A Real Goode Time Page 8

  “Not a breakfast person, either.” She took the laundry basket from me. “Thanks for this.”

  “No problem.”

  I turned away before I flat out asked her if I could watch her change. Fucking creep.

  I headed downstairs, for the Nova, grabbed a socket wrench and flipped it in my palm, peered into the open engine bay and figured out what was left to do on the installation of the rebuilt 440.

  Once I had my game plan for the rest of the work mentally sorted out, I got to work. I was just getting started on the wiring harness when I happened to glance up to where the laundry machines were—and saw that an article of Torie’s clothes had fallen on the concrete floor at the base of the dryer.

  A bright red thong. Barely a handful of silk strings and a scrap of crimson lace.

  Shit.

  I left the wiring harness and snagged the underwear off the floor, headed back upstairs to give it back to her. I didn’t sniff it, because that would be creepy. It was just clean laundry. Nothing weird.

  I tapped a knuckle on the door and pushed in, speaking as I entered. “Sorry, I just realized this fell out of the basket—”

  Torie—standing in the middle of the loft, a pair of jeans up around her waist but not yet fastened, opened to show an upside down triangle of bright yellow. She was topless. Her shirt was in her hands, and she was about to lift it up and put it on—frozen, now, the shirt crumpled in her fists at her waist.

  I blinked, my eyes helplessly taking in her bare tits, which were just as magnificent as I’d imagined.

  A beat.

  “Um. Hi.” Her voice, soft, hesitant, shook me out of my tit-hypnotized stupor.

  “Wow. I…sorry.” I held up her thong and let it dangle from my finger. “This…um, didn’t make it into the basket.”

  Less than six feet separated us. I took a step forward, extending the thong to her.

  She stepped forward to meet me, took it from me. Our eyes locked, momentarily. She held my gaze.

  I couldn’t help the way my eyes involuntarily dropped from hers to her chest, taking another long, hungry look. And then, with an effort of will, I shut my eyes, gritted my teeth, and turned away. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have waited for you to tell me to come in.”

  A soft rustle of cloth. “I’m wearing a shirt, now,” she murmured.

  I turned back around. “I’m sorry, Torie.”

  She shook her head, shrugged, but her pink cheeks told a different story. “Well, now we’ve both walked in on each other. Call it even?”

  “Yeah…even,” I said, my voice faint.

  She held the thong up. “I was actually looking for this. Thought I’d packed it and wanted to wear it. Explains why I couldn’t find it and had to settle for the yellow one.”

  She’d buttoned her jeans, too, but I had a pretty solid mental image of the not-quite-sheer lace of the yellow underwear.

  “The yellow looked plenty good to me,” I heard my own idiot voice say, and then I apparently doubled down on stupidity. “But I’ve always been partial to that shade of red. It bet it would look super hot on you.”

  “Yeah, it’s my favorite thong. Looks good, feels good.”

  “Glad it wasn’t lost, then.”

  “Me too.”

  Okay, time to go. This was getting weird.

  “I’m…” I somehow had my coffee mug in hand. Not sure when or where I’d grabbed it, and I didn’t remember taking it downstairs. Was I losing my mind? “I’m gonna get more coffee.”

  I turned away, blinking to clear my mind of the vision of Torie, topless, as glorious and gorgeous as I’d fantasized her to be. More—she was breathtaking. Porcelain skin, long, elegant arms, delicate ribcage supporting those mouthwatering breasts, a waist curving in to strong hips. Flat, taut stomach, a hint of abdominal definition. Jesus, she was perfect. Those tits, god, those tits. Plump at the base, peaked and pointed at the tips. I loved how they curved slightly upward. Her nipples made my brain explode and my cock throb—so plump, so fat, so long. Begging to be kissed and licked and teased.

  I poured coffee, trying to banish the memory so I could look her in the eye without popping a boner—too late, I already had one.

  But I was so distracted, I overfilled the mug—scorching hot coffee scalded my hand, and I shook it, snarling a stream of curses as I fished ice from the freezer and ran it along the web of my thumb where the skin was burned.

