Charged (12 page)

“You still intend on fixing that piece of shit for the hooker?” I have a hard time taking that word being said about her, but I hold my tongue. 

“I’m working on her car, sure. She’s a paying customer Jack. Why wouldn’t I?” This earns me a fast right cross to the jaw. I feel my teeth rattle against each other, tasting blood well in my cheeks. 

“Don’t fucking mouth me, boy. She’s bad news. Stay the fuck away from her. Trust me on this one. She isn’t who she says. Got me?” 

I think on it before answering, not up for a second fuckin’ shot to the head, or worse to the body; he knows exactly where to get me. I know that bastard saw the fight with Cletus, and I know he may not have stepped in to intervene, but that sly old cunt sure knows how to exploit weaknesses. 

“Sure, Jack. I understand you.” He nods, knowing he made his point, then walks off towards the office. Rat bastard. He may be the closest to family I’ll ever have, but he’s still the biggest fucking fire breathing dragon out there. 

I wait until he’s out of view then storm off to catch up to her. Oh, I know it will start another round of rubberneckers looking out the shop windows, but who cares. These guys are the nosiest pricks I know, and if there’s something worth watching, I know that they’re all there like it’s the last episode of Survivor.  

I follow after her, crossing the devilishly hot asphalt towards the restaurant, where it’s dead quiet with not a  customer in sight. Gus and Hazel are poised by the counter, looking over bills and order forms, while sharing a plate of fries. 

“Hey,” Gus greets me with a grin. I manage to give him a nod, looking to Hazel to tell me what I want to know. 

She doesn’t even say a word. She just points to the back and smiles. Sneaky old woman. She is loving every minute of this. I’m glad I can entertain so many people in one day. 

I pass through the kitchen to the back of the building, and look out the back door towards Hazel’s place. Though the door to the house is usually wide open, both the screen door and the fire door are closed up tightly.
Like that will slow me down, spark plug.
I step outside, passing into the yard as the screen clacks loudly against the frame behind me. 

The bright blue clapboard siding, white window casings and the porch — which I’ve had to replace twice — makes Hazel’s place perfect for one person. It’s nothing like mine or Jack’s places. It’s shack a in comparison. I hop up on the steps and knock lightly on the door, hoping that she’ll answer me. 

“Ryker, I just want to be left alone right now.” Her voice is quiet, though it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from inside. I suddenly know exactly where she is. Walking around the wrap around porch, I find her sitting on the swing out back. It creaks back and forth on its hinges as she pushes lightly off the railing with her foot.  

“Well, spark plug, you don’t get a choice. We need to talk.” I lean against the rail with my legs crossed over, arms across my chest — even though it hurts like a bitch — and look over at her. She sits there silently, trying to look anywhere but at me.

“Can we not and say we did? I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” 

“Nope, it has to be said darlin’.” 

She huffs lightly, keeping her eyes on the floor. 

“Look, I appreciate you defending me against that prick — I mean Cletus, not Jack. I really do thank you, but I just don’t want to see someone getting hurt because of me. I have a shit past that just seems to follow me everywhere I go. I have nothing of value, a crap car, two bags of belongings, and I don’t stay around so I don’t want you thinking we could be something other than a quick fuck.” 

My dick stands at attention at the mention of fucking, and I try to cover it using my arms. “I really need my car fixed, and I need out of here asap. It’s nothing personal.  It’s for your own good, as well everyone else involved.” 

“We aren’t getting married. This isn’t a long term relationship, spark plug. I asked you to coffee.” I tease, hoping for that brilliant light to creep back into her eyes.  Yesterday’s spark seems to have been snuffed out, whether by me or someone else I’m not sure, but I can tell she’s admitted defeat. 

A soft chuckle fills the silence around us. It’s just a little one, but that’s enough to know she’s still there and not totally deflated by the events of today. This little woman has probably seen more than she lets on, but damn if I don’t think she’s strong enough to handle it all with colorful expletives. 

