Full Throttle (Fast Track) (24 page)

“IT’S
very irregular,” the clerk said. “I can’t believe the minister agreed to do this.”

It was because Rhett had paid him two hundred bucks, but he just shrugged. “He didn’t see what the harm was.”

He and Shawn were in a wedding chapel, renewing their vows, with true emotion in their hearts this time. They had been legally married for five weeks, and every day their union solidified a little more. It was an education, that was for certain, and they were learning how to communicate, but the amazing moments overshadowed and outnumbered any brief flashes of confusion and misunderstanding. They had been working together on new ideas for Hamby Speedway, and Shawn had started the ball rolling to get national affiliation. It was going to be a great year for racing, and they were definitely working together as a team.

Getting married again had been his idea, and she had readily agreed. They hadn’t told anyone, and it was just meant to be the two of them speaking their commitment to each other out loud.

Shawn was beaming, a beautiful bride, part two, in the dress she had worn to their wedding reception.

“I do,” she said clearly, her eyes shining, lips parted in a wide smile.

“I do,” Rhett said when it was his turn, and he meant that to the depth of his soul. He held both her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes.

When it was time to seal it with a kiss, Shawn threw her arms around him and opened her mouth to him. Rhett picked her up and gave her a spin, grinning. This was it for him—he couldn’t imagine being any happier or that any other woman could make him feel so amazing.

As they walked back down the aisle of the slightly shabby chapel, Shawn told him, “I have a gift for you.” She handed a box to him that looked like a bracelet would fit in it.

“What’s this?” Puzzled, he lifted the silver lid. For a second, he had no idea what he was looking at. Then he realized it was a pregnancy test. A positive pregnancy test. His vision actually went black momentarily, then his hand started to shake. “Is this what I think it is?”

She nodded with a smile. “You have supersperm, there’s no other explanation for it. I’m actually very excited, now that the shock has worn off. I never thought much about being a mother, but I can’t wait. I hope it’s okay with you.”

“Are you kidding?” He grinned. “This is amazing!” He pulled her close against him and decided that he was probably the luckiest man on the freaking planet. “God, I love you.”

Shawn snuggled against her husband and watched in astonishment as her super serious, alpha male husband got a little watery-eyed as the reality of his impending fatherhood sunk in.

Just one more reason she loved him.

“If it’s a boy, I think we should name him Jameson after your grandfather,” Rhett said, holding her tight. “He brought us together, after all.”

Oh, yeah. She loved this man. Now she was blinking back tears, too. “And if it’s a girl, Margaret.”

“Margaret?” he asked, clearly puzzled.

“After Margaret Mitchell.”

He let out a laugh. “We can discuss that one.” He took her hand and they started out of the chapel. “You want to have everyone over for dinner this week and we can tell them?”

“I would love to. Any day but Friday. That’s book club night.”

“Oh, God,” was his opinion. “You hitting up The Wet Spot again?”

“Of course not!” Shawn let him put her coat over her shoulders and accepted the sweet kiss he gave her.

“Damn. I was hoping to go separately and hit on you like I was a total stranger. It would be fun in a place like that to start making out.” He made a sound in the back of his throat. “I’m getting hot just thinking about it.”

So was she. “It doesn’t have to be book club to do that. How about tonight?”

“I love the way you think. Among other things.”

The feeling was mutual.

Turn the page for a special look at

True

and

Sweet

Two new adult contemporary romances by Erin McCarthy, available digitally from InterMix.

GETTING
drunk was not in my plans for Friday night.

Neither was admitting to my roommates, Jessica and Kylie, that I was a virgin.

But they left me alone with Grant.

I knew what Jessica and Tyler, Kylie and Nathan were going to do in the guys’ respective bedrooms. Well, it’s not like I actually knew from personal experience what they were doing—but I hoped their sex fest wouldn’t take that long. I had studying to do for an inorganic chemistry exam on Monday. Plus, I had to read six chapters of Hemingway about boozy, washed-up writers and their cheating wives, which was always a challenge for me, since I preferred the facts of math and science. Puzzling out literature and the social dynamics of characters struck me as a waste of time, especially given their activities.

Alcohol and sex. Ironic, really.

But Jessica was my ride. It was too far to walk back to the dorms, and it was the kind of off-campus neighborhood that had my dad raising his eyebrows and suggesting I go to college in some cow town like Bowling Green, where there were no dirty couches on sagging front porches and no residents smoking crack in full view of the street.

