by Jayne Rylon
Heat flared through her core. Before she could think better of it, she’d coiled her arms around his neck. With that much contact, she had no hope of resisting the magnetism between them. Instead, she fused their mouths. He didn’t shove her away.
Several heartbeats pounded through her as Holden returned the kiss with interest, making her toes curl. If the world hadn’t already been off kilter, he’d have tilted it on its axis. His taste, the suave seduction of his mouth on hers and his palms cupping her ass all combined to fire her up.
He inched forward, then pivoted, trapping her against the door jamb. His hands pinned her wrists over her head, and his body held her still as he plundered her parted lips.
Sabra let him take, allowed him to use her and guide them both through blazing pleasure. Her nipples dug into the firm heat of his chest. His hard cock nudged her belly as they strained toward each other. She gave herself into his care and he rewarded her trust with rapture.
Until he yanked backward. She nearly fell on her ass without his support.
“Damn you.” He banged his fist on the doorframe above her head, making her jump. “That isn’t what I came here for.”
“S-sorry.” A flush stained her cheeks. How much mortification could one woman withstand in a day? Quitting before she could get fired for insubordination had sucked. Holden’s rejection was twice as bad. “Really. I screwed up. Everything.”
Before he could reach out for her or bash her again—his disgust wounding her much more than fists ever could—she tucked inside and closed the door, locking him out of her home.
And her life.
Even then she couldn’t help but peek at him, knowing it would be the last time she saw the man of her dreams. From behind the corner of a curtain, she watched him struggle with his too-tight jeans until he yanked his phone from his back pocket then swiped his thumb across its screen. After a brief pause, he said, “Pick me up at Tortelli’s.”
Holden pinched the bridge of his nose as he started slowly down her staircase.
“No. I’m not staying the night. I don’t care how quick that was. If you get here in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll buy you a fucking pizza. No. I don’t need time for that either. Hurry up, Meep. I just want to go home. And not a word of this gets spilled to the rest of the guys or I’ll tell them about the time you blacked out and pissed yourself, got it?”
Sabra stumbled away from the window as his voice faded when he picked up steam, jogging down the rest of the stairs. He hated her so much that he didn’t want his friends to know he’d done her a simple favor?
She supposed she understood. Without the energy to find her bedroom or get undressed, she collapsed onto her sofa, hugged a pillow to her chest and buried her face in the cushions as she sobbed.
How would she survive the next two weeks until she went off the air permanently?
What would she do after that?
Part of her life had died today. Grieving for that, and a guy she’d never had to lose, took a lot of tears. Even after she’d cried herself dry, sleep refused to come as she racked her brain in an attempt to spawn possibilities for her future that didn’t involve moving back home or selling organs. Distressed, Sir Clawdius Fuzzington meowed before head-butting her hip. He kneaded the tense muscles in the small of her back until she relaxed enough to make a decent bed for his majesty. Curling into a ball of fluff, he snoozed. At least one of them did.
Sometime after the first light of dawn filtered through her bamboo blinds, an idea came to her. Either genius or insane—maybe both—it refused to be discarded like the million other schemes she’d concocted in the darkest parts of the night.
Could she find the courage to try that?
Probably not. Unless desperation drove her to it.
She had two weeks to come up with a better idea. Anything else. But she didn’t.
Chapter Two
Sabra inhaled until her lungs threatened to either pop or shatter her rib cage. She released her breath in a controlled hiss her yoga instructor would have approved with a wise nod. Unfortunately, the exercise was an epic fail when it came to manufacturing some much-needed Zen.
Her car keys jingled in time to the trembling of her fingers as she marched toward the open bay doors of Hot Rods, the local restomod operation and service station. Home of the man who’d haunted her fantasies. Double-time since he’d proved their chemistry wasn’t one-sided by giving her the best kiss of her life. A warm welcome was more than she had a right to expect. Beyond that, her intent to ask the eight mechanics who worked there for a favor pretty much guaranteed she should be checked into the loony bin. Pronto.
