A Real Goode Time Read online

  “Why?”

  “Because we’d both have intimate knowledge of his penis,” I said.

  “You said you’ve never slept with him,” Jillie pointed out.

  “No, I haven’t. But we mess around. All but sex, basically. Usually just…hands. And sometimes mouths. That’s it.”

  “You’ve gone down on him?” Leighton asked, sitting up to face me.

  “I’m not talking about this with you,” I said.

  But my blush gave me away. My pasty-white skin turned bright pink when I was embarrassed or turned on.

  “You have!” Leighton shrieked. “Okay, so I can see how it would be a little weird for both of you to have had the same guy’s penis in your mouths.”

  “Ohmygod, gross,” I said. “Don’t say it like that.”

  She cackled. “What? You can do it, but not talk about it?”

  I laughed, covering my face with both hands. “It’s weird. Max and I never talk about what we do together, physically. It’s always been, like, not secret, but…just…a thing we do that we don’t talk about or reference. And it’s always at his apartment, always at night. And I always come home right after.”

  Leighton chuckled. “You need to get laid, girlfriend.”

  “I’ve waited this long for it to be right,” I said, “I may as well keep holding out until the right guy comes along.”

  “But what’s right, Torie? How will you know? Some magical sensation in your hoo-ha?” Leighton snorted. “And trust me, your first time ain’t something to write home about.”

  “I’d be an adult,” I said, approaching this delicately, “and it’d be…voluntary.”

  “Not a child and against your will?” she muttered. “Like poor little ol’ me?”

  “Not how I meant it, but…yeah, basically.”

  She was quiet a long time. “Well, Tor, for your sake, I do hope your first time ends up being worth the wait. I really do.”

  “And, for my part,” Jillie added, “I agree with you, Torie—you’ve waited this long, so keep waiting for the right guy at the right time. For it to be worth it. Just don’t give it away cheap.”

  I sighed. “That’s the plan.”

  “But first,” Leighton said, “get to Alaska without getting raped and murdered.”

  “Yeah, that too,” I said.

  Friday afternoon, 4:00 p.m., after a midday shift.

  Mr. Sokoli, my boss, had given me the okay to take time off—I’d told him I’d be gone something like three weeks, and that I’d call him if I needed more time. I’d worked for him part-time and full-time since I turned fourteen, so I had a guaranteed job at his restaurant pretty much whenever I wanted.

  I’d checked the bus times last night, so I knew I had plenty of time to walk to the Greyhound station from the restaurant and buy a ticket as far as half of my cash would take me.

  I said goodbye to everyone at the restaurant and I set out. It started out pleasantly enough—cool and overcast, but a good day for walking. I had earbuds for my phone, but I didn’t use them. I wanted to preserve the battery life of my phone, as it was old and prone to dying pretty quickly.

  It was six miles to the bus station, and I figured I’d need an hour and a half or two to get there. As I was nearing an hour in—too far to turn back but barely halfway there, the overcast sky began to darken from a slate gray to a heavy, threatening, sullen coal color.

  The wind picked up.

  The cool day turned almost cold.

  I felt a droplet of rain on my head. “No.” I stopped, and stared up at the sullen, blackening sky. “No, don’t you dare.”

  Drip-drip. Dripdripdrip.

  SPLAT.

  SPLATSPLATSPLATSPLAT.

  I whimpered. “You bitch,” I said, staring up into the rain, which turned into steady fat drops. “You absolute and utter bitch.”

  I was in the middle of suburbia with nowhere to duck in and wait out the rain.

  I slogged on, tugging my hood up.

  What only moments before had been a steady rain was quickly worsening into a downpour. My boots began to squelch. My hair started to feel damp even under my hood. The wind blew buckets of cold rain sideways, splattering and battering me. Within a hundred yards I was as soaked as could be.

  Within half a mile, I couldn’t get any wetter if I jumped into a pool.

  I was shivering, angry, and cursing my luck.

