An Accidental Gentleman (16 page)

Well, see, a man can keep his wits about him even when you’re so beautiful his blood flow’s going straight to his cock. He’s used to that. But you taking his hand, on your own initiative? Grinning with little-gal excitement? Fuck. You make my heart skip too many beats, Katherine. You steal them away, and I don’t want you to ever give them back.

She bought beers and dogs, smacking his hand when he reached for his wallet. “My night, my rules. Besides, you paid for the picnic.”

He throttled back his instincts and swiped the molded cardboard carrier. “Whatever the lady says. You cash, I’ll carry.”

Dutch treat smelled of paybacks. She considered their last night together a debt, and she meant to settle the score. As if she didn’t want to owe him, didn’t want to accept a gift from him. If they ran a tab together, she’d have to acknowledge their continuing connection.

They watched awhile from the stands, sitting knee to knee and sipping on overpriced beer. As the sun sank behind them, the overhead ultra-bright lights clicked on. The air hung heavy with exhaust, hot rubber, and grease. Dirt flew in waves on the banked turns. The first races featured heavily modified machines halfway to being dune buggies. When they rubbed and rolled, the side panels ripped off like so much thin-sheeted foil.

Katherine leapt to her feet and issued full-throated yells, exhorting No. 87 to pick up his pace and No. 34 to stop babying the transmission. She dropped back into her seat smiling or shaking her head and never failed to lean in and offer him some clue to the action.

The crowd and the roaring engines made conversation a heart-pounding, cock-thumping challenge. He placed his lips against her ear as he poured out unimportant questions—any fucking one his mind conjured, from the fence height to the dirt-surface depth—between her whooping encouragement and jeers to the drivers.

When she replied, she laid her lips to his ear. Skin brushing skin. Circling her nose in his hair.

She seemed alive. Exhilarated and not afraid to reveal her enthusiasm, grinning broadly and bouncing to her feet. New raw data for his Katherine puzzle.

As the showcase stock car race of the night started, she grabbed his hand, tipped the plastic cup inside, and finished off the last of his dark amber lager. “You ready to get out of here? I want to take you behind the scenes and show you off—” Squeezing him so hard the plastic buckled, she flushed. “Show you
around
before Perry gets deep in repair mode and zones out with his music cranked.”

Show him off. A sweet, telling slip of the tongue. He’d done the same, dragging her straight to Rob and Nora. Looking for approval from the closest thing he had to family in town. And now she meant to do the same in her own way. Not driving him across county lines and hiding him away. From her family, okay, but not from her friend. Closest friend, maybe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” He jumped to his feet. Fuck, he’d better make a damn good impression on the guy, or Katherine might drop him faster than a hot corncob at a bonfire. “Show me your secrets.”

* * * *

The track gated the pit area to looky-loos once the real racing started. No more autographs and amateurs shooting the shit about the time they almost had a shot at the big seat but wouldn’t have wanted to go anyway. Too commercial, shoveling bullshit for sponsors with a smile. A third of the guys here told the same story. Another third pretended the phone was gonna ring any day now. All of them thought their talk would drop a woman’s panties. The smart ones—the third who loved their hobby but kept a tight grip on their day jobs—knew when to shut the fuck up.

Kit lacked a registered badge to flash, but Perry’d left her name scrawled on the attendant’s clipboard.

Poor kid sitting the post came within spitting distance of fourteen, fifteen at most. “Kit Runyon, yes’m. It says ‘plus one.’ And—” Flaming red, he rubbed a hand over his acne-spotted face and dragged his ballcap low. “Aw, jeez. That your plus-one’s got to show he’s man enough to carry you past the gate.”

“Oh, Perry’s so in for it now.” Having fun at her expense. Smart-ass. See if she ever spent another Saturday afternoon fixing his landlords’ dishwasher. “Not happening, kid.”

Ignoring the teen, who yanked his hand down about two seconds before she’d have run smack into him with her breasts, she charged through.

Brian followed at her heels. “I would’ve carried you. Easy scoop and run, right across my shoulders.” His smug needling sang out loud and clear. The smirk smacked of overkill. “Simple matter of weight distribution, really.”

“Keep talking, smart guy.” Standing at the edge of the soup, she scoped out the rows. The team Perry crewed with flew a neon purple skull banner with dice in the eye sockets. Hard to miss. “We’ll redistribute your weight in the weeds and gravel.”

