I’m about to ask a follow-up question on that, but the jukebox roars to life, overtaking any conversation with a loud bass line and a guy screaming from what sounds like the deep, dark, demon-infested depths of his soul. Still, I store the information about Rix’s apparent driving skills and the family trait for speed.

  “What is this?” Emily says, her shoulders bunching up to her ears. “Sounds like a monster screeching for mercy!”

  Erica tilts her head, listening easily. “Mudvayne. Dig. 90s metal—no . . . maybe early 2000s. Good stuff.” Each bit is punctuated and sharp so we can hear the sound bites over the music.

  It’s not that loud now that I’ve adjusted to it, not like the garage music volume, but it is harsh on the ears. Definitely not Johnny Cash, though Erica is tapping out the rhythm on her beer glass like it’s her jam.

  Engines. Cars. Heavy rock music. Sarcasm. Biting quips. Beer. Wrenches as weapons.

  An image is starting to form. But there’s more to Erica.

  Freckles. Fiery sass. A sense of humor that zings with excitement. Tiny body I want to hold as I bury myself in her. Hair I want to wrap around my fist. A mouth I want to taste.

  “I think I’ll see if there’s anything more . . . well, less screamy. Any requests?” Emily asks me. “Or you could just come see what speaks to you? Maybe we can find something to dance to.”

  Her nod to the jukebox is an open invitation to more. But it’s one I need to close the door on quickly because I’m not interested in door number one with Emily. I’m all about getting behind a closed door with Erica.

  “Don’t dance. Don’t care for rock either, so whatever.” I’m intentionally short, my tone flat as I try to let her down easy. Or at least help her see that I’m an asshole she should avoid.

  But she just smirks, like I’m playing hard to get, as she gets up from the table and goes toward the jukebox.

  “Hey, Reed, go tell Monica that we need to close out.” Not a question, an order. He blinks, looking at her with puppy dog eyes that tell me he wants to please her, and then to me, his blue eyes going frosty in warning. I smirk back, knowing my cockiness is needling him like a thorn in his side.

  “Be right back.” I swear, he virtually runs for the bar.

  “What the hell, Cowboy?” She doesn’t use my name, though I know she knows it now. It irks me, so I do it back to her, figuring she’ll feel just as prickly about it.

  “Whatcha talking about, Lil Bit?” My thumb scrapes my lower lip as I smile her way. This smile has dropped panties damn near every time I use its powers for bad, dirty things. Erica is completely unfazed.

  “Don’t be a dick to my sister. She’s into you, and you damn well know it. I’m trying to help you out here, but I won’t let her be some notch on your bedpost. Don’t fuck her over.” The order is punctuated with a pointed finger and a heavy glare of warning.

  “That usually work for you?” At her raised brow, I clarify. “Barking orders at people. Get me this . . . and Reed runs off to do it. I’ll only go to this bar . . . and here we sit. People usually do what you tell them to?” I’m actually curious, not giving her shit. Okay, maybe I am a little bit, but I do want to know the real answer too.

  “It works better when they do. So again, don’t fuck her over.”

  I glance at Emily, who’s scanning the listings on the jukebox like something Top 40 is going to magically appear. “I’ve got no intention of it.”

  Which is true. I have no plans of fucking Emily over—or fucking her, period. I have about thirty different plans already sorted by priority for Erica, though.

  She’s shrewd, and her full lips press into a flat, no-nonsense line. “Intending to and not doing it are different. Just don’t.”

  We lock eyes, and the tension between us swirls and morphs, anger and questions turning to heat and lust. She’s working hard to hide hers. Mine is all out there and bold.

  Reed shows back up with four split checks in hand, intentionally breaking between Erica and me to interrupt the eye-fuck. I reach over, taking the papers from him. “I’ve got it.”

  Erica starts to argue, and I’m guessing she usually picks up the tab. But I shoot her a hard look, adding, “My treat for getting Bessie fixed up.”

  She softens slightly and allows it. I get the sense that’s not something she does often, and I want to strut around like a damn peacock. For her letting me buy her a beer. What the hell kind of twisted magic has she worked on me? I don’t know, but I want another spell of it.

