A Real Goode Time Read online

  She tipped her head to one side. “I don’t know. You seem more like Rhys to me. It’s…an elegant, strong name. RJ is…”

  “Country?”

  “Something like that. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Nope. I just don’t like it. I like Rhys. It’s my name. It’s a good name, and it’s what I prefer. Dad’s just an ornery old goat who’s been set in his ways since he was born.”

  “You send money to your parents?”

  I nodded, watched the road, not wanting to see her expression. “They’re my folks. I send ’em a couple hundred dollars every month. Sometimes more, if they need it.”

  “Rhys, that’s—”

  I interrupted. “What kind of a person would I be if my folks asked for help and I didn’t give it when I had it to give? They’re decent people. It wasn’t their fault we were poor. They were just…products of…of a particular system. Dad never went to school past sixth grade, had to help on the farm, and then he started driving a tow truck for the gas station the day he got his license, took some auto mechanic courses at a trade school near Lexington, but ran outta money to get certified. So he’s been at that gas station doing simple repairs and oil changes and brake jobs since he was, shit, twenty? That’s where he met Mom. There’s two gas stations in town. He works at one, she works at the other. Mom never went to any school past high school. She was pregnant with Saoirse at eighteen, and me by twenty, then got sick and lost the ability to have any more. And that debt was what sunk ’em—the hospital bill for Mom getting ovarian cancer at twenty-four. She survived it, but…it just ruined them. Been fighting to keep their heads above water ever since.” I let out a sigh. “My feelings about what Mom did are complicated, but my feelings about my dad are even more so. I guess…I guess I feel like he oughta stepped up and done something, anything, so Mom didn’t have to do that. I know he worked twelve-hour days. But…I’d work twenty hours a day to keep someone I care about from having to do that. So I guess I resent Dad for letting her whore herself out. And I know Saoirse does, too, maybe more than I even do.” I scrubbed my face again. “It just sucks and is complicated as fuck, that’s all.”

  “Damn,” she breathed. “That’s rough.”

  “So yeah, I send ’em money.”

  She frowned at me. “You sound defensive again about doing a good thing.”

  I laughed bitterly. “Most people don’t understand, and think I’m stupid for sending them money. But they use it on bills, not booze or drugs. And I guess I just…I don’t want people to think I’m someone I’m not.”

  “Like a good person who takes care of his parents?”

  I snorted. “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I’m not a Carebear. I just feel responsible for doing what I can.”

  She laughed gently, touched my hand as it rested on the gear shifter. “You want to, what? Be seen as some macho asshole tough guy?”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “No, but I ain’t no saint.”

  “I don’t know, Saint Rhys has a nice ring to it.”

  I faked a glare at her, but couldn’t hold it for long. “Ha ha. You’re hilarious.”

  “I try.” She ran a hand over the dash. “You did this one, I take it?”

  I nodded. “My first shot at a restoration. My real area of expertise is engine repair. I can muddle through transmissions and I can do simple things like brakes and whatever, but a lot of stuff requires special equipment and tools, especially with newer cars. I don’t do wiring and computer stuff for the new models. I just like the old engines—classic internal combustion, baby. Diesel is a whole other game, and I’m slowly teaching myself that.”

  She laughed. “You were telling me about the Jeep.”

  “I was rambling again, wasn’t I?”

  She held her forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “A little.”

  “So, yeah. Anyway. I got this on salvage. Engine was seized, tranny was blown. Rust in the quarter panels and rocker panels and both bumpers, but the interior was nearly mint. It was weird. Like, the headliner is tight, all the gauges work, the stock radio works, floors and upholstery were all in great shape. The interior was pretty much as you see it now. I replaced the seats with new racing buckets because they’re more comfortable, and I replaced the soft top because it was aging and a tricky piece of shit. I did all the bodywork myself, got rid of the rust where I could, replaced the panels where I couldn’t, welded on new steel in other places. Put in a beefy old V8 from an ’89 Suburban totaled in a T-bone accident, a five-speed manual from another CJ. New suspension with a three-inch lift, new tires and wheels, and a new coat of paint.” I laughed. “I overdid it. I could sell it for twenty, maybe twenty-five, but what I spent on parts and my labor time and paint? Eesh.”