They had every reason to despise her. Some of them more than others after their run-in three weeks ago. Hell, she kind of loathed herself. Trust her to ruin an ideal wedding proposal she’d stumbled across in the park by turning it into a feature. The allure of leading the nightly news with a happy headline for once had reeled her in. How could she have predicted the fiasco that had followed her report on the heartwarming story?
Well, Holden had warned her not to include the hulking, dark-haired guy, Bryce, and his gorgeous girlfriend, Kaelyn, in her segment. Though she’d passed along the editing instructions, she hadn’t done enough to ensure they were followed. Her failure had cost them all.
And broken her heart, in a bunch of different ways.
The group of mechanics who’d collaborated to celebrate their friends’ milestone moment had touched her. A shit ton of other people too, if you believed the stratospheric ratings for that edition of the five o’clock broadcast. The video clip had gone viral as millions sighed over the ultra-romantic production. It made her realize what she might have sacrificed for her career—meaningful interpersonal relationships. Beyond the ones she had with her makeup artist and wardrobe department or the other newshounds who chased breaking stories, always cutthroat, trying to scoop each other.
The Hot Rods’ pure friendships—and more—had changed her. Or at least they’d been the catalyst, initiating a reaction in her that had corroded some of her commitment to her life goals and the things she’d considered most important.
So when the gang of mechanics had been threatened by that exposure, indirectly because of Sabra, she’d done what she could to control the damage. People like them deserved to be happy.
Despite the implosion of her own dreams.
It hadn’t been easy to land the anchorwoman position, even in a moderate city like Middletown. A few more years and she’d have clawed up to a more prestigious regional network on her way to a national program. Well, that had been the plan before everything went to hell.
Getting any of the major players in the industry to take her seriously without references would be as challenging as the expert-level asana—Two Leg Pose of the Sage Koundinya—she’d attempted at the end of every workout for the past six months. Each time falling flat on her face. Failure didn’t stop her from trying.
Securing a good word from her ex-boss, Redford Grills… Well, that would be impossible since she’d told him to fuck off after refusing to play by his rules. At first, the reality of her greater sacrifice had hurt more than the dozens of sprained wrists she’d inflicted on herself before crashing into her yoga mat.
Then humiliating herself by throwing herself at Holden had plunged her straight to the bottom of her personal barrel. With nothing left to lose, she’d cooked up an alternative based on rumblings from the station.
It might be the psycho-genius kind of brilliant. A teensy step short of stalkerish. Nevertheless, she’d run out of options, and despite the billions of times she’d second-guessed herself since then, the light bulb hovering over her head refused to extinguish.
Thinking about it—obsessively, maybe—had been a hell of a lot easier than taking action, though. Her footsteps slowed as she neared, concentrating on how she planned to evolve instead of being buried alive by her mountain o
f regrets.
Where was the whir and grind of power tools? No shouting, banging or loud music filtered through the garage that loomed in front of her.
Journalistic instincts kicked in.
Sabra edged closer, peeking into the cavernous interior from behind the cinderblock strip that separated two of the drive-through doorways. As her eyes adjusted, she detected the ripped forms of the Hot Rods, who hovered around their ladies, less than twenty feet from her outpost.
What were they doing in there?
Were the rumors she’d heard about their kinkiness true? As a journalist—one who believed in integrity and doing her job right—she found it tough to trust any single source. Especially when her tip had come from a bitter, overdone barfly. Especially especially one who called herself Bambi. After the night at Bad News, Sabra had done some research, poking around inconspicuously.
It was second nature to tease secrets from strangers.
Though she’d hardly had to make an effort when she’d uncovered a couple women, like Bambi, who couldn’t wait to blab about their sexual gymnastics. Sabra didn’t object to the women’s uninhibited exploration. Their lack of discretion… Well, that sucked for their playmates, whom they’d been willing—no, eager—to name.