  “God, I’m an idiot,” I said.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, fine. I’m not normally a klutz like this, I swear.”

  She sounded like she was holding back laughter. “No? Something’s got you off your game, huh?”

  “Something…or someone.” I tossed the ice into the sink and grabbed my coffee. Headed for the stairs. “Sorry one more time for walking in on you, Torie.”

  She shrugged. “It happens.”

  Something in her eyes was not as nonchalant as her voice and words. I didn’t push it, though.

  She followed me down to the garage, her own coffee mug in hand. I pointed at the wiring harness I’d begun reinstalling. “That’s our first job.”

  And so the morning went—she was a lot more knowledgeable than I think even she realized. Any tool I needed, she was ready with it. She knew what I needed almost before I did. And there were many times that morning that her slender, long-fingered hand could reach places to thread a bolt that I couldn’t get to. She was nimble, and had this adorable, sexy way of reaching down into the engine bay, bent over and turned sideways, and she’d turn her head up, and her eyes would go glassy as she focused on working by feel, and her tongue would lick at the corner of her mouth as she threaded the bolt by touch.

  In less than half the time it would have taken me working alone, the job was done. I used a handful of rags to clean and polish the engine, making sure the headers and the chrome top of the Edelbrock air cleaner gleamed, made sure the wires were neatly leading where they had to go, checked over all the obvious things once more, and then stood back, nodding.

  “There she is, looks good.” I grinned at Torie. “Keys are in it—you want to do the honors?”

  She looked eager, giddy. “Hell yeah!” She slid behind the wheel, and a moment later that big old 440 turned over and caught with a throaty snarl, the fat exhaust pipes turning the snarl into thunder as she revved it up.

  I saw the thrill on her face—the feeling you only get when a big motor sings like that. “Wanna go for a spin?”

  Her eyes widened. “Um. I mean, yeah? But it’s a client’s car.”

  I winked. “Gotta put it through some paces, make sure there’s no rattles or hiccups at higher RPM.”

  “Sure you do,” she said, with a droll grin.

  “I do! I always go for a test drive, listen to the motor, make sure everything is right.”

  She shrugged. “I mean, I’d love to go for a spin. But you better drive.”

  I slid into the passenger seat. “You have a license?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know how to drive a stick?”

  “Yeah—my dad taught me how to drive on the MG, which was a manual. Said knowing how to drive stick was a dying art and I should know.”

  “It is a dying art, these days. There’s a joke that says having a manual transmission almost makes your car theftproof because most younger car thieves can’t drive a stick.” I gestured at the bay door, which I’d opened several hours ago to let in sunlight. “Nice and slow, Torie. Take her around the block and then we’ll switch.”

  She eyed me. “You’re sure? I don’t want anything to happen. I’d feel awful.”

  “Just be careful.” I grinned. “Now come on. Listen to that purr…this old beast is begging to be driven.”

  She pushed the clutch in, snugged the shifter into first, glanced at me with a heady, eager grin that shot straight to my gut…and then slid us slowly out of the garage. A few turns took us out of the industrial complex and onto a side street, and
then to the main road. It was a Saturday morning, and the industrial area was deserted. When we got to the main road, she pulled a slow right and I held out a hand for her to stop.

  She braked, glanced at me. “Ready to take over?”

  I shook my head. “You should know, first, that I have an understanding with the officer who patrols this area. He knows I do burnouts to test my work, and as long as I’m not driving recklessly or pulling burnouts during business hours, he doesn’t pay me any mind.”

  She grinned, a wobbly one as she started to understand what I was getting at. “Rhys, I’m not—”

  “Ever do a burnout in a muscle car?”

  “No, and I—”

  “I tuned her a little in the rebuild. She’s running three hundred and seventy-five horses and four hundred and ninety pound-feet of torque. A real bitch of a beast. She’ll put your hair back without even trying hard.” I grinned at her. “Give it a shot. Hold the clutch in and rev ’er up to redline. Once it hits redline, pop the clutch and hold on tight.”