  She frowned. “Wait, you pay yourself labor?”

  “It’s one of those business things. I have an LLC, which just means the shop’s income goes through the LLC, and I pay myself after I’ve paid all the overhead bills and taxes and all that.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “And how do you like doing restorations?”

  “Eh, well? I’d like them better if I could hire an auto body guy to do the welding and rust mitigation and shit. I don’t like that part all that much—I can do it, and do it well, but it ain’t fun for me. I like the vision, and the final product, and getting into the engine. Tinkering with welders and grinding or torching away rust is work I just don’t like. But I’ll do it because the final product is cool.” I patted the dashboard. “I think this turned out pretty well. Which is why I’ve kept it to drive myself.”

  “But you’re working on that truck.”

  “Because I needed a new personal project. And I guess I have a short attention span when it comes to what I’m driving. I like to change it up.”

  She grinned. “I love this thing, personally. I like being up high, I like how powerful the engine is. I like the manual transmission. I like the soft top, and I just think it’s cool, but I’ve always loved Jeeps.”

  “You have?”

  She nodded. “Oh yeah. Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted my first car to be a Wrangler. I wanted a red one, with a soft top, and big wheels. I just thought they were the coolest thing on the road, and whenever I saw a girl driving a cool Jeep, I’d get, like, a little girl crush. Like, she’s cool. I dunno.” A self-conscious shrug.

  We’d been on the road for a while now, and it was well past lunchtime. We passed a sign announcing an upcoming exit with lots of good food options, and I pulled onto the exit ramp.

  “Hey, Jeeps are cool. And chicks driving pimped-out Jeeps are hot.” We pulled into the parking lot of a Sonic; I parked in one of the car service spots, and grinned at her. “Lunch time, and then I hope you’re up for driving.”

  She clapped her hands, grinning joyfully. “Yay! Sonic for lunch and I get to drive the Jeep again.” We both jumped out and switched seats, and then we ordered food. While we waited, she eyed me. “So, when you said chicks driving pimped-out Jeeps are hot, was that a general statement? Or was it angled at anyone in particular.”

  I snickered. “It was a segue to you driving. You, a hot girl, driving a pimped-out Jeep? Double dose of hotness.” I shrugged. “It’s not really pimped out, though. Just a lift kit and bigger tires.”

  “I personally think it’s just right. When you put, like, LED light bars and winches and snorkels and all that, it’s a little much, just to me personally. Unless you’re a serious off-roader and actually use all that gear.”

  “Which I don’t, so I went more minimal.”

  She wiggled in the seat as the food arrived, and then we dug into our meals. Once we were done eating, had used the restrooms and stretched our legs, ready to set out again, I put the top back, and took the passenger seat. Plugging my phone into the cigarette lighter adapter, I brought up the GPS directions. There was nowhere to really put the phone—I’d forgone the aftermarket console between the seats
in favor of a more minimalist look, and once it was plugged in the phone wouldn’t reach the dashboard. Which meant it had to be balanced on Torie’s thigh.

  So, I placed the phone on her thigh, but it wobbled off, and I grabbed it.

  She was, at that moment, navigating onto the freeway, and needed both hands to switch gears and steer. “Maybe just hold it and tell me when I need to exit or whatever?” The wind noise was loud, and she had to shout.

  The next several hours were total fun. Honestly, it was the easiest conversation I’d ever had. We talked about our favorite movies, favorite music, most embarrassing childhood stories, dumbest teachers, coolest teachers…everything under the sun. And, sometimes, in between threads of conversation, we were just comfortably quiet.

  Like me, she tended to leave her hand on the shifter while she was driving; a bad habit, technically, I know. Third gear tended to stick, a little—not a major problem and not worth pulling the thing out to fix, so I just left it sticky. But sometimes, every once in a while, it just…stuck real good and needed a nice hard whack.