  I hold the check and cash up for Monica, who appears in an instant. “Thanks, Monica. Keep the change.”

  She glances down quickly, verifying that I haven’t shorted her. “Ooh, Rix. This one’s a keeper.” She winks her heavily black-rimmed eye at me. “Come back anytime, Rix’s friend. With or without her.”

  Reed looks sullen, his arms crossed over his chest and his face thunderous, like he can fight his way into being the alpha here.

  He’s into Erica, I get that, and it sounds like there’s some history there. Maybe. But despite his best puppy dog efforts, Erica’s on my hook. So are Emily and Monica, but I only want one woman right now . . . Lil Bit.

  Erica hollers out, “Em! We’re out!”

  Emily’s relief is visible from here, and as she gets closer, she huffs. “Thank God. There are barely five songs on that jukebox I even know. And they all make me think of Dad and cleaning tools.” She laughs, and I try to imagine her as a snot-nosed kid with greasy hands from wiping down wrenches. The picture doesn’t come, though somehow, I can see Erica doing it. Makes no sense, but it’s the truth all the same.

  6

  ERICA

  I’m torn. I need to stay, make sure that Emily gets in her car okay and doesn’t let her stupid heart lead her into doing something she’ll regret. Like Brody. On the other hand, I want to leave because I cannot watch him fall for her, even if it’s just for a minute. And especially if he really is her One.

  Reed heads to his truck, parked down a couple of spots, waving goodbye and keeping a close lookout for anything sketchy. But he heard my dismissal of ‘see you tomorrow’ and always aims to please, doing as I say, like Brody noticed.

  Brody opens Emily’s door for her, a gentlemanly gesture that doesn’t mesh with the asshole he’s been most of the night. Emily’s been her usual self, flirty and friendly, able to easily carry the conversational weight. Brody’s barely grunted at her, focusing more on me until she’s getting in her car, and he’s suddenly being nice. Suspicion blooms hot in my belly.

  Don’t, Emily. Not yet. You don’t even know this guy. Make him work for it, at least.

  He closes her door, slapping the roof of her small SUV, the last vehicle she bought with her discount. He steps out of her way so she can pull out of the spot, but he’s standing right in front of my truck so I can’t move. He watches her pull out and then turns, and I feel like a deer caught in the headlights, but his eyes aren’t bright. No, they’re dark and full of filthy promises.

  He runs his hand across the hood the way I want it to run over my skin as he comes to my window, and I roll it down. “What?” I bite out.

  He shrugs casually. “Just wanted to say goodnight, Erica.”

  “No one calls me that.” I’m continuing with the bitch-fest, apparently.

  That cocky grin is full of so much arrogance, I’m surprised he can even stand upright from the weight of his ego. “No one but me.”

  I saw a video once where a kid was putting rubber bands around a watermelon, one after another, getting tight as a belt around the melon’s middle until it burst in a rain of red guts and juice. I can feel those rubber bands surrounding us, pushing us together as it gets tighter and tighter, on the edge of . . . something. A kiss, maybe?

  We were close earlier. But I can’t—won’t—do that to Emily.

  “’Bye, Cowboy.”

  He touches the brim of his filthy ballcap. “Goodnight, Lil Bit.”

  I can’t help but watch him swagger across the row to Bessie. In the light of my headlights, I can trace the wide breadth of his shoulders, the taper down to his waist, the full roundness of his ass in those dirty work jeans, and his long, thick legs. I’ll give him this—he looks good coming, but damn, does he look even better going when you can’t see that knowing spark in his eyes.

  He climbs in the truck, slamming the door with a finality that irritates me for some reason. The window being down is the only reason I hear the click-click-click when he tries to start Bessie.

  “Sonofabitch!” I hear him spit out. His window must be down too.

  I sigh to myself, looking up at the headliner of my truck and beyond. “You testing me? Because this is so not right.” Still, I get out and trace his steps across the parking lot. I lean against his door with my hip, not able to reach the window frame with my forearm like he did, and cross my arms casually.

