little scared. Before I can get far, I am brought up short, my eyes widening as he hauls me back toward him by my arm. My breath shoots out of me as he turns me around, and hell if I don’t find his strength and the tight grip of his hand on my arm a turn on. What the hell, Shelby?

  “You will pay if there is any damage to the paint job or the engine, you hear me?” His voice is a gravelly baritone that rumbles in the microscopic space between us. We are chest to chest, his size once again meant to intimidate me.

  I will pay? I was being careful, and it wasn’t even my choice to do that pose to begin with. Well, fuck that shit. I grew up with an older brother and around plenty of guys to let this asshole mess with me now. Rage gives me an untapped strength as I yank my arm out of his grasp and sweep my leg behind his, pushing hard against his chest. As I expected, he wasn’t prepared to have his legs taken out from under him, and he goes down hard on the asphalt. I place my stiletto heel to his crotch and push for emphasis. He stays down, shock waring with the anger that contorts his handsome features.

  “Don’t you ever lay a hand on me again, you got it?” His eyes are full of surprise and less of the murderous rage he was showing just moments before I knocked him down a peg. I grind my heel a little for emphasis. He grimaces but doesn’t move. He nods tightly, his head barely moving in agreement as his full lips press into a thin line. Satisfied I’ve gotten my point across, I lift my heel and stalk to Paul, the owner of Smoke and Mirrors. He’s about to get kneed in the balls for not standing up to this asshat when he came barreling into the shoot and tried to accost me.

  “Paul,” my voice is full of warning, my hair wildly whipping around my head in the breeze that has kicked up. Judging by his wide eyes and the fear that is pulsing off of him, I must look like an avenging angel come to collect his soul. “This photo shoot is over. Ollie, you better have gotten what you wanted. If not, that fuckwad is to blame.” I thumb over my shoulder to the ferocious mountain of a man I just cut down to size.

  “Shelby, I am so sorry. Just hold up and hang out a few minutes. I’ll deal with this.” Paul moves toward me, his hands out like he wants to hug me, but he thinks better of it as his eyes dip back to the car where I knocked that dude on his ass. Paul is scared of me. I hope he also found a new respect for me after seeing how I can handle things, or at least knows I am not willing to tolerate even the smallest hint of disrespect, no matter my job title.

  “Yeah, you have to deal with this, and you better promise me I don’t have to work with that Neanderthal ever again,” I huff, my hands shaking as the adrenaline dumps in my system. I grab my robe off a chair and take the water bottle handed to me by one of Ollie’s staff. I tie my robe tight, finally covering the oiled skin I’ve been showing to the whole set for hours. I try not to pay attention, but my eyes are drawn back to the asshole who just prematurely ended this shoot—not that I wanted it to carry on longer, just that he sort of put a stop to things with his nasty attitude.

  He’s standing by the car, inspecting under the raised hood for any damage I may have caused. His back muscles coil and flex under his tight t-shirt as he reaches further into the engine bay. He is powerfully built, something you don’t see often in the drifting scene, because being built—or not—has no bearing on your ability to drive well. His methodical appraisal and protectiveness of the car are incredibly appealing. I love cars and love the men who love them just as much. Guilt stabs me as I think of the expensive parts I was just lying on, and my mind drifts to my own project car back at home. I would never lay on the hood, but I did as I was told by the stupid photographer without a second thought. I can’t let my desire to please affect my common sense.

  “Griffin, my man, what are you doing here?” Paul calls as he carefully moves toward the asshole. “I thought you weren’t coming by the shop until tomorrow.”

  “And that makes it okay to put stupid girls on Saffira?” At least he didn’t call me a bitch again. But Saffira? He named the hot Supra I was laying on? Oh, come on.

  “Be reasonable here, Griffin. We use the team cars for promo all the time. Shelby is our new brand ambassador; we need her in the promo material for the season. The Supra is our main car, which means we needed it for the shoot. I know you brought this car up and started the build, but I financed all of those new parts, and you know I will replace anything if it’s needed.”

  The asshole now known as Griffin pulls the hood down hard and turns toward Paul. “There’s no need to put a girl on the promo. You’ve got me and Wyatt, the drivers, for that. We’re the ones the fans want to interact with. We’re the ones winning titles and races and making a name for this team.” He crosses his arms over his chest and sets his feet apart, standing his ground physically while he verbally spars with Paul.