“I’ll be lucky to have a long term relationship that lasts longer than a favorite bra,” she jokes, but at the mention of her bra, my eyes automatically drop down. They’re technically not much more than tiny little bee stings, but that’s just enough really. Who needs a set the size of Mount Vesuvius? I think about caressing them and my dick jerks in my pants. I quickly force myself to think about oily car parts to get it to settle down. The last thing I want right now is for her to think I’m only interested in sex. I am, of course, but that’s not all I’m interested in. 

“Sorry about your lunch,” she says. “I hate that you’ve missed it two days in a row.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Do I look like I miss many meals?” 

“No, I suppose not.” The chair starts to swing once more, those lean legs of hers pushing back and forth to keep it going.  Every time she reaches back to push, I get a quick glance down her shirt. I try to stop myself, forcing my eyes to stay up. 

“I don’t. Hazel keeps me fed. Why do you think we all have running tabs? None of us fuckers could make a grilled cheese if we tried.” I shift slightly against the railing so my feet reach out closer to hers.

“There’s quite a few of you there. How long have you worked there?” She still hasn’t looked at me. It’s unnerving when people don’t look you in the eye, usually there’s something they’re hiding when they look away. I’ve learned working with the mafia. 

“I’ve been here with Jack since I was eleven.” 

“Why?” she asks still not looking at me. I don’t answer. The answer to that is more than I want to tell her. 

“Why’d you color your hair that shit brown?” 

She pulls out a few strands, twirling and twisting it, pulling at the groups of hair and crossing it over like tiny braids. 

“I don’t like people seeing the real me.” 

“I kind of figured that with the ‘I’m trying to run away from something’, ‘I have to go’ bullshit lines you’ve tossed my way. Why’d you leave New York?” Might as well go straight for the jugular and aim for some measure of truth. She may not want to share, but I have an insane need to know her. 

I’ve never cared. I never gave one fucking shit if a girl hung out, and I sure as hell never cared to know them, but for some fucked up reason I don’t understand, I want to know Kate. I’ve never, wanted any attachments or relationships. Anything beyond getting my rocks off and sending them on their way is too much. I fuck them at their place, I have my way with them in a bar, in an alley, in their dorm rooms with their roommates — I’m not picky. But the thought of my balls twisted in a vice over some girl; no fucking way. The idea of freedom is all gone once you let her own your dick.

“I’m from Missouri. Just visiting an aunt in Florida and I broke down. My sister was expecting me home a few days ago. I’m sure she’s totally freaking out.”

“Really? A sister? That’s the line, huh?”  I call bullshit. I call big bullshit. “What’s her name?” 

A flicker of panic passes across her face as she thinks up a name. “Stephanie.” 

“Oh, ok. So tell me about her?” 

She stops swinging and levels me with a look. She knows she’s caught in her lie, and now she’ll have to lie further to get out of the tense situation. Let's see how this plays out.

“She’s two years old than me. She lives in a quiet little town—”

“What town?” I cut her off hoping to catch her tripping up. 

“Marley. It’s just a few hundred people. You’d sneeze and miss it.” Kate restarts her swinging as she absentmindedly plays with the braids in her hair. 

“So in Marley, what’s the biggest thing to do there?” Her swinging speeds up as she nervously thinks up another lie to cover her tracks. I know it will only take one small word to hear that accent that I know better than any. That fuckin’ North Eastern New York State hitch is hard to hide.

“Hawkie.” And there it is…HOCKEY. For some God forsaken reason, New Yorkers can’t say hockey. It always sounds like ‘hackie sacks’ when it’s HOCKEY SUCKS. 

“Hockey, huh? And I suppose your nephew plays too, right?” 

“As a matter of fact,” She pauses and untwists the hairs. “Connor is a goalie. and a good one.” 

“What’s his average SOG?” I know what it that means, and if she knows anything about hockey, she’ll know it means shots on goal, which is like the most important part of a forward, not a goalie. He wants to know goals against averages. 

“Twenty two.” Wow she is good at just spewing random shit. 

“Wow, twenty two. That’s not bad for a goalie. When does he start at center?” I ask, knowing she is so far stuck in shit she can sniff it without bending over. 