So walking back was not happening, because I didn’t smoke crack and I was no risk-taker. At all. Yet sitting there alone with Grant while my roommates were off having a good time almost seemed riskier than strolling through the ghetto. It was sort of like perching over a public toilet seat without actually touching anything. It was difficult. Awkward.

Plus, it was very, very quiet. He didn’t speak, and I didn’t either, so there was a lot of sitting and a lot of awkwardness and a lot of trying to be entirely motionless so I wouldn’t be moving more than him. Since he was barely breathing, this was a hard thing to do.

I actually felt sorry for Grant, which was just crazy because I wasn’t exactly the Girl Everyone Wants to Be. But Grant was cute, with long hair that dropped into his eyes, long cheekbones, and thick, girlish eyelashes. He was too thin, his black T-shirts always tight and wrinkled, with various rude expressions like
BITE ME
and
WHAT THE F ARE YOU LOOKING AT
? His dirty jeans hung off nonexistent hips that rivaled Mary Kate Olsen’s, and not because he was looking to be fashionable. I don’t think he ate enough, honestly. Nathan had told me Grant’s father was a drunk, and his mother was a freak who stabbed her coworker at Taco Bell with a pen and was in some psych ward downtown. No one was shopping for vegetables at Kroger in Grant’s house.

So I had kind of an awkward girl crush on Grant because the situation smelled of possibility. Like, it was not totally out of the realm of possibility that he could actually want to be with me, in some sort of male-female capacity.

“Smoke?” Grant asked, holding his pack of Marlboro Reds out to me, gaze shooting around to avoid the connection with mine, as we sat in the main room of Nathan’s apartment.

“No, thanks.” It was the eyes that made me understand that here was someone I didn’t have to be afraid of, didn’t have to feel threatened or intimidated by. Because even though his eyes never met mine, Grant had haunted eyes. Aching, vulnerable, gray eyes.

I wanted him to kiss me. Even as I took a huge swig out of the beer he had given me five minutes before, I was thinking that if only he would recognize what I saw, everything would be awesome. We were absolutely perfect for each other. Two totally sensitive, pale, quiet people. I’d never shove him around the way Tyler did, under the guise of bro wrestling. I’d never embarrass him or set his clothes on fire for fun like his alleged best friend, Nathan, did.

His hand shook a little as he flicked his Bic on to light the cigarette he’d stuffed in his mouth. There was an oak end table between us, each of us perched in a plaid easy chair, a movie playing on the TV screen in front of us. Some sort of bad Tom Cruise drama. I’ve never liked Tom Cruise. He always reminded me of someone’s creepy cousin who smiles too big before he touches your butt and whispers something gross in your ear with hot whiskey breath.

Grant was studying the TV, though, very seriously, his smoke floating out into nice, sexy ovals. He could make smoke rings.

I thought my only talent was converting oxygen to carbon dioxide, though to give myself credit, I did really well in school—I always have. I was in the honors scholar program, and I was on track for magna cum laude, which made my rooming with Jessica and Kylie even more ironic than me reading Hemingway. They were social superstars, while if there were a subject called Casual Conversation and Flirting 101, I would have been flunking it.

I’d never had a boyfriend. No sweaty, hand-holding, note-passing, middle-school boyfriend. No guy in high school who had me wear his football jersey to pep rallies. No TA in college who suddenly recognized the value of a quality brain and spent coffee-shop nights studying with me. None of the above.

I wasn’t exactly sure why, because I didn’t consider myself ugly with a capital “U.” Maybe slightly plain, definitely quiet, but not repulsive in any way. No body odor, bad breath, or strange growths in obvious places, no bald spots or facial tics. I did have a few guys who wanted to make out and attempt to shove their hands down my pants, but no one wanted to date me.

Which is why I knew I should make a move on Grant somehow. Because here was my chance to score a boyfriend. To have make-out sessions and share popcorn at the movies, to text each other on a minute-by-minute basis using sickly sweet nicknames. Just to see what it was like, a relationship, to try it on for size like a great pair of sexy heels.

Maybe it would even result in having my name tattooed on Grant’s bicep. It was a short name, Rory, so it would fit on his skinny arm. Something permanent that said that someone else in this world thought enough of me to ink me into infinity.

In reality, Grant and I had remained completely silent for fifteen, twenty minutes. He’d even stopped asking