My brows knit together. “What? No, I’m just trying not to be a bitch about it when I know he still has hope.”

  “You’re pulling the Band-Aid off too slow, ripping out each hair and every bit of skin, prolonging the agony. You need to tell him, show him that it’s not happening. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re gonna have to be a bitch to be nice. Does that make any sense?” He says it softly, as if encouraging me to be mean is somehow a caring thing. I’ll have to think about that.

  “Just kiss me goodbye and shut up, Cowboy.”

  He smiles at that. “Yes, ma’am.” He steps back to lean down to meet me as I lift to my toes. Our lips press together, and though we don’t get too involved for a quick goodbye in the middle of the garage parking lot during business hours, it feels important. A seal on everything that happened last night, a vow to keep it between us, a promise to trust one another.

  Brody pops me on the ass as I start to walk away, and I turn back, flipping him off, which only makes his eyes darken. But he climbs in his truck and I watch as he pulls away, surprisingly not second-guessing myself on sharing my secret with him. In fact, I’m looking forward to showing off my engines to him a bit tonight.

  Inside, Reed is standing stock-still, arms crossed and feet spread wide. “This what we’re doing now, Rix? Sleepovers and coming in whenever we want?”

  He doesn’t care that I’m late for work. He cares that I just paraded Brody through the garage after obviously spending the night with him. Brody’s words replay in my mind as I see the betrayal in Reed’s eyes. Rip the Band-Aid off?

  “That’s what I’m doing, Reed. Fucking who I want and working when I want. You know, since it’s my garage.”

  My belly revolts at the vitriol. Reed’s been my friend for so long, and I don’t want to be mean, but maybe it is a twisted sort of compassion?

  “Fuck you, Rix.” He turns away, throwing a wrench at the ground before stomping off.

  Manuel looks after him with dark eyes and then back at me before nodding solemnly. Guess he thinks Brody’s right too.

  But if Reed and I both feel like shit and are pissed, can it be a kindness?

  16

  BRODY

  Erica is a mystical, magical witch.

  It’s the only explanation.

  Somehow, she managed to talk me into riding in her Mustang to the races. Yes, the one she got arrested for driving too fast just last night and the one she got out of the impound lot this afternoon. Also, the one that was not made for guys my size, which means I rode bitch, with my knees damn near tucked up under my chin like a toddler. And now, she’s holding court over a whole racetrack full of swinging dicks.

  Somehow, not a one of them seems to give her any attention, though, which I totally don’t get. Oh, they talk to her, laugh with her, and when we arrived, several of the older guys gave her hugs that left her feet dangling a foot off the ground. But it all seems very platonic and community-like. She’s one of their own, and they’re protective of her, which is where the swinging dicks come in. They’re all competitive against each other, smack talking about car stuff that means jack shit to me but also eyeballing me like I’m trying to steal away with their girl.

  Their Rix.

  “What do you drive?” Jerry asks. The pot-bellied man introduced himself a second ago and instantly made me think of Papa Smurf because of his white beard and round face. The white ballcap on his bald head adds to the image.

  “Ram dually,” I answer, knowing it’s not what he wants to hear. Or at least not all that he wants to hear.

  “Shut your piehole, Jerry. He’s not a car guy, I’m giving ya that. So you and the lot of you can let that go now.” Erica starts out talking directly to Jerry, who looks slightly chagrined, but ends by addressing the whole crowd.

  Another guy, this one a twenty-something guy with an honest-to-God mullet, calls out, “Never thought I’d see the day the great Rix Cole would settle down with a regular Joe. If he can’t talk engines, what do you even talk about?”

  “His dick, Mike.”

  I choke on my tongue. She didn’t just . . . but oh, yeah, she did.

  A snicker goes through the crowd, but they seem to take her outburst in stride, like it’s a normal thing for her to say. Hell, maybe it is, I don’t know.

  Erica’s eyes stay on Mike, but she talks over her shoulder. “Hey, Jerry, what’d Marlene say when you were trying to decide between the 305 and the 350?”