  She looked nervous. “What if I—”

  “You won’t. It’s easy. We’re on a four-lane road, deserted, at ten on a Saturday morning. No one for miles, babe. You start to get twisted around a little, just pull off the accelerator and straighten her out.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Everyone oughta know the thrill of popping the clutch on four hundred horses at redline. There’s nothing like it.” I buckled up, and she did the same. The engine was idling, and we were, naturally, in the far right lane. “Pull over so you’re in the middle of the road. Go when you’re ready.”

  She nudged the Nova over to the center, pressed the clutch in, took a deep breath, and then slowly depressed the accelerator. As the engine revved higher and higher, the roar turned into a deafening howl, and then it was at redline. I saw her clench her jaw, eyes wide, and then she let the clutch out all at once—rubber screamed and white smoke billowed as the rear tires spun, and we skidded and bounced and almost floated sideways, and then the tires caught and an invisible hand slammed us back into the seats as we rocketed forward. She was screaming with nervous, excited energy, the thrill of wild acceleration drawing a peal of childlike laughter, wonder and glee lighting up her face. She hit sixty in under five seconds, easily, and then I felt her slack off the pedal and we slowed to street legal speeds.

  She glanced at me, her eyes wild. “Holy shit.”

  “Right?”

  “That was insane. It was like driving a bolt of lightning.”

  I laughed. “Ohh man, you oughta feel what it’s like driving something tuned to get five hundred horses. I drove this guy’s Road Runner once, and he had a monster of an engine in there. It got like five or five-fifty, and over six hundred pound-feet of torque. Fuckin’ scary, man. You don’t drive a car like that so much as try to just keep it straight and hope you don’t crash it.”

  “No thanks. That was wild enough for me.” She took us around the corner, still laughing. “Thank you, Rhys. That was the most fun I’ve had in a car in my life.”

  “I can think of some other fun things we could do,” I mumbled under my breath.

  She eyed me. “Rhys…I…”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I know. You can’t. A guy can fantasize, though.”

  “Is that a fantasy for you? In a car?”

  I laughed. “Nah. Just before she left town, my sister gave me some advice. She told me to remember three important things: one, just because she’s not saying no doesn’t mean it’s yes; two, never make important decisions drunk, and three, sex in a car is never as hot as it seems like it should be.”

  “Wise advice, huh?” Torie laughed.

  “Coming from an eighteen-year-old, yeah.” I rolled a shoulder. “So, perhaps surprisingly, no, I’ve never had sex in a car.” I glanced at her. “You?”

  She coughed, as if choking on something. Looked beet red for a moment. Shrugged. “Ahh, no. Nope. Never had sex in a car.”

  There was more to her answer, but she clicked her teeth shut and studiously focused on another right turn, which brought us to the homestretch back to the industrial complex where my garage was.

  She eyed me. “You want to take the wheel, do whatever tests you need to do?”

  I laughed, shook my head. “Nah, you took care of it. I heard it go through all the gears. No rattles, bumps, knocks, squeaks, or hitches. Everything is good to go. I just gotta call the owner and tell him it’s ready.”

  She remembered the directions to get to my garage, which impressed me because it took me a couple of weeks before I could go straight there without a wrong turn or two. She parked it at an angle out front of the garage, put it in neutral, set the brake, and pulled the keys, handing them to me.

  “You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Rhys,” she said, grinning at me. “Good coffee, greasy hands, and a burnout. Good way to start the morning.”

  And I got to see her tits, I thought but didn’t say. It had been a genuine accident, but not one I regretted in the slightest.

  On the contrary.

  I called the Nova’s owner, told him it was ready, and he promised to come over within the hour—he was excited, because I’d told him it would be Monday at the earliest. One of the best lessons I ever learned from my dad—the only good lesson, aside from a love for cars—was to under-promise and over-deliver, so I always quoted a little high and long and tried to get the job done for less and sooner, which always made my clients happy.

  While we were waiting, I cleaned up the tools and put them all away, as my next job wasn’t going to be arriving until I let the owner know I was ready. When I went up to wash my hands, Torie had made my bed, done all my dishes, emptied the garbage, wiped down the counters, and had made us both sandwiches as, by this time, it was past noon.

