by Lauren Runow
Fine. But make it 8:30.
See you at 8:15.
I toss my phone on the couch and do a mad scramble, getting ready. When I fling open my closet door, I look at the rows of jeans and plain-looking tops that make up my usual weekend wardrobe. Rummaging through the hangers, I spy a pair of leather pants that I used to wear in college. I rip them off the hanger and try them on. To my surprise, my ass still fits in them. I put on a light-pink tank top and slide on the boots that I caught him staring at a few weeks ago. The outfit is not my usual attire, but it’s definitely something that would drive Falcon wild.
While I should be berating myself for dressing for a man, I’d like to think this is me dressing sexy for me. And, really, all the goodies are covered up, so it’s not like I look like a whore.
I run my fingers through my hair and give it a wild look. A thick line of eyeliner and some mascara have me feeling like Sandy from Grease after she gets a Pink Lady makeover.
When a Jeep Grand Cherokee pulls down my block at eight fifteen on the dot, I pause for a second, wondering if it’s him. The way he pulls over and turns his lights off while keeping the engine running lets me know it is.
I send him a text saying I’ll be right down and then wait in the vestibule to my building until eight twenty just to fuck with him.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he says after I open the door and sit in his car.
“Nice car. It’s so … domesticated.”
He smirks and starts the engine, speeding away. “There’s nothing domesticated about a Jeep Grand Cherokee Trackhawk. Over seven hundred horsepower isn’t exactly your grandpa’s Jeep.”
I take in his attire of torn jeans, a hat, and a zip-up hoodie. He’s in semi Falcon mode, not Austin, which makes me wonder just what kind of second date this is.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask after a few miles.
“We’re going scouting.”
I look down at my outfit and find that, for once, I’ll actually be dressed appropriately for going to a race. “You’re not racing?”
“No. Tonight, we watch. Find the best and invite them in. Unless you want me to take you for another wild ride?”
He grins, and I smack his arm, which he pretends has been hurt.
We pull up to a location that looks more legit than the place I first met Austin. There are cement barriers on either side of the track and floodlights at every turn. Austin parks the truck away from the crowd before slipping out.
“Stay close and pretend we’re like any other couple,” he says as he pulls his hat down low.
People surround the area with individual muscle cars of every type and size. After rounding the truck, Austin walks up to me, placing his hand in mine.
We walk the distance between the cars and the racetrack, checking out each one. Austin stops to talk to a few drivers, none of them seeming to notice who he is and treating him like every other person out here.
He keeps his hood up but openly discusses parts of the car and carries on in conversations about the track and who’s hot tonight. Apparently, there’s a particular driver he has his sights on, and he’s up next.
It’s amazing, the different feel this track has versus the ones Gregg sets up. There’s something very official about the lights actually counting down the start of the race and scoreboards flashing the time and winner.
Now, I understand why Austin risks his races. It’s not only the high of going fast. It’s also the secrecy and chances of getting caught that appeal to him.
“That’s him,” he says after the race goes down.
We watch as the cars come to a halt. A supercharged Hellcat wins, and the driver gets out for his post-win celebration.
“Okay, so do you just go talk to him?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Now, we figure out a way to get close to him and slip this into his car”—he holds up a flip phone—“and then we finish our date.”
The way he says date, leaving it out in the air, unfinished and full of anticipation, makes my heart pound, but he grabs my hand, pulling me away from the crowd, around the track, and toward the gaggle of parked cars.
We’re a couple of yards away from the red Hellcat when Austin pulls me into him and whispers into my ear, “Go ask him a question, flirt with him to distract him, so I can get access to his car.”
I’m fighting the chill his breath left on my skin as he nudges me toward the driver who’s standing inside his open car door.
“You’re joking, right?” I ask Austin, stepping back into him.
“No. Come on. You look sexy as hell. It won’t be hard. Get over there.”
While I like being told I look good, I wasn’t expecting to be whored out because of it. I step back as I let out an exasperated breath and place my hands on my hips. “This is a first. My date wants me to go flirt with someone else.”
He growls low under his breath as he pulls me back into him. His lips skim the skin under my ear as he says, “You just confirmed this is a date, which means that I’ll be getting somewhere with you. Second base will be here real soon.”
“That’s right. We’re tracking the curb. That also means I get another one of your secrets.” I eye him.
“A deal’s a deal. Now, go flirt with that guy.” He smacks my ass as he pushes me away from him.
I’m not one to take orders from a man, so I walk forward with my own mission in mind. If Austin thinks he can use me as bait, I’m gonna show him just how desirable of a catch I really am. I mean, my ass does look spectacular in these pants.
I bite my lower lip as I think about how to get this guy’s attention. I’ve never been one to put myself out there like this, but knowing Austin is watching gives me a little bit of showmanship.
The driver of the Hellcat is short with dusty-blond hair and brown eyes. He’s attractive with his strong build and denim jacket. If I were any other girl, I might think he was cute enough to date. Too bad I currently have a thing for blue-eyed bad boys in oversize sweatshirts.
