by Q. Zayne
Me, I hadn’t even had a boyfriend, so I was a huge disappointment, between the imagination that had me sketching things that weren’t there, fantasy scenes with warrior hunks and women with armored assets, castles, dragons and creatures that didn’t exist but could. Yeah, I was losing stock, and to her mind, aging rapidly with no desire to be the Peach Queen or date the zero-imagination agricultural and business-major sons of her friends. Loser me.
Out the back window I saw him get my car set to tow. Moonlight enhanced the muscles bulging in his arms and shoulders. That was a man who worked with his body. I itched to draw him. If my sketchpad wasn’t in the trunk, I’d whip it out and do a quick study of that man. He checked that my car was secure and gave me a thumb’s up.
Logan slid into the driver’s seat.
I took a deep breath. He smelled good. I glanced at his tats out of the corner of my eye, keeping my body facing rigidly forward. I did not want to give the man the wrong idea. More mom-speak, no doubt direct from Grandma Ida.
He put the big truck in gear. Here I was, alone in a truck with a strange man on a remote road. How the hell did he happen to come along just when I needed him clear out here.
I flashed on seeing him at the service station. Weird. His coming along had to be a coincidence.
“You okay? I’m sorry about your car. Nothing major, so don’t worry.”
“I’m fine. Really.” I liked the concern on his face. He had a great face. A strong jaw, big shining dark eyes, and a bone structure that made me think he might have Native American heritage. His raven’s wing black hair and deep coloring supported the idea. His lean, sexy face reminded me of my favorite actor, although this guy wasn’t so androgynous. Not at all androgynous. More like masculine to the max. His lips looked totally kissable.
I made myself stop looking at him. Much more of that and I’d get my panties wet.
Fliers for his auto shop specials sat on the dash. Everything matched up. He really was local. Guess I never noticed him because he was so much older than me. Maybe a decade, but could be less. It was hard to tell with men, and especially the ones who spent a lot of time outdoors. He had such a deep brown tone all over, he might have a blood line with dark skin.
Once inside the world of his truck, I wasn’t so nervous. I felt taken care of. My car was safe, on its way to being fixed, and I was safe. I didn’t even get out my phone to text home. No need to worry Mom. They knew I’d be out late. I was training them for me having my own life. I was determined to do it.
He drove as smooth as he spoke. Once we reached town, he headed down Main Street. Nothing hinky, no turning off and taking me to some remote location from which I’d never be heard from again. I was alright.
There it was: Reed’s Auto Shop. Of course. I’d seen it all my life, the way you see something and don’t see it.
He clicked the remote. A door rolled up, leading us into the shop. The tow truck rolled in.
My nerves snapped when the door ratcheted down behind us, shutting out the street light, leaving me in the dark with his heady man scent and the sound of his breathing.
We’d disappeared into the dragon’s lair, anything could happen now. I felt like I’d just followed my nose into a trap. His masculine aroma surrounded me in the cab. I inhaled it, savoring it. I swallowed. What was I doing? What was he going to think? That I wanted to be alone in the dark with him? I fumbled with the latch, fell out of the truck.
“Oh, hey now, are you okay?”
He jumped out and helped me up. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
“I’m okay. Just clumsy.” Story of my life. I held my skinned knee. It stung. I gritted my teeth.
“Here, come on and sit down. Pardon my being familiar.” He smiled, gave a half shrug of apology and scooped me off the pavement in his big arms. I wanted to whoop. I was getting my second ride. I guessed being clumsy had its perks.
He set me on a leather arm chair near a car bay and switched on a work light, one of those big heavy things on a stand with a grate over it. The glare reminded me of interrogation scenes in movies. ‘I will make you talk.’ Maybe I could grab my sketch pad and draw him as he worked. Would that seem creepy? I knew Mom’s verdict. Talk about leading a man on. ‘You’re so hot, I have to draw you. Be my muse.’ Men got a way with so much compared to women. I could totally not let this guy know he was the most beautiful human being ever.
He grabbed a first aid kit off the wall. “This is going to sting, but it will keep that scrape from getting infected.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do. I’m responsible.” He sounded grim.
His hands were gentle, though. He crouched down and set my leg over his strong thigh. He didn’t look up my skirt. With soft touches, he dabbed antiseptic on my knee.
I bit my lip and pretended to be the brave heroine in a battle scene. I needed to get back out there and slice some orc butt. I giggled. He gave me a sideways glance.
“Guess it doesn’t hurt too much.” He smiled and looked relieved.
“Not too much. You make a good doctor.” I cringed at the arch tone in my voice. Was I flirting with this older guy alone in his garage in the middle of the night? Was I crazy?
He opened a bandage and smoothed it over my injury.
“There. I’ll take care of your car and you’ll be all set. You won’t hate me.”
I raised my eyebrows. The guy was hot, but kind of strange. It was like he had a conversation going with himself that I wasn’t in on. Why would I hate him? Unless he was the psycho bad man of my mom’s continuous warnings, the total focus of her imagination. Maybe he brought me here to ravage me. Maybe it was reverse sexism, and horribly insensitive to even thing about, but I couldn’t see being ravaged by this guy as a bad thing. I pretty much wanted to star in my own so-incorrect bodice ripper scene right there.
He took his shirt off and put on coveralls. They slid down his hips.
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About the Author
Q. Zayne is the wicked pen name of a California horror writer and fantasist. Q. minored in Classical Archaeology and has an MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. After teaching at the university, working as an editor, and freelancing for several years, the author embarked on a wild digital publishing adventure. Thanks to fabulous readers, promoters and allies, Q. writes fiction for a living from the Yucatan.
The author’s childhood included lots of monster movies, trips to ghost towns, and daily life on an old ranch in California. And reading—Gothics, fantasy, horror, science fiction, adventure stories, and the ones hidden under beds. The gutsiest writers left the greatest impact.
Thanks for being part of my journey.
— Q.
BTW, I write all of my books. I don’t use ghost writers or group pseudonyms. Some of my work appears under other pen names to make the different book lines easy to identify. The Viv Phoenix and Aly First books are mine, too.
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