  “We talked about this Griffin. We need more sponsors, money, and attention. You didn’t exactly win us any of that last year with how you acted at each competition. We decided to bring Shelby on as our brand ambassador. She will be the face of the organization to lead interviews, get some more interest in the team, and let you do what you do best; drive. The decision has already been made, and we’re not changing it now. You’re going to have to deal with having someone else share the spotlight.”

  Oh, thank god. It’s about time Paul grew a spine. I was sitting here thinking I made a huge mistake by agreeing to work for a man who did not have my back. I seriously burned my bridges back home to take this job, it would have sucked to realize I had made a mistake. Now I think I may not com
pletely regret my decision.

  My stomach sours as I process what Paul said. Griffin is the main driver. That complicates things a bit. I will definitely be working with him a lot on promo and at events, because he’s right, fans want to interact with the drivers. I roll my eyes and sigh in concession. I better figure out a way to cope with a caveman, because I don’t have a choice.

  Griffin draws his hand through his short dark brown hair in frustration, the pieces standing up in haphazard angles. It’s too bad he’s a complete asshole; he’s hot in the “don’t touch or you’ll get burned” way. I sure hope he can drive better than he can make a first impression. That was weak.

  “I’m not working with her,” he says, pointing in my direction.

  Seriously? Give me a break. This is so not what I signed up for. What I did sign was a two-month contract to be the face of this race team while they compete in the American Drift League’s California Championship circuit. I had straight jumped at the opportunity, even though it put me at odds with my overprotective father who was dead-set on me not modeling. I went against his wishes, and probably tanked our relationship by walking out on my job running the family car shop for him. Even my brother Henry couldn’t talk sense into Dad, who has refused to speak to me since I took the job.

  But I couldn’t pass this up. It’s just the kind of gig I’ve been dying for since I was thrust into the world of modeling by walking in a fashion show for my friend Bliss. She was the one who had offered me this job a few days ago when the other model they had hired suddenly dropped out.

  I roll my eyes and stand up, ready to kick Griffin in the nuts this time around. Paul looks back and sees me ready to march over. He holds out his hand, keeping me in place.

  “You don’t have a choice. You will drive and she will be the face of the team. If you don’t like it, we’ll find another driver. You’re on your last chance here, Griff. We need to make this team profitable, or at least cover the race expenses.” Paul’s voice is low but still carries so I can hear his ultimatum.

  Wow. I can’t believe he’s ready to kick one of his drivers off the team because he doesn’t want to work with me. I guess he really does have my back. Paul has made my list of highly respected individuals, even though it’s crazy to pick me over a driver. But this has gone far enough. I don’t want Griffin to quit or get fired and leave Paul and the team down a driver.

  “Hey, Paul,” I call, slowly moving toward him and Griffin. I keep my eyes on Paul and refuse to meet the stare I know Griffin is leveling my way. I come to a stop a few feet from them and place my hands on my hips, my legs spread in a power stance. I read somewhere that by using these sorts of poses, you can look and feel more powerful. I need it right now. “We can figure something out to make working together less hostile…I think. There’s no need to find another driver. Just make sure he can control himself around me, and I won’t sit on the cars again, okay?” I finally chance a look at Griffin and see him appraising me, his lips are set in a thin line, but there is calculation burning up his blue stare. He wants to call bullshit, but he values his place on the team more. Good.

  “Keep your ass off the cars and stay out of my way, got it Goldilocks?”

  “Oh, please,” I scoff. “Come up with something more original next time you call me a name, dipshit.” I roll my eyes and turn away from them.

  “Adolf Titler,” he mumbles to my back.

  I turn back around and narrow my eyes. “Weapons-grade douchebag.”

  “Thundercunt,” he says, stepping around Paul and moving toward me. Paul throws his hands up in exasperation and moves away from us.

  “Cock-jockey.” I meet him toe-to-toe again, ready to throw down the worst insults I’ve picked up being around rude and aggressive guys my whole life. You don’t grow up in a car shop and not know a few insults that will sting a man’s confidence.

  “Twatwaffle.”

  My lips twitch, amusement gaining on my anger. This reminds me of a game Henry and I used to play as kids where we would compete to come up with the most creative insult. “Asshat.”

  “Seriously, asshat? That’s not even original,” Griffin grumbles, his hands on his hips as he stares at me in confusion. I can’t help it, I laugh in his face. This whole situation is truly comical. Once you get past the tension, the yelling, and the alpha-douche lord, that is.