  Jerry’s brows lock together. “Not a thing. She don’t care what I’m running. She only cares if we’ve got enough money to go on our summer cruise. Alaska this year.” Pride and excitement tinge his voice.

  “Regular Joe, huh?” Erica’s conclusion works its way through the crowd slowly, each of them seeming to realize that their significant others don’t always share their enthusiasm for their hobby. Is it a hobby or an obsession? Both?

  Erica claps. “Now that that’s settled, let’s do some racing. Who’s up first, Ed?”

  And just like that, she’s the queen of the racetrack again and everyone moves toward their cars to do her bidding.

  The racetrack isn’t what I was expecting, though I don’t know what I thought it would be like. It’s a straight quarter-mile track with black streaks covering the length of the asphalt, a lighting rig at the starting line, and an official with a clipboard. That’d be Ed, and this is his racetrack.

  “Mike versus Clint,” Ed calls out.

  Mullet-haired Mike holds out his hand to a dark-haired guy with a beard that reaches down to his belly. That must be Clint. They shake and then turn toward their cars. The quiet hum of talk is drowned out by a loud car starting and then another with zero harmony. It’s all growl.

  Mike and Clint line up. Mike’s driving a large older-style car from the ’50s in flame red. Past that, I can’t tell much about it. Clint’s car looks more like a ’70s sportscar, something I can imagine Burt Reynolds driving. My money’s on Clint, partly because his car looks fast and partly because he just seems like a guy who won’t back down from a challenge. In contrast, Mike seems like a bit of a punk ass kid with more mouth than brains.

  As Ed goes to each man’s window, Erica fills me in.

  “Ed runs a tight ship here. First and foremost, cars have to meet safety requirements. Drivers too. He does a track check at the start of the night and again if there’s a crash.” Erica says ‘crash’ like she might say ‘hello’, zero inflection or concern.

  Slowly but surely, over Mike and Clint’s race and then several more (Mike wins, surprising me), I get to see a different side of this woman. She’s a roller coaster of emotions, from still and almost prayer-like when they line up to excited and yelling when she’s rooting for her guy to win. Or more precisely, her engine.

  She’s worked on a large number of these machines.

  “If so many people know that you’re doing all this custom work, how does your family not find out?” I ask in her ear at one point of not-deafening noise.

  “I trust them. They trust me. They all know my dad, and a lot of them knew Big John too. When Dad pulled his one-eighty and stopped working on their engines, it left this void that needed to be filled. Who better than his daughter, the one who learned at his elbow?” She smiles at the memories, letting me know that despite the secrets, she has positive feelings about her dad.

  “The first few I did for the cost of parts only, no labor charges at all. Had to prove myself as more than a tool bitch to these guys. The first time my engine got the win was one of the happiest moments of my life. I started charging that night, and now, I’ve got a sweet side gig with a lineup of work to do. The guys keep it quiet out of respect for my dad, who they loved and miss seeing around here, and for more practical reasons, a.k.a. if my cover gets blown, there’s a real shot that they’ll lose their best customizer and mechanic.” Zero modesty or brag, merely all truth.

  “You’re amazing,” I tell her honestly and then plant a smacking kiss on her lips.

  I don’t hear her answer because another race takes off and the loud squeal of tires drowns her out. But I see her smile. I feel it in my bones.

  As Erica watches a few more races, I watch her. This whole thing is a big share, something she chose to tell me. She could’ve asked me to bail her out, then told me to fuck off. Honestly, I probably would’ve and not given it a second thought.

  Okay, that part’s a lie. I would’ve thought about Erica again. At least once or twice, maybe a couple of dozen times. But the secret part I wouldn’t have pressed about.

  They say the best way to keep a secret is to tell no one. If you keep your own mouth shut, there’s never any risk of discovery. Erica, though, has a secret an entire group of people knows but have managed to keep quiet. Plus me now, but I won’t let her down.

  At one point, Jerry calls over. “Hey, Rix, you wanna show your boy toy what you can do?”

  Boy? Toy? He’s obviously talking about me, but I can’t say I’ve been called a boy in a long while, and never a toy.