  This happened as we were finally coming through a slow-down in the traffic. Vehicles were piling up behind us, horns going off, and the damn shifter wouldn’t go out of third gear no matter how hard she pushed.

  With horns blaring and impatient drivers behind us, Torie was getting a little flustered.

  I put my hand on top of hers on the shifter knob, and we both gave it nice hard shove, and it finally snarled out of third into fourth—she let out the clutch abruptly with the gas pedal putting the RPMs nice and high…we jolted forward, the burly V8 belching a roar and our rear tires squealed, and Torie cackled as we zipped up to speed and rejoined the flow of traffic.

  My hand stayed there, on top of hers, for several minutes.

  Her hand was small and soft and warm. Touching her made my whole arm tingle.

  She noticed, too.

  She shot a look sideways at me, and then at our hands.

  A beat.

  I tingled. She smiled, her cheeks turning pink.

  Could she hear my heart thundering? What was I? Fourteen again?

  Stupid.

  But there it was, me, twenty-six and by no means innocent, with tingles and a pounding heart at the idea of touching Torie’s hand.

  I left it there, now that we were both aware of it.

  What would she do?

  I watched her out of the corner of my eye—she swallowed, glanced at me, at our hands, and let out a sharp sigh.

  She flipped her hand over so it was underneath mine, and now we were palm-to-palm. Naturally, our fingers twined.

  Our eyes met.

  I risked a small, hopeful smile.

  Torie moved our hands to rest on her thigh, mine on bottom, facing up. I felt her thigh muscles bunch as she let off the accelerator as we slid up behind a semi, and then she sped up to pass.

  Finally, the sun started sinking in the western sky—we’d left early, stopped for a short lunch; we’d put more than eight hours behind us already, and I was ready to stop for dinner and the night.

  We reached the outskirts of Cleveland as the sun was nearly down, and I used the “search along the route” option to find a hotel and diner in close proximity to each other and not far off the freeway. Dinner first, at a small local diner with retro plastic booths and neon lighting—and great chicken strips and fries.

  Then the hotel, a Best Western. The clerk behind the counter checked his computer and clicked his tongue.

  “Sorry, we’re full. There’s a huge convention or something going on in Cleveland, so all the hotels are really full. You might have better luck if you go a bit farther down the freeway.”

  Crap.

  So, we hit the freeway again. We drove past a few more exits, but by that point we were past the suburban area outside Cleveland, and the exits were getting fewer and farther between.

  Torie yawned and eyed me. “We have to stop soon. I’ve never driven this long before and I’m getting fried.”

  The next exit advertised a motel of some kind, so we pulled off and into the parking lot outside the motel office.

  It was…not great. Small, local place, a freeway-exit motel that had seen better days, and those better days were, oh, thirty years ago.

  I checked my phone, but the signal was shitty and things took forever to load. I sighed and grimaced at Torie. “It’s this or keep going to Toledo, and I think that’s nearly another two hours, maybe an hour and a half from here. I can drive, if you want.”

  But, at that moment, I yawned too.

  I hadn’t slept well for the past couple of nights—too aware of Torie, and too worked up from wanting her to sleep.

  I shouldn’t drive now either.

  She rubbed her face, shook her head. “It won’t be the Ritz, or even Best Western, but it’s somewhere to sleep.”

  “Fine by me.” I swallowed, hesitated. “I’ll ask for two beds.”

  She didn’t say anything to that suggestion. We just grabbed our bags and headed into the office.

  It smelled like cigarettes and burned coffee. The lady behind the counter looked bored as she read a paperback bodice ripper, a small TV in one corner playing one of those vote for your favorite singer reality shows.

  “Hi,” she said, in a voice almost as rough as my dad’s. “Room?”

  “Yeah, two beds, please.”

  She shook her head, lighting a cigarette from the butt of another. “Sorry, only got singles. Not really a double beds kinda place, if you catch my drift.”

  “Really?” I asked, frustrated.