  I turn away from Griffin. “Like you were at all creative.” I shake my head and walk back to my chair, grabbing my bottle of water and chugging it down. When I look back to Griffin, it’s with a practiced look of indifference on my face. You can’t hurt me if I don’t care, I practically ooze. He stands where I left him, confusion marring his beautiful features. Wait, what? Stop thinking he’s attractive, Shelby. This guy just insulted you, multiple times. You can’t think he’s hot.

  Thankfully, he turns back to Paul, who is looking just as perplexed by this whole situation. That’s right, boys, there’s more to me than the face and body. I’ve got sass and enough fearless attitude to swagger my way through any situation. I grab my bag and head into the shop to change. I would feel so much more righteous and awesome if I weren’t in barely there clothes and a silky robe. Sort of the weakest outfit a girl can find to sling insults in.

  When I return in jeans, Toms, and a hoodie, Griffin is nowhere to be found. Good. I am not sure if I could manage to not stare at him if he was just hanging around and not yelling at me. Paul, however, is waiting for me.

  “Shelby, I am profoundly sorry about…that,” he says, his arms windmilling toward the Supra and the lights that are now being packed away. “Griffin is…well, he’s a really great driver, but he can be a hothead sometimes. He’s…protective of the team and the cars.”

  No shit, Sherlock. “Just keep him on a better leash when we have to work together, and we’ll be fine. If he touches me again, you can believe he will be down a hand, and I am pretty sure he needs both to race successfully.”

  “Ah, yes, I believe we can do that. I’ll talk to him some more, and make sure he understands. We really need you here, please don’t leave.”

  “Oh no, Paul, you’re stuck with me. I signed a contract and I want to get my end of the bargain. But freaking warn me if there are any other crazies I have to work with, okay? I don’t need raging psychos attacking me for sitting on the cars when I’m told to.” I smile and let Paul know I’m not mad. The relief that washes over his face is comical. He was truly worried that I would go home and leave this opportunity on my first day.

  There’s no way I would pack up and head home with my tail between my legs after one unpleasant encounter. I’ve got a tougher exterior than that. Besides, I gave up so much to be here. I don’t want to prove Dad right by running home after my first day.

  He still hasn’t come to terms with me taking this modeling job. “Don’t expect to have a job or place to stay when you get back” was the only thing he said to me when I was leaving. Henry assured me that he didn’t mean it, but now I have to figure out what to do with myself when my gig with Smoke and Mirrors is up in two months. I’m struck with an idea that I have to act on before the confidence escapes me.

  “Hey Paul,” I say, causing him to look up from the phone he was texting on. “I want to be more involved with the team between races when I’m not actually needed for promo. I think I can put together a video series of the shop, the team, and our progress during the California Championship series. I’m here already, so I can be of more use than just as your promo model on competition days.” I don’t want to sound desperate, but I need him to see the value in keeping me around and making this work for both of us. I don’t want to have to grovel and beg my dad for my job back at the end of this two-month run. If Paul decides to keep me on for the summer series, it wouldn’t come down to me returning to San Jose to face the music, after all.

  Paul scratches his head and looks at me. “You want to actually work? I guess we could find something. How are you with social media?”

  ***

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks are due to so many people; without their support and encouragement, Bliss would never have made an appearance in my brain. First and foremost, to my incredible husband whose faith in me has never wavered. You gave me my coveted quiet time and space where I was able to be more engaged in the writing on the screen than anything in real life. Thank you for never griping when I forgot all about necessary domesticity. For allowing me the late nights where I woke you up coming to bed far too late (and for indulging me when I wrote something a little too hot and needed to cool down). For understanding. For encouraging me to pursue writing and publishing my crazy stories, and for loving me so well through it all. You’re my best friend, now and always.

  I have so much appreciation for Danielle Burkhart, who started as a bridal client, but soon became a great friend. She was the first author I ever met and showed me that you can turn the funny voices in your head into stories. Thank you for never doubting that I had it in me all along, for reading and critiquing my work, and letting me brain dump ideas, frustrations, and celebrations on you. Big squishy hugs to you, D!

  To my biggest cheerleader, Casey Alford. You read Bliss as I wrote it and demanded more. You were as in love with my characters and their story as I was, and never let me get too down on myself when my doubts warred with my fragile writing alter-ego. I needed your insight and opinions while writing more than you could know. Thanks for being my fiery-haired soul sister! Now, time to finish writing your own book.

  To the betas who jumped at the chance to read my story and give me much needed feedback. Mia (the first stranger to ever read my work), Jennifer, Casey, Jamie, Kate and more. You ladies rock my socks off.