  Not a care in the world, see? Everything’s fine, just fucking peachy.

  Except it’s not.

  Because it’s just the two of us in this dark lot now, and though my brain is screaming that he’s off limits, my body doesn’t give a shit. It just wants his, and heat pools low in my belly.

  He turns his head to glare at me, but I’m well aware that he watched every step of my approach in the side mirror. Those eyes promise punishment . . . to Bessie? To me? I’m not sure which.

  “Pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”

  He reaches down, pulling the lever with a pop, and I push off the truck to walk to the front. After releasing the safety latch, I climb up on the bumper, balancing on my toes to lift the hood into place. A quick check tells me it’s probably the battery.

  I glance back before I jump down and see Brody right in my landing zone. His eyes are locked on me, tracing along my skin. I can feel it now, from my boots, up the bare backs of my thighs, to my nonexistent ass that’s sticking out as I bend over the truck to work. I can’t decide whether I’m glad I changed from my coveralls into cutoff shorts and a T-shirt for this little forced outing or wishing I had them back on to hide my skin from the heat of his gaze.

  He’s not the least bit embarrassed to be caught looking and boldly looks more, daring me to call him out on it.

  He reaches for me, big hands wrapping around my waist before I can string together a sentence to refuse. He lifts me off the truck like I weigh nothing, lowering me toward the ground. But he takes his time, letting every inch of me rub along the hard planes of his body. Through the layers of clothes, I feel the tightness of his abs, the bite of his belt buckle against my body, and the bulge beneath it. His hands tighten incrementally as my toes hit terra firma, not letting me go. I’m a little unsteady myself and lean against him, though I’d never admit that. Not even in a court of law under oath. Nope, I don’t recall it that way, Your Honor.

  “I’ll have to jump you off . . .” Why has that never sounded so damn sexual before? I rush to finish my thought. “And you can follow me back to the shop. I can drop a new battery under Bessie’s hood in a few minutes and have you on your way.”

  My voice has gone cold and flat, a defensive mechanism I picked up a long time ago.

  I’ve done this dance before. And one of two things is going on here. Option one, he’s decided I’ll be a good stand-in replacement for Emily, though he doesn’t need one because she’s just this side of throwing herself at him. Or option two . . . there’s a certain subset of guys that has twin fantasies, something about double the pleasure, double the fun. As if we’re damn Doublemint gum. No one ever considers that for their twin fantasy to happen, it means me having a sex-moment with my sister, and that’s some fucked-up shit. I love Emily, but never do I want to know what sounds she makes or what her O-face looks like. I won’t say I’ve never done it in front of a mirror, but that’s actually me, not another person who just looks like me.

  Brody hasn’t exactly been flirting with us both. He’s actually been pretty quiet all evening, but he was being all gentlemanly putting Emily in her car and now he’s holding me like he’s got plans already formed in his mind . . . and his pants. And he’s got that bad boy charm that says he’d be down for just about anything. ‘Oh, by the way . . . I saw this thing one time . . .’ and we’re back to Doublemint territory.

  He lets go of my waist, the evening chill thankfully replacing the warmth of his hands and reminding me of something important. Emily. Not that I forgot, but maybe just a little, for a second.

  “Sounds good.”

  I step around him, shoulder bumping him in that douchebag-dude way that says ‘you’re so unimportant, I didn’t even see you there’ and stride to my truck. It starts up easily and I pull up next to Bessie.

  I make quick work of the cables and jump Bessie off, her diesel roar loud in the night air.

  “Follow me,” I order before hopping up in my truck and slamming the door. He can do it or not, his choice. Because I’ve already made mine.

  Brody is Emily’s.

  And no Doublemint shit.

  I remind myself again an hour later.

  Brody is Emily’s.

  But after we got back to the garage and I did the quick change on the battery, promising I’d only charge for the battery itself and not labor, we’re still sitting here. The music is low, a playlist from my dad that’s mostly 70s rock, and as the guitar riffs of Kansas’s Carry On My Wayward Son wash over me, so do Brody’s eyes.

  Again.