I catch the guy’s attention as I walk up close to his car, daintily running my finger along the edge, swaying my hips as I curve around the front. I lean forward onto the hood with my breasts falling lightly out of my shirt and my ass perched high in the air. I look up to see if he’s watching.
He is.
“Nice race,” I say, straightening out my posture and playing with my hair like a teenager.
“You watchin’ me?” the guy responds, stepping away from his door, toward me.
“Maybe not you as much as I was your car. Want to show me what’s under here?”
I place my hands back on the hood of the car, plumping my breasts together to put them on display. His eyes go directly to my chest.
He comes up closer to me, taking a stance behind me, and places his hand on my waist. My back stiffens as I realize this is probably not the best idea I’ve ever had—and I recently found myself roaming the streets of the ghetto while being stalked by a hooded stranger whose car I climbed into.
His mouth rises up to meet my ear as he drawls, “Name’s Keith. What’s yours, pretty little bird?”
“None of your damn business,” Austin demands, pulling on my forearm and turning me to face him.
The guy’s eyes widen at the size—I mean, sight of Austin. He holds up his hands in surrender and moves away from us. “Hey, it’s all good. I’m not wantin’ any trouble tonight. She came over here, lookin’ all sexy and askin’ ’bout my car.”
“Asking about your fucking engine is not an invitation to fuck!” Austin steps up to Keith, venom pouring off him as he glares down at the guy who looks like he’s shell-shocked.
“My bad, man.” Keith steps back even further. “I won’t disrespect your woman again.”
“Good answer,” Austin spits. Then, he says to me without even looking at me, “Let’s go.”
I stand my ground. Two seconds ago, I was pissed at the little man for putting his hands on me without my permissio
n. Now, I’m pissed off at Austin for acting like a possessive asshole when he’s the one who asked me to flirt with the guy in the first place!
“No.” My eyes narrow as I place my hands on my hips and watch his back as he stalks away.
He stops and turns slowly toward me, as if he can’t believe I’m actually giving him back talk right now. “Excuse me?”
Keith laughs from his spot near the Hellcat. “Ouch, bro. I’d say I’m not the problem you have on your hands tonight.”
“Back off,” Austin bites back, pointing his finger to him, but his eyes that are cast in shadow from his hat are steady on mine.
“Wow. Issues much?” I storm away, my heels teetering on the gravel as I head toward his truck. I can hear him right on my tail, so once we’re out of earshot from Keith and the crowd, I turn and yell, “What the hell was that about?”
“I should ask you the same thing.”
He tries to grab my hand, but I pull it away.
“Don’t touch me!”
“You were letting that prick put his hands all over you.”
“I was about to stop it. I didn’t need you to swoop in and act like a bully.”
He walks faster than me, so he can stand in front of me, blocking my progression. “I didn’t like what I saw, so I stopped it.”
“What you saw? You mean, what you asked me to do.”
“I said, flirt with him. I didn’t say, get up on him.”
Anger and frustration run through my body, making me want to scream at him. I turn on my heel so fast, he trips and starts to fall to the side. When his hands reach for me to brace his fall, I push him away, which makes him hold on to me tighter, almost in a hug.
With my fist pounding him in the chest, I declare, “I did not get up on him. I didn’t even like the guy. I was following your instructions.”
His hold grows firmer—not to hurt me, but to keep me from running, which I’m very well trying to do.
“Look, I snapped. I didn’t like seeing his hands on you,” his voice says coolly despite his firm grip.
My head drops back in disbelief as I glance back to where mobs of people are in the distance. My voice is shaky, but I hope he hears me loud and clear when I say, “If you have issues, then we can stop this now. I don’t need a meathead pig in my life.”
His lips brush up against the side of my head. I can feel his heavy breaths against my skin, and his heart is racing a million miles a minute.
“I do have issues,” he whispers. “You don’t know the half of it. But this isn’t one of them. I’ve never gotten jealous, I swear, but I saw him touch you, and something flipped a switch in me.”
I turn my head toward his and look up into the shadows beneath his ball cap. Inside that darkness is the clearest blue that he tries to keep hidden. Even in the light of day, he hides so many pieces of him; it’s hard to get close. The realization that I want his closeness frightens me.
“Just take me home,” I say, stepping back from his grip.
To my surprise, he releases me.
We head toward the truck where he opens my door but stops me before I get in. His eyes soften when they meet mine. I fidget with the bottom of my tank top as a way to keep myself grounded and not get lost in the abyss that is his gaze. Because, when he looks at me like this, with the crinkle in his brow and from under his dark lashes, I can’t help but become completely numb to reality. And, when his hand rests on my hip, he lets out a sigh, and I nearly melt into the simple touch.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I promise.” He sounds so sincere that it’s hard to continue to be mad at him, but he’s not getting off that easy.
“I’ve spent the last twenty-two years running away from a hot-tempered old man who thought he could tell me and my brother what to do. I won’t let anyone speak to me that way again.”
He bites down on his jaw as his eyes narrow. “Did your father ever hurt you?”