  Erica grins but doesn’t move from my side. “Nah, Foxy needs a full check. Damn Officer Miles had her towed and I won’t race her till I know they didn’t fuck anything up. Can you believe they wouldn’t even let me oversee the hookup?” Her eyes hold fire, like it would be a common thing for a handcuffed prisoner to be in charge of handling the car they were just arrested for speeding in. “I told them if they so much as chipped her rust, I’d know it and make them pay.”

  The threat seems pretty damn valid, though I don’t think anyone would pay for rust chipping. But something tells me Erica would make them pay, one way or another.

  “Drive mine. She ain’t got a bottle like the newfangled ones you’re doing, but test out that 350 you put in her,” Jerry offers.

  Erica’s smile is brighter than the spotlights lining the track. “Wanna see something cool?”

  Test, test, test. Oh, she’s prodding and pushing me, testing to see how much it takes for me to tell her no. But this is her show, her expertise, not mine.

  “Fuck yes, woman. Show me what you got.” I smile, honestly excited to see. And yes, a little terrified, but mostly excited.

  She blinks slowly, eyes locked on me like a lie detector, and I stand there and take it. She needs to know I’m not stopping her, won’t stop her.

  “Fuck it, Jerry. Let me grab my gear while you tell Ed.” Erica smacks me on the butt, making my grin grow, before she takes off at a jog toward her car.

  I’ve never felt like such a sideline bitch before. But right this moment, I don’t mind it a bit. It’s a give and take. Like at Hank’s when I was teaching Erica some moves, she followed me easily. Now, when this is her thing, I’ll follow her. Hopefully, later, we can fuck each other stupid. See? All things in balance, as they should be.

  Erica reappears a moment later with a helmet tucked under her arm. She smiles at me and then gets down to business, chatting with Ed and some other guy, who I guess she’ll be racing.

  “She’s a pretty special gal, our Rix,” Jerry says from beside me.

  “Yep.” I don’t offer more, letting him say his piece.

  “If she told you about this, brought you here, she must think you’re pretty special too.” I cut my eyes his way. “Are you?”

  “Nah, just a guy.” I shrug and he chuckles.

  “Just a guy? If you say so, Son.” He claps me on the shoulder, and I flinch involuntarily at the combination of the term of endearment and motion. If Jerry notices, he doesn’t say anything, and we both focus on watching Erica race.

  Jerry chatters about his car, an old Camaro that Erica’s dad first fixed up and that Erica overhauled more recently. I don’t hear much of what he says because my eyes are tracking Erica’s every move.

  She’s comfortable, walking a loop around the car and checking under the hood. She sends Jerry a thumbs-up which he returns, and then she climbs behind the wheel. Her and the other car, another classic that sounds like it runs on grit and gravel, line up.

  That’s when my heart stops beating and I quit breathing.

  Oh, fuck. She’s racing. Like, speeding down the track going one-fifty with just metal surrounding her and no airbag in sight. “Uhm, Jerry . . . ?”

  He chuckles. “Wait till you see her, Just a Guy. You’re gonna be floored by what she can do.”

  His hand is gentle on my shoulder this time, letting me know he definitely saw my earlier flinch. He holds me steady, encouraging me to stay in place. I cross my arms over my chest, my feet wide and my eyes laser locked on Erica. Not the cars, not the race, not the lights changing from yellow to green.

  Erica.

  She’s there one second and gone the next, a blur speeding away from me.

  And damn is she going fast. It’s like time simultaneously slows and speeds up, which makes no sense but is the God’s honest truth. The straight line down the track that seemed fun and wild when the other racers were doing it now seems like seriously risky business. Not because Erica’s a woman but because she’s . . .

  Nope, I stop that thought, not giving it space in my mind because it’s not remotely true. Casual, nothing more. That’s the deal. My dick and my heart snort at my assessment of the situation, knowing I’m full of shit. I care about Erica, not anything serious but enough to not want her to risk her life and limb doing stupid shit.