“Nope, not for me.” He feigned a limp, bent over, and rubbed his back. “At thirty-seven, I can’t be lying on my back with stones stabbing and pinching.” Crooking his neck, he winked at her and touched her knee. “Or taking a beating from those boots.”

His slow calf-stroke raised her heel, had her tapping on the stones. Fuck if he didn’t have more in mind than talk tonight. She stretched on her toes and caught a glimpse of purple in the lights. “I see the flag. This way.”

He released her leg and straightened up. “Guess I’ll have to be a good boy, then.”

Not all night. Just a smidge longer. But he let her lead him. Most of the guys she met fought her on that count, at least a little. Brian never bothered.

Irritating, for a man to be so passive and intimidated—no. His lack of intimidation made the difference. Other guys got their hackles up and snarled to pretend they weren’t embarrassed. Feeling smaller when a woman took charge, they acted bigger.

Bigger fools, anyhow.

Easygoing, affable Brian—he knew himself. He didn’t puff up and cock-crow, because her being in charge didn’t faze him. He’d wait for an opening and take control back when the shift suited them both.

Fuck. Rubbing her thighs together as she walked, she overshot comfort and intensified the ache. Time to go soon. They’d limit the meet-and-greet to one drink with Perry, and she’d steer Brian out to the car. Late enough that the early-birds had left, early enough that the die-hards would stay in their seats.

She’d be busy stripping out of her jeans and straddling Brian in the backseat. Maybe she’d let him dictate the pace, his hands digging into her hips as he drove himself into her. Heat flashed in her belly. Thoughts to save for later, or she’d need a dry pair of underwear.

“Kiiit! My gal.” Down the aisle, Perry shouted and jumped on a two-stack of tires. He spread his arms as the perch wobbled beneath him, turning the gesture into an elegant bow without losing his balance. “Am I tall enough for you to see me? Hear me? I know you giant-folk have trouble with us regular-sized humans.”

“Who said that?” She threw her hand up, visor-like, and cut the glare of the work light. “Is there a talking mouse in this joint?”

“Was. We roasted him for supper.” Perry hopped down, his five-three frame putting his eyes just above her chest. “Nice view. You borrow that tank top from some girl my size?” He sidestepped her joking shove, going toe-to-toe with Brian. “This the new muscle?”

“In the flesh.” She wiped her hands on the seat of her jeans. Sweaty palms, Jesus. “Brian, meet Perry. He’s a scrawny son of a bitch, but his tiny fingers make him half-decent at tinkering.”

Standing military-straight, Brian shook hands with stiff professionalism.

Perry went in for the guy-bump, trapping their hands and knocking his shoulder into Brian’s chest. “Shit, man, where’d you get the Scarecrow Creek Hanging tee? I’ve got the official-unofficial bootleg from the Chicago show they played in ’94, but those shirts are super-rare.”

Absorbing the hit on steady legs, Brian smiled at her. His scruffy near-beard gave him a wicked shadow. Almost a bad boy. “Saw that show in person. Worth every damn minute of trouble it took to get to the club.”

“No shit?” Perry pivoted and flung his arms around her. “Kit, I love him already. This guy’s got way better taste than the rest of the fools around here.” Tipping his head back, he pulled her in tight. “Seriously.” He dropped the teasing tone, his harsh whisper of the don’t-do-something-stupid variety. “You keep this fucker. You see how he looks at you?”

He danced back without leaving her time to respond. The energy at the track got him frenetic and buzzed. At least his hyperactive delight didn’t land him in detention here. The guys at the nearest setups paid him no mind. They had their own mini-parties, the low music and loud laughter from most, the swearing and kicking and metal-clanging from some too bullheaded to let a loss go. Tent lights glowed along down the line, dark gaps marking where the odd few trailers had pulled out early.

“Drinks?” Perry waggled six-shooter fingers at her and Brian. “You guys want drinks?” With a nod to himself, he shoved his long-sleeve tee up to his elbows. The short-sleeve tee layered overtop featured another obscure band with a faded orange horse skull logo. “You need a nice ice-cold beverage. Extra hands, extra hands—Brian, my man, come take a dip in the cooler.” Swiveling, he tracked a skinny straggler beating feet to catch up with a loud roving party down the aisle. “Kit, don’t let anybody put their pristine mitts on my dirty machine. My boys done off and left me to chase some short-skirted siren.”

Brian flashed her a double-eyebrow raise as Perry herded him around the work tent toward the front of the hauler. But he smiled, too, and his easy stride made his ass a joy to watch until they disappeared past the trailer.