“Physically? No. Emotionally? All the time. That’s why I won’t stand for it. Not from my own father and most certainly not from a hothead like you.”
A slow smile spreads across his mouth, and it makes my stomach flutter.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He grins as his hand rises up, brushes my hair behind my ear, and massages the lobe. “We’re just a hothead and a pain in the ass, is all.”
I raise a brow. “Are we now?”
“Yes, we are.”
He’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me, and by God, I want to be kissed by him again. But only under one condition.
I place a palm on his chest and feel the heat radiating off of him as I hold him back. “I need one of your secrets.”
He bows his head and lets out a groan.
“Tracking the curve, remember?” I remind him.
His head pops up with widened eyes as his gaze goes right for my chest and the curves he so provocatively told me he’d be tracking on our second date.
I laugh out loud, shocked at his audacity. “Nope. Not until I get one of your secrets.”
He rolls his head back and looks up into the sky. His eyes are still closed as he utters, “I was dead, and they brought me back to life.”
“You mean, in the military?”
His eyes open, and he gives me a nod.
We stand in silence for a few moments as I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t.
“Periscope” by Papa Roach plays on a speaker nearby, and as I listen to the lyrics, I watch his mouth open and close, as if he has so many things to say but can’t seem to form the right ones. Just like the song suggests, I feel like I’m getting pieces of him, and they’re all jumbled, like I’m seeing him through a periscope.
I can’t figure out if he’s creating a masterpiece or floating around, only to never be put together again. The thought saddens me. I know nothing about this man, and I’m starting to feel like no one else does either.
“I want to know who you are,” I say, determined.
“You know who I am.”
“No”—I look into his eyes—“I want to know who you really are. Why do I feel like you’re not who you portray on the outside?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Why not be who you want to be?”
“I’m scared you’re not going to like what you see.”
I grab his hand, pulling it up to me and placing it on my chest, giving him the opportunity to leave it there or wrap it around my breast, inviting him to the curve that he craves.
“A deal’s a deal,” I whisper.
Whatever hesitation he had a moment ago is now gone. What Austin might have difficulty expressing verbally, he has no problem doing physically.
His palm splays warmly on my skin as he leans in, softly kissing me, while his hand slides down my body, lightly touching my breast before he makes his way to my hips, firmly pulling me against him. His mouth opens with a low growl escaping his lips as his kiss intensifies.
Thank God for the race that is going on in the background because I’m being owned by a man in public, and it’s the most brazen thing I’ve ever done in my life.
I grab the back of his hood and wrap my other arm around his powerful waist, pulling him in so that I feel every inch of him, greater than I did the first two times we kissed. And the way his hand is dancing around my breast, tugging at the nipple over my shirt, has me spinning on all axles at the sensation that is pooling right down at my very core.
I’m still craving more of him as he pulls back and places his forehead against mine. Our chests heave in unison as we breathe in each other’s air and catch our breaths.
“I’m already looking forward to our third date,” he teases and then places a chaste kiss to my lips. “Thank you for going with me tonight.”
“Is this the end of our date?” I ask, sounding far more disappointed than I planned.
He smiles. It’s big and bright and beautiful. “Never.”
I climb into the passenger seat and watch as he walk
s around the front and into the driver’s side. When he’s in, he turns the ignition, and we drive back onto the freeway. It’s not even five minutes later when he places his hand on top of mine.
I roll mine over, palm side up, and intertwine our fingers.
We drive in the opposite direction from the city, past Lafayette and into the foothills of Mt. Diablo. We listen to music and take in the views even though it’s way too dark to see most of them. I watch as his grip on the steering wheel loosens with every pass, and his shoulders ease into the seat. It also doesn’t go unnoticed how his thumb runs small circles on the inside of my palm.
When we reach Alamo, I tell him a story about when my mom took me and Beckett to see the waterfalls in Las Trampas. It’s where I learned Beckett was afraid of salamanders.
“He squeals like a girl.”
“I’d love to see that.”
“What animals are you afraid of?” I ask.
“Baby, I ain’t afraid of anything.” He smirks.
I just look at him with an unconvinced glare.
He shakes his head. “Snakes.”
I lean across the center console and give him a kiss on the cheek.
By the time we reach Castro Valley, Austin and I have told some embarrassing stories from grade school, which includes a trip back from the girls’ restroom with my skirt tucked inside my underwear and him having a love letter he wrote to his first girlfriend read in front of the entire class when the teacher caught him passing it in class.
“I would never have taken you as a romantic,” I say as we pull into a Sonic drive-through.
“Play your cards right, and you just might bring it out in me. Case in point, your dinner.” He dramatically waves a hand at the brightly lit restaurant.
We place our orders in the call window—cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes—and then we sit back and wait.
“So, you do eat like a normal person. This is our second meal, and it’s our second cheeseburger,” I say.
He laughs. “Yes, I suppose this was poor planning on my part. And this one won’t be as good. I mean, not every meal is a thirty-dollar cheeseburger.”
“That burger was thirty dollars?” I say in shock.