  Even if I called Lex right now and begged for help, I’d have to turn around and walk back home, and this rain did not look like it was going to let up anytime soon. So, I was screwed. I may as well carry on with the plan, and just get used to being wet.

  I still had another couple of miles to go, and then I had a bus ride in wet clothes to look forward to. My backpack was probably soaked, along with everything in it, so I’d have no dry clothes to change into.

  What a stellar start to the trip this was turning out to be.

  A car flew past, spraying me.

  I finally turned onto a main road and every few seconds another car sped past, flinging muddy water onto me. So now I was muddy, dirty, and wet.

  Super.

  It’s hard to not to be depressed in a situation like this—wet, alone, cold.

  I was wallowing in poor-me thoughts, bemoaning my shit luck, my shit life, my shit self.

  Splash—another vehicle bashed through a giant puddle; this time it was a semi, and if I’d thought I was soaked to the bone before, I was even wetter now.

  “FUCK YOU!” I screamed at the semi.

  Immediately behind the semi was a giant red jeep—an older one, with a lift kit and huge mud tires and a flapping soft top.

  Instead of barreling past me and splashing me, the Jeep slowed, went another twenty yards or so, and then rolled to a stop.

  My heart leapt, skittered—I desperately wanted to hitch a ride, but for all my blasé assurances to Jillie and Leighton that I’d be fine, the idea of getting into a car with a stranger made my knees quivery and my palms tingly. Leighton’s parting words this morning rang in my head: “Remember, priority number one is don’t get raped and murdered!”

  I approached the red Jeep with trepidation. The emergency flashers were on, and the driver’s side door flew open. A long, lean leg and hip emerged, followed by the rest of a hard male body in a mechanic’s coverall, the upper portion knotted around his waist, leaving a plain black T-shirt on his upper body. He jogged around to the passenger side and yanked open the door as I approached.

  “Hop in!” he said, with a distinct southern twang to his voice. “Ain’t a fit day for man or beast, let alone a pretty lady like you.”

  The most mesmerizing puppy dog brown eyes I’d ever seen in my life looked me over, met my eyes. His smile was wide and genuine, with an amused quirk to his lips. Sharp features, hawk nose, chiseled, granite jaw, expressive lips, a two- or three-day stubble. Jet-black hair, messy, sexy in a don’t-give-a-shit-what-I-look-like way. Just-fucked hair begging to have my hands run through it.

  Those eyes, though.

  Amused. Intelligent. One long look into his eyes told me he’d be funny and sharp-witted, quick with a comeback.

  Shit.

  My savior had to be the single hottest male I’d ever laid eyes on. Of course.

  I climbed up into the Jeep, slid onto a cushy black leather bucket seat, tossed my backpack into the foot well, and reached for the seat belt…only to discover it was a complicated five-point racing harness.

  My savior closed the door after me and jogged around the hood, hopped up into the driver’s seat, clicked his five-point harness into place, shoved the clutch down with his foot and smacked the shifter into first.

  He grinned at me, extending his right hand to shake mine. “Name’s Rhys.” He pronounced it Reez, with the final sound somewhere between a soft S and a hard Z.

  Holy moly. That grin. Those eyes.

  This was bad.

  My belly was flipping, my knees pressed together, and my hoo-ha was taking notice of the w
ay the black T-shirt was molded to his lean, lithe, iron-hard body.

  “Hi.” I swallowed. “I’m Torie. Thanks for stopping.”

  “Pleasure,” he said. “So. Where to?”

  I laughed. “Alaska?”

  Rhys

  God Almighty, the girl was the single wettest human I’d ever laid eyes on that wasn’t in a swimming pool. She was wearing a thick black North Face hoodie, tight, faded jeans, and Timberland boots, and she was absolutely dripping wet. To call her a drowned rat would be generous to drowned rats. In fact, I’d seen folks come out of pools less wet than this chick.

  Despite this, with her soaked hood drawn forward, black hair pasted to her cheeks, she was the most stunning girl I’d ever seen. I’d used the pretty lady line out of what you might call habitual southern charm, having not really gotten a good look at her. I mean, I’d noticed her tight backside as she’d climbed into the Jeep, and there was no mistaking the taut sway of an ass like hers for anything but that of a hot young thing.