  But the way she’s handling Jerry’s car makes it seem like it’s not craziness personified. She might as well be out for a Sunday stroll in that beast of a car, never wavering on her straight shot to the finish.

  The other car is easily two car lengths behind when she crosses the line. I release my breath and clap, loud and proud, for her. “Hell yeah!”

  The brake lights glow red for a minute and then Jerry’s car spins a one-eighty that makes my heart leap a little before I realize she’s just celebrating before heading off the track toward the parking lot.

  “Whoo-hoo, she just won me three hundred bucks! Thank you, Rix!” Though he’s thanking the woman in the parking area, he looks skyward, like she’s a goddess. Hell, she damn near is.

  Badass, fierce, racing, engine whispering, dick owning . . . goddess.

  I shake hands with Jerry and excuse myself, beelining for Erica. She’s parked and is pulling her helmet off her head, her hair an absolute sweaty, beautiful fucking mess. She’s never looked happier. That probably says something about my fucking skills, but I get the feeling it’s more about how important racing is to her.

  Her eyes are bright and dancing before clouding with worry when she sees me. “Hey,” she says hesitantly.

  I don’t pause at all, stalking toward her like a man possessed—by her. I pull her to me, cupping her cheeks and lifting her to her toes as I bend down and our lips connect. It’s sweet and appropriate, though the hooting crowd thinks differently, but damn if I’m not trying to tell her just how awesome that was.

  As she falls back to her flat feet, I copy her greeting. “Hey.” She smiles. “You’re amazing.”

  Her eyes roll hard. “You already said that.”

  “Thought it again, so I said it again.” I pull my hat off, curl it, and pull it back on. “You ready to get out of here yet?”

  Say yes. Say you’re ready to go back to your place, because that was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen in my life and I want to be buried inside you as soon as possible.

  My telepathic plea seems to work because she pulls at my T-shirt. “Let’s go, Cowboy.” Louder, she calls out, “She drives like a dream, Jerry. The 350 was definitely the right choice.”

  He waves but answers, “I’m gonna tell Marlene you said that.”

  Erica smiles, and we keep moving toward her car. If we were in my truck, I’d find the nearest dark road and pull her into my lap. In her car, there’s definitely no room for that, though my mind doesn’t stop trying to figure out a way.

  The drive to the garage is slower than Erica’s race pace, but we’re definitely well over the speed limit. I don’t give a shit because I’m in just as much of a hurry as she is.

  17

  ERICA

  There’s something no one ever talks about with racing—how sexual it all is. The purr of the engine, the vibration of the seats beneath you, the barely controlled power, it’s all such a turn-on. Or at least it is for me.

  When Brody asked me if I was ready to go, a tiny whisper of doubt had tried to worm its way into my heart. He doesn’t want you here, doesn’t want you racing. But then I saw the sexy promises in the dark depths of his eyes, felt the fire licking along his skin, and realized I was so wrong. He didn’t want me to leave. He just wanted me. As in, if I’d said no to leaving, he’d have happily turned me around, bent me over the nearest front bumper, and fucked me right there until we both screamed.

  In an instant, my doubts evaporated like smoke, leaving only hope and hunger.

  I’m driving as fast as I dare back to the garage, and almost before I can turn Foxy off, Brody and I are out of our seats and leaping toward each other. We meet in front of the hood, his hands going to my ass and lifting me easily. My legs wrap around his waist as our lips smash together, devouring one another.

  “Goddamn, you’re a fucking beast behind the wheel. So sexy, Erica.” The words are stilted and murmured against my lips.

  “It doesn’t scare you that I do that?” I whisper, throwing my head back and closing my eyes as he kisses a line of heat along my neck. Even now, I’m challenging him, testing his reactions, and expecting him to bail or go into lecture mode.

  “Terrified me, but it was worth it to see that smile on your face when you climbed out. Gonna make you smile like that for me.”

  I’ll have to remember to revel in the sweetness of that later because he lays me back on the hood of Foxy and I forget everything but how I feel as Brody leans over me, looming and large. The car’s warm beneath me, keeping me from chilling as Brody shoves my shirt up and runs his callused hands along my sides.