“Non-alcoholic for me,” she shouted after them. She’d finished her own beer and half of Brian’s watching the races. Too much yelling—and, okay, maybe sitting pressed up against him for a couple of hours—had dried her throat. “I’m in the driver’s seat tonight.”

She circled the car. The purple nightmare—dubbed Ghost of a Chance by the driver-owner—had finished fifth in a field of seventeen. Surface damage, looked like. The rub rails had done their job on the side panels, taking the hits and the scrapes. The cracked and twisted bumper would need a replacement to keep the judges from disqualifying them for sharp edges next time out, but Perry would tweak every detail tomorrow anyhow.

A beer run to the cab couldn’t possibly take this long. Two minutes, max. The neighbors’ music killed any hope of eavesdropping. Jesus God, if Perry interrogated Brian—no, worse, if Brian interrogated Perry. Witness to God knew how many mistakes she’d gone off and fucked. Thank Christ she’d mostly stuck with out-of-towners to limit the awkward run-ins later. She must’ve been drunk when she’d decided to introduce Prince Charming to her best goddamn friend in the world. The stories he could tell.

But Perry made up half the reason she’d brought Brian to the track on this not-dating, non-relationship outing for two people who probably-definitely wanted to fuck and maybe-someday wanted other things. She’d brought Brian to meet Perry and learn a sport she loved like he loved softball or surfing. He might take her out on his lake someday and show her his waves. Not a date. Two potential friends with fucking privileges?

Getting over-tipsy would blur her memory of the night if they did end up littering the backseat with condom wrappers. Brian was a man worth remembering every moment with. So when she cut him loose, or when he found his settle-down gal and they had to strangle the desire humming between them to keep some kind of friendship, she could relive the way he touched her. How he made her squirm. How he made her arch and flex and—

Smack.
Someone grabbed her ass. “Here’s a bumper I’d like to ride again.”

She slammed her boot on his foot and followed up with a kick at his knee. Missed the inside angle to truly make the dipshit howl, but he dropped his hand off her as she spun. “Back the fuck up, asshole.”

Mr. Handsy sported a silver double-bead nose ring. A familiar trying-too-hard twisted tattoo gave his neck a barbed-wire smile. Fucking fuck. Mooning over Brian, bent and eyeing the race damage, she’d let a swaggering bad choice from last September sneak up on her.

A not-quite stranger whose name she’d forgotten. He traveled with a crew. Not a mechanic. Somebody’s useless relative pretending to be a big shot. Aggressive jerk had been her goal back then, and she’d sure as fuck found him.

And now he’d found her.

* * * *

Brian ambled through the short weeds behind the crackling energy Katherine called friend. The guy bounced around more than a pinball on Friday night at an old-school arcade. Talked like he’d emerged from a year under monk silence and meant to make up for lost time. And he’d thrown his arms around Katherine without fear of getting shoved away. Hugged her, touched her, teased her.

Fuck. Blaming the burning in his chest on the concession-stand dog, much as he wanted to, would be a flat-out lie. Envy sat striking matches against his heart. “So, Perry. You and, uh, Kit, you’ve known each other awhile?”

Perry slapped his hands on the pickup and heaved himself over the side with inches to spare. Wiry for a short guy. “You care about her, Brian? Like you’re gonna give a shit tomorrow morning, and the day after, and the—”

“I do.” Katherine. With all her hopes and dreams, and the fears she let hold her back, and the boldness she held in check only because he’d forced her to slow down. He hadn’t found their speed yet, the one to keep them from missing the wave or wiping out. “Every day. Every goddamn day.”

Plastic scraped on metal as Perry hauled a cooler from the far side and popped the hatch. He leveled his gaze, dark eyes with pinpoint sparks in a face shadowed by the travel trailer blocking most of the light behind him. “Then ask the questions you really want to ask. We’ve got a couple of minutes before she’ll be over here busting my balls to hide how worried she is about this conversation.”

Well shit. That was honest. And telling about how well the guy knew Katherine. “You two ever date?”

Perry snorted and shook his head. “Figured you’d go straight to that one.” Rooting in the cooler, he pawed through crunching ice and sloshing water. “Not a chance in hell. I kissed her once, at a birthday party, in eighth grade, because the rules of the game shoved us in a closet together.” He held out a dripping can of light beer. “We both made sour-lemon face and agreed our lips should never touch. Too much like kissing my sisters. Ick, weird, and unsexy.”