  She was tall, only a few inches shy of my six feet. She was slender, but not frail. Couldn’t tell much more about her body due to the heavy sweatshirt she was wearing, but her eyes spoke of equal parts sadness and humor, and I had trouble looking away in order to check over my left shoulder.

  “Alaska, huh?” I chuckled. “Not sure I can go quite that far.”

  She shrugged. “Nearest Greyhound station would be fine.”

  I knew where that was, so I headed in that direction. “You’re serious? Alaska?”

  She nodded, and pushed her hood back. Her hair was crazy long, black as mine. It’d be thick and glossy, if it were dry. She pushed it away from her face, and her hands came away dripping. “Yeah, seriously, Alaska. My mom and a couple of my sisters live up there, and my one sister is getting married, so I gotta get to Alaska.”

  “A bus’d take…shit, days. Not even sure a bus goes directly there.” I rubbed my jaw. “Better to just fly, I’d think.”

  “Flying is not exactly in the budget,” she said.

  “Your sisters or your mom can’t help?”

  The annoyed huff she gave me was an indicator that I’d just stepped into something smelly. “I’m sure they would, if I asked. But I won’t ask.”

  I nodded. “That I get. Gotta make it on your own two feet, I guess, huh?”

  She eyed me sideways. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “So…you really want me to take you to the bus station?” I asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  I tapped the round analog clock in the dashboard—5:26. “Pretty sure departing buses will have left already.”

  “I checked before I left work and there’s one at six thirty.”

  I shrugged. “I mean, there might be.”

  Six thirty in the morning, I thought, but didn’t say.

  She didn’t respond, so I left it. One time I’d looked into taking a bus to see my folks in Lexington, Kentucky, and I knew most buses traveling west left in the morning.

  But, if she wanted to go to the bus station, I’d take her to the bus station.

  We got there in about fifteen minutes, and I parked as close to the doors as I could get, noting the lack of buses. She eyed the parking lot.

  “Not too many people here,” she said.

  I didn’t want to insult her, so I said nothing; she seemed like she was having a rough enough time without me adding snarky comments. She glanced at me. “Well, Rhys, thanks for picking me up.”

  “Pleasure,” I said. “Good luck getting to Alaska.”

  “Yeah, I’ll need it.”

  She took a breath, shoved open the door and hopped down, closed it, and walked over to the front doors. I was about to take off when I noticed she’d left her backpack in the foot well. Plus, I knew she wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

  I couldn’t leave her here. Sleeping in a bus station sucks.

  Crap.

  So, I waited.

  A few minutes later, she yanked the doors open and exited the bus station, standing in the rain, head down, shoulders shaking.

  Dammit, she was crying.

  She hadn’t noticed I was still here.

  I put the Jeep in Neutral and yanked on the parking brake, leaned across the passenger seat to unzip the passenger window. “Hey! Torie!” I shouted, and then zipped it back up.

  Her head whipped up, and she saw me. The shaking of her shoulders paused, and she came over and got back in the Jeep.

  The Jeep was suddenly full of her, again. Wet girl, and sniffles. “You waited.”

  “You weren’t going anywhere,” I said. “Buses to points more’n a couple hours from here leave in the morning.” I pointed at her backpack. “Plus, you forgot your bag.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that as I stood at the counter wondering what the fuck I was gonna do.” She groaned. “The bus left at six thirty in the morning, not in the evening.” She laughed, bitterly. “I guess that’s what I get for checking bus times when I’m stoned.” Her head thunked back against the leather seat. “Now what do I do? Go back home and try again tomorrow?”

  “You could.”

  “I’d have to start walking at like, four in the morning to make a six-thirty bus.”

  I winced. “Oof. That’d suck.” I gestured at the rain. “Especially since this shit is supposed to go on till, like, Wednesday.”