Besides, something about Bambi’s account had rung true, even after Sabra’s buzz had cleared. Maybe it had been Bambi’s disappointment that the guys seemed into each other. Sabra had picked up on that vibe herself when she’d tagged along to the engagement party in the park. Smoldering glances tossed between any variety of the mechanics had threatened to scorch the conservative navy suit her station had required. Only difference was that sizzle had turned her on instead of pissing her off.
If Bambi had actually been lucky enough to indulge both the garage owner and his spicy Latino friend simultaneously, she had every right to brag. They were enough to overheat Sabra’s motor solo, never mind together. The only thing hotter would have been if Holden had joined in the fray, using his dipstick to check her oil. Repeatedly.
Then again, it seemed more probable that Bambi had switcherooed herself and Mustang Sally, the garage’s only female mechanic and paint job specialist, in that fantasy matchup. There were people in Middletown who swore Sally—nicknamed for her pink convertible, and maybe her predisposition to riding—had recently claimed the pair for herself in an unconventional wedding ceremony, right out back of this very garage, which the gang lived above.
Sabra wished she’d stumbled across that while nosing around about the Hot Rods, which she admitted to herself she’d done since they’d met. Both in the interests of her professional pursuits and to appease her personal curiosity.
Damn her reliable Acura for never needing service.
Watching the Hot Rods now, she didn’t find it farfetched that they might enjoy getting it on together. They stood close, muscled biceps and broad chests forming a wall of flesh as they beamed at Kaelyn and her man, Bryce. Casual touches, intimate stares and a support system she could practically see propped each other up, protecting those at the center.
She swallowed hard.
Certainly they wouldn’t be fooling around in broad daylight. Would they?
She leaned forward, pressing her thighs together, secretly hoping they might.
Instead, she saw Bryce rise from where he’d been crouched behind his might-as-well-be-a-super-model girlfriend. The husk in his voice made Sabra’s knees weak when he growled, “I love it, Kaelyn.”
Holden—the hottest guy in the pack of sexy beasts, as far as Sabra was concerned—seemed to be tending to a bandage on the ass of his best friend’s woman. Compact, he didn’t fool her—beneath those coveralls, he sported the contoured musculature she loved best on a man. Lean and defined. Not too big for her petite frame. He’d fit her body as if custom-made when they’d locked lips on her landing.
His familiar touch on Kaeyln’s curves inspired a pinch of jealousy along with a bunch of wicked daydreams where Sabra substituted herself into the middle of a grease monkey sandwich. Yet the glint in his eyes, which complemented his quicksilver grin as he flickered from brooding to mischievous, tugged at more lethal parts of her anatomy.
Ink flashed through his fingers. A tattoo. Kaelyn had permanently painted a brand onto her skin. The Hot Rods logo. Well, that’s one way to declare your forever intent.
Sabra had learned a lot about the ex-socialite since accidentally revealing her whereabouts to the woman’s shady father, who’d been hunting her. Though Kaelyn DuChamp had only stumbled across the mechanics—including her long-lost bestie, Bryce—recently, her lust and adoration had been obvious the first time Sabra had run into the pair on that ill-fated afternoon in the park.
It wasn’t hard to understand why a woman would be drawn to this collection of guys, as powerful, built and enticing as the muscle cars they were nicknamed after. Bryce continued to murmur to Kaelyn as he cupped her face and then grabbed her other cheeks, below the belt, deliberately though gently squeezing the promise she’d indelibly etched there.
When the woman sniffled and gazed at the circle of friends around her, the electricity of their bond sparked so bright, Sabra almost dove for the protection of the welding mask lying on the station in front of her. Something about how they shuffled closer to each other, and the intensity of their stares, boosted the temperature in the garage by at least ten degrees.
Or maybe that was her internal thermostat going haywire.