“He’s a starter, if you must know.” Kate nervously re-braids that particular group of hairs over and over, causing it to knot under her care. 

It’s easy to pick this poker player’s tells, but I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I push against the swing frame with my foot to stop it from moving, and she looks up with a seething glare. If this girl thinks she’s tough, and all her shit don’t stink, then let’s see how she reacts when she’s really fucking cornered.

“Look, I’m all for hiding out in rural butt-fuck nowhere, but there’s no way you’re from Missouri, and for sure you know shit about
hawkie.”
I emphasize my accent to make the word pop. “Anyone who’s anyone that knows shit about
hawkie,
knows that what you just said makes no sense at all.” 

She stands up abruptly, obviously wanting to interject, but I cut her off once more with a finger to her lush lips. My body lights up instantly, happy to be touching this sexy as fuck woman in front of me. 

“You’re from New York — Bronx specifically — and if think you can hide that, you’re sorely mistaken, little girl. I may not have lived in New York for over twenty years, but I hear it more often than you’d think in fucked-up Mississippi. We may be in the backwoods, but I’m not a hick, spark plug. Quit fuckin’ around, and tell me what’s going on.” 

“What does it matter anyway? I lived in New York for a few years, so I guess I have a bit of an accent, so what? Fuck me, what does any of it matter to you? You just met me, Ryker, and you…you don’t understand.” She tosses her hands in the air for dramatic flair and stomps off down the stairs to the tree line. “You don’t own me, and I don’t
owe
you shit for an explanation,” she says over her shoulder, without turning back to face me. 

“If you want me to help you, you damn well will.” I leap the two stairs and hit the ground, wincing as my ribs protest the jolt. I have no idea why I’m chasing her. I don’t normally care for the dramatic ones. I want the one’s that fuck you six ways to Sunday, then I can leave them at the dorm, walking funny with a story and a smile. I hate the drama of all this. But I can't fucking stop myself.

Kate steps back towards me, pissed off. “You, are my mechanic. I’m paying you. I don’t have to give you any reason for what I do.” She pokes me in the chest, accentuating each word.

I grunt as she hits a particularly soft spot. Her scent is intoxicating, and it pulls every bit of self-control I have not to bend her over, spanking the fuck out of that tight ass. I want to make her scream my name.  

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about where you got hit with that thingie.” As her hand lightly grazes across my chest, it shoots tingles straight through my spine, making my dick twitch as goosebumps rise along my arms. I can’t hold back any more. 

Stepping closer to her so she’s pressed tight to my chest, her sweet eyes are levelled at my pecs, I pull loose the little braid in her hair, teasing it between my fingers. She doesn't protest. This sexual tension is too thick to ignore. It’s been driving me crazy since that little spark plug stepped out the tow truck. 

She’s deep under my skin — deeper than a tick. 

I tilt her chin and look into her eyes, and what I see is pain reflecting back. Not to be outdone by the heated gaze of her unmistakable desire.

"I know you’re not from Missouri, and I know there’s no way that shit you fed me is true. You have a reason for hiding, of that I’m sure. But spark plug, I can’t help you if you don't let me in.” Noting that she tenses when I say this I continue. I want her as on edge as I am. “For some reason, I want to help you more than I want to fuck you. Believe me, that’s sayin’ something.”

I push forward, advancing on her. She’s flustered. I want her off guard and needy. “I want to tear your clothes off and devour you. I want to taste every inch of you, but, if all I get is you to go for a coffee, I will stroke my cock later, alone.” 

"Ryker," she pants out, and my strength wains. I don’t wait for her reply. Bending down, I smash my lips against hers, dragging her body even tighter to mine. It’s rushed, and heated, and fucking perfect. 

Her lips taste like cinnamon, sugar, and warmed vanilla. I’m intoxicated by it. As her tongue dances with mine, causing our teeth to clack against each other, we vie for closer contact. I squeeze her towards me, my ribs scream in protest, but I don’t give a shit. I only care that she’s pressed up against my chest her arms drawing my body in.