  “Fuck.” She whacked her head back against the seat again. “I have to get to Alaska. My sister’s wedding is in two weeks. I have three hundred and twenty-nine dollars to my name, and I’ve only got that much because my roommates said they’d cover my share of rent this month. I have no car, and I won’t ask for help from my family.”

  I’ve always had an issue with my mouth running ahead of my brain. Case in point:

  “I don’t live too far from here. Stay with me. I’ll drive you over in the morning.” I realized she might think I was coming onto her and, I mean, she wouldn’t have been entirely wrong. But still. “I have a pull-out couch. I don’t mean anything…forward.”

  She turned away. “I…I couldn’t impose on you like that.”

  “Not imposing if I offer,” I said. “I live alone. I have the hide-a-bed couch. You’d be close to the bus station and you’d have a guaranteed ride.” I grinned. “Plus, I make a mean pot of coffee.”

  She laughed. “Is it weird if your offer of coffee is what changes my mind?”

  “Nah,” I said, laughing with her. “I go to bed dreaming of coffee in the morning.”

  She was staring at me. Searching, looking for something in me. To see if I was safe, maybe. “I have an older sister. I hope someone will help her out if she ever needs it. That’s it.”

  “My roommates would not approve.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Well, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  “What about your roommates?”

  “Yeah, well, I promised to check in with them every night at nine.”

  “I’ll talk to ’em, if it’ll put ’em at ease.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, maybe. If you let Leighton interrogate you, though, you may end up regretting that offer.”

  I was already half regretting offering to let her stay at my place. She needed the help and I didn’t regret offering. I just knew it’d be hell on my libido being a gentleman, and something told me she wasn’t in a place where she’d want me making a move on her.

  I wanted to, though. And that was even before sleeping under the same roof. And shit, I’d offer her my shower, because that’s the nice thing to do.

  I’m an idiot.

  I was already halfway home by this point, and I couldn’t take the offer back, so I’d just have to do my best to be decent, keep my hands to myself, and not let my dick run away from my manners like my mouth does my brain.

  Problem is, my dick and my mouth have similar issues, and this chick was proving to be havoc on my impulse control.

  We were at my place in less than ten minutes, and I pulled
to a stop outside the building. I could tell she was confused: I lived in a tiny loft apartment tucked into the top back corner of a small warehouse. I owned the warehouse, which was where I ran my business. But from the outside, it just looked like a generic square of metal in an otherwise industrial area.

  “You…live in a warehouse?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  She grabbed her backpack this time and followed me out of the Jeep and through the rain to the huge garage door. I grabbed the handle and pushed in, flicked on the overhead lights, and gestured at the shop. “So this is what I do.”

  She stood up, backpack dangling from one shoulder. A gorgeous black ’74 Nova SS, raked, with wide back tires sat menacing and sleek on the floor, hood up. My work light hung from the open hood, my rolling toolbox nearby, wrenches and sockets scattered on the top.

  “You’re a mechanic?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  She eyed me. “You can’t be old enough to have your own shop, and do work like that.”

  I laughed. “I’ve been working on cars since I was a kid, and I had some money saved for a down payment. I don’t do bodywork, I just do engines. Tuning, rebuilding, maintaining, that kinda thing. And, honestly, I don’t usually do muscle, I’m more of a trucks and 4x4s guy. Do most of my work on big block V-8s and old diesels and in-line sixes and shit.” I gestured at the Nova. “But the owner of this baby heard of me through a friend and he wanted his 440 tuned for some extra horses, and I’m not gonna turn down work I’m more’n capable of doing.”

  She took in the shop—a hydraulic lift, an engine hoist, several different rolling toolboxes, an air compressor and impact drill, and the various equipment and machinery required for engine work. In the back corner sat my pet project: a 1949 Ford F-1, currently half disassembled. It was, ostensibly, baby blue, but was dirty and old and had a lot of surface rust. Once I rebuilt the engine, transmission, and exhaust system, I’d have it sandblasted and repainted and then I’d replace the front bench and she’d be good to go.

  Basically, I had a shitload of work to do on it.

  “How old are you?” Torie asked.