Sabra fanned her face and considered heading back to her car. Driving around the block a few dozen times with the air-conditioning set on arctic might cool her off enough that she could try to approach them again without short-circuiting her brain. Interrupting personal moments seemed to be a particular talent of hers when it came to this motley group.
They intrigued her. She couldn’t be the only one who’d be mesmerized by their intricate friendship. With that thought, she bucked up. It was now or never.
And she didn’t have a lot of options left.
“Excuse me.” Sabra cleared her throat, unsure if they could hear her desperate croak. “Is anyone around?”
Didn’t it figure that Holden spun forward first? Closest, he charged toward her, both blocking her view of the scene behind him and crushing her hopes with his raised hackles, accompanied by a snarl worthy of a lion protecting its pride.
Sabra propped her hands on her hips, relying on bravado to help her survive his hostility. Or maybe he did everything with such intensity. Undiluted, his passion had rocked her through one not-so-simple kiss.
“What do you want?” he snapped. Still, she caught a flash of something smoldering in his gaze as he clasped his hands in front of him. Was he trying to hide the impressive bulge in his jeans? If so, he failed miserably. Inquiring minds wanted to know… Did she have something to do with it, or had Kaelyn and Bryce’s romance inspired his wood?
She shook her head to clear it, concentrating on the reason she’d sought him out.
“First, I came to apologize.” Sabra gazed into his eyes, studying gold flecks buried in his almond irises. She wanted him to understand how genuine her statement was. Regardless of his response, she had to get something off her chest before she kicked the hornet’s nest again. “I know it doesn’t matter, but I told my producer they couldn’t use the clips of Kaelyn and Bryce and to cut them from the program. At the last second, they decided the emotional impact of your friends celebrating was too good for the editing room floor. I didn’t know they were going to put it in the piece it until it was too late.”
“Yeah, but you handed over the recording to them. With every bit included.” He invaded her space, blasting her with the heat of his fury. Not to mention his potent sensuality.
“I know, and for that I’m sorry. I trusted them. I shouldn’t have.” She glanced away. It was that or give in to the urge to trace his stubbled jaw with her index finger. Or her tongue. A
gain. “Anyway, I don’t work there anymore.”
“Yeah, right. I saw you on the news last night.” He grimaced, as if he hadn’t meant to admit it.
“You did?” A smile tugged at the corners of her lips no matter how hard she tried to keep her poker face in place for the negotiations that hopefully lay ahead.
“Oh yeah,” Roman piped up. “Swinger here is a regular broadcast addict lately. Didn’t know you were that concerned with current events, buddy.”
Swinger put one hand behind his back. If Sabra had to guess, he flipped his garagemate the bird. A couple chuckles broke out. Maybe not all of the Hot Rods wanted to grind her into dust.
Only the one guy she wished didn’t believe in holding a grudge seemed offended by her presence.
“Well, anyway… I gave them two weeks’ notice, then quit.” Sabra sighed. “I thought I should come by in person and tell you how sorry I am that my bad choice put you in danger. I didn’t realize the full repercussions until I got your—uh—blunt email. I’m honestly sorry.”
Kaelyn, redressed, edged up beside Holden and reached out, enfolding Sabra in a spontaneous, and very unexpected, hug. A rush of emotions flooded her system. Horrified, she tamped down the stinging in her eyes.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it anymore. Everything worked out. I’ve made my own share of bad decisions, especially when it comes to believing people who don’t deserve your trust.” Kaelyn offered her a grim smile along with a shake of her platinum mane.
“No one here is innocent.” Eli strode forward, every bit the King Cobra the Hot Rods had referred to him as during her interviews the day of the proposal. “I’ve hurt people I care about. Deeply. It’s how you make it up to them, and how you go forward that counts.”
“Thank you.” Sabra clung to the lifeline he tossed her. She attempted to blink away moisture before it spilled, her gaze averted so she didn’t have to see the disagreement in Holden’s eyes.
He huffed from beside them, drawing her attention despite her best intentions. The corners of his mouth pinched in a frown. “And what else?”