  She shrugged. “Hey, the next place with any beds at all is another twenty minutes east on I-90. I got a single for seventy-five a night. I got nobody else, so do whatever the hell you want, just don’t trash the place.”

  I slid her a hundred dollar bill, got twenty-five back and a key. “Thanks.”

  “It’s room three. Not that hard to find. It’s the nicest room. Just had the bathroom redid.”

  “Great, thanks.” I gave her what I hoped was a grateful smile, and Torie and I headed out to find room three.

  The space between the queen bed and the dresser, which was topped with an old TV, was barely wide enough for me to slide through sideways. The window faced the parking lot, an ancient window AC unit jammed in the bottom. The bathroom, which, true to her word, had recently had a touchup of paint and a new vanity and toilet. The shower, I think, had just been scrubbed until the white subway tiles were something like white again, with a new showerhead.

  I stood with my back to the door and slapped my thighs. “Well. No roaches, and I don’t see any used condoms, so…win?”

  Torie laughed. “Yeah, win.” She tossed her backpack to the floor and sat on the bed. “So. The elephant in the room—we’re sharing a bed.”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s hot in here.”

  “Yep.” I tried the window AC, and it blew a meager blast of lukewarm air. “This has seen better days, too.”

  She shrugged. Smiled. “It’s fine.”

  “Totally fine.” I set my bag near hers. Tossed my wallet and phone onto the dresser in front of the TV. “We’re adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”

  “We totally can,” she agreed.

  Except neither of us believed that.

  At the thought of sharing a bed with Torie, my cock went on high alert, and nothing I thought about or told myself would lessen that.

  Problem one.

  Problem two, I hated sleeping in jeans. I’d brought a pair of shorts, but that wasn’t going to do much to hide my problem.

  Torie, however, was yawning. “I’m honestly too tired to care.” She blinked at me. “We agreed we’re adults, and this doesn’t have to be weird. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m too tired to change into shorts. So…” She kept her eyes on me as she unbuttoned her jeans, and lowered the zipper.

  Baby blue underwear.

  Shit.
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br />   She kicked the jeans off, and I had no choice but to notice that her underwear was a thong. I think that was all she wore.

  God, her legs were long. Smooth. Strong. Shapely legs. I mean, guys used to talk about a woman’s legs, but these days most guys are only concerned with tits and ass. But Torie, man…she made me a believer in legs. So fucking sexy.

  She wore a tight yellow T-shirt with some weird graphic on it, and it highlighted the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. And yeah, I’d been stealing glimpses at those perky, upturned tits all damn day.

  Just the T-shirt and the thong.

  Fuck.

  I swallowed hard. “Yeah, we’re adults. It’s cool.”

  Control my cock, I told myself. Two adults sharing a bed out of necessity.

  We’d held hands for hours.

  She’d seen my cock, seen me jerk off.

  I’d seen her topless. Watched her masturbate under the covers, heard her orgasm.

  But we were just friends, just two people sharing a bed.

  She glanced at me as she slid into bed, under the covers, and then gazed sleepily at me. “What do you usually sleep in, Rhys?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “When it’s just me? Usually nothing.”

  “Not sure that will work in this situation,” she murmured, but her eyes slid over my shoulders, down my torso, to my zipper.

  Which was still strained somewhat.

  “No,” I bit out. “Probably not.”

  Her eyes lingered. “Rhys…”

  “I’ll change into shorts.”

  She blinked at me owlishly. “Underwear would be fine. I don’t mind.”

  “Torie, I…” I knew she knew what I was fighting, right now. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “You need to use the bathroom?” she asked, smirking deviously. “I’ll try not to walk in this time.”

  “No, Torie. No. I’m not…I wouldn’t…” I laughed nervously. “You know what? Fine. You can plainly see what’s going on. It’s an issue, because yeah, I like you. I’m attracted to you, and goddamn your legs are sexy. And the T-shirt, no bra? That is not helping. But I’m an adult. I can handle myself. So just…I’ll keep to my side of the bed.”