  “You shouldn’t have done any of this,” I said. “For real. No need. But thanks, I’m starving.”

  She just smiled at me, pulled the little pipe out of her jeans pocket. “A little toke and I’m off and away, power-cleaning. It’s what I do every morning at home. It’s my happy place.” She gestured around. “I couldn’t find a radio up here, so I had to clean without music, which was sucky, because I’m trying to conserve my phone’s battery. The poor thing is from twenty-ten and it’s only got so much life left in it.”

  I sat down at the table with her, and we ate in companionable silence. “Well, thank you. I don’t think my loft has been this clean in a long time. I try to keep it clean-ish, but I don’t always have time to get very detailed.”

  She smirked. “It’s pretty much what I would have imagined a typical bachelor pad to be.” A shrug. “I also wanted to prove that you wouldn’t regret having your boss pay me to help today. I do really need the money.”

  “Didn’t need to prove nothin’,” I said. “But I do appreciate it. Just don’t think you ever gotta prove anything or try to earn nothin’ with me. I helped you out because you’re a person who needed helping. I’ve been in that position before, and the helping hands I’ve received when I needed it most kept my faith in humanity alive. I was down to my last five bucks, once. No gas, no food. Nowhere to go. My tools had been stolen, my tire went flat, and I was on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. This old fella came along in a gorgeous ’55 Studebaker pickup. Saw my flat, pulled over. I didn’t have a spare, so he drove me to town. Got me to tell him my story along the way, and by the time he brought me back to my wrecker later that day I had a toolbox full of old tools he didn’t need anymore, a new tire for my truck, a full belly, and a job waiting at the next town, because his nephew ran an auto body shop and needed a hand for a few weeks.”

  She had stopped chewing and was listening closely.

  “There are good people in the world, folks willing to do good things for no reason but that it feels good to do good.” I shrugged. “After that old fella helped me out, I swore then that I’d always try to do the same when the opportunity came around. So…point is, Torie, I know the
re’s some…stuff between us. But you don’t and won’t ever owe me shit, okay? Meaning, I don’t expect anything. Not asking for anything. You said you can’t start nothin’, and while I admit I got what you might call more than a little spark of attraction for you, I won’t push it, since you said you can’t start nothin’. So…yeah.”

  She swallowed a bite with a loud gulp, set half of the sandwich down, and let out a breath. “Thank you, Rhys. That means a lot, actually. More than you may realize.”

  My phone buzzed then, the Nova owner letting me know he was here and ready to settle up.

  Torie waved at me. “Go. Clients wait for no one.”

  I laughed as I headed for the door. “Well, he’d have to, since I’ve got his keys.”

  My heart was in my throat for some reason. Something to do with the unexpected seriousness of emotion I saw in Torie, when I’d said what I did. There was something there.

  For her, and between us—and the two weren’t the same thing. It was confusing and, as I headed down to the garage, I wondered what it meant.

  Torie

  Fortunately for my overthinking brain, confused heart, and not at all confused body, we were busy for the rest of the day. The build site was a good thirty minutes away, and when we got there I was introduced to Jeremy, the boss, and several other contractors; I was given some work gloves, a rolling garbage can full of cleaning supplies, and put to work with the promise of, as Rhys had said, fifteen dollars an hour cash.

  For cleaning a build site? Damn, I was in the wrong business. It wasn’t backbreaking labor by any means, but there was a lot of work to do just cleaning up after the business of building a home. I was everywhere and so was Rhys, who had donned a tool belt at some point, and damn if that didn’t do something wicked to my loins. Did I know I had a fetish for a man in a tool belt? I don’t think I did know that until I saw Rhys in tan Dickies cut off at the knees, with battered, paint- and grease- and caulk-spattered steel toe work boots, and a sleeveless neon green T-shirt sporting the logo of a local paint company. And, don’t forget the backward University of Kentucky ball cap, the week-old black scruff darkening his hard jawline…and the tool belt.