  When he looks at me that way, the reminder about Emily gets lost in the static in my head. I’m a good sister. Hell, I’m mostly a great sister, but bad thoughts are taking shape.

  Dirty, filthy, sexy thoughts that I should not be having about the guy my sister wants.

  I sip at my beer, knowing this one is decidedly stouter than the watered-down piss they serve at Two Roses.

  “Don’t you need to go?” I shouldn’t ask. I should order him to leave. Normally, I would, but apparently, I’m going soft in my old age. I’m only twenty-six, but apparently, that’s old enough to be ruining my reputation as a hard-nosed bitch.

  “No.” Brody doesn’t move a muscle, sitting in a duct-tape covered office chair that Reed usually claims. That seems ironic to me, given their pissing match to see who the Alpha at the bar was.

  Newsflash: it’s me. I’m the Alpha.

  And anyone who doesn’t think that’s possible can check their misogyny at the door. I’ve had to fight my way through everything that’s been thrown at me, not just a woman in a man’s world, but a tiny, cute woman. If I had a nickel for every man who’s called me ‘baby’, I’d be a rich bitch, sitting on a pile of silver, taking dead shot aim at the fuckers below who got me there. Every one of them underestimated me, but they’d learned not to.

  At Dad’s garage, in the Army, and then back again, when it was my turn to take over Cole Automotive.

  Now I wonder if Brody’s underestimating me too as he watches me carefully. Every once in a while, his left eye squints a bit like he’s looking beneath my surface. It’s an itchy, uncomfortable sensation, like scrubbing at a rash. You know it’s a bad idea, but it feels so good that you do it anyway.

  “You always sit like that? Manspread like your dick needs breathing room?” He’s sitting in Reed’s chair with his thighs wide apart, dick on display again.

  “Maybe. You always sit like that? Like you’re airing your cunt out?” He lifts his beer my way, pointing with the neck, and I look down at my legs, crisscrossed in front of me in the chair. They’re so short my knees still fit between the armrests.

  I don’t flinch a bit at the crass language, overly used to it. Those same guys who call me ‘baby’ are the types to try and make me squirm with commentary on my pussy. As if the mere word would make me clutch my nonexistent pearls. Something about Brody’s tone is different, though. Like he’s not trying to make me uncomfortable but is actually just thinking about my cunt. Maybe the way I’m thinking about his dick.

  I go offensive to play the asshole-odds, though. “Yep. Gets hot in the coveralls, working and sweating my balls off all day. A little air feels nice.” I use my hand as a fan, flapping air toward my hot (but not because of my coveralls) core.

  He chuckles deep in his belly, a grin slashing across his face that flashes his white teeth. He doesn’t smile, I realize. He smirks, he grins, and he bares his teeth. But there’s something predatory about him even in this relaxed state.

  Emily’s going to be in over her head with this one. Hell, I might be too. Not that I’m thinking about that . . . because he’s Emily’s.

  “I started riding horses when I was a kid. It probably fucked with my hip sockets because this is just how I sit.” He shifts in the chair, the fake leather creaking beneath him, and tries to rearrange his legs. He ends up with one ankle resting on the other knee, taking up exactly zero less space.

  I snort derisively at his ridiculousness. It’s cute, in a dangerous sort of way. I finish the last dregs of my beer, tossing it toward the empty recycling bin. I don’t even follow its arc with my eyes, trusting that the same shot I’ve made a thousand times will sink this time too. It clatters against the bottom of the rubber bin.

  “I am such a dumbass,” he says out of nowhere.

  “Not arguing that fact,” I interrupt, not able to skip the lobbed softball opening. “Any specific reason?”

  “I can’t believe I thought she was you.”

  Wait . . . that should be the other way around. People mistake me for Emily. Always. And they’re disappointed when I’m the wrong sister, the prickly, bitchy one.

  “I even asked Sophie about it because I didn’t get how you could be so different here and at the resort.” He’s talking out loud, but I get the feeling it’s really to himself as he puts puzzle pieces together. I’ve seen this show before so I quietly wait him out. “And now it all makes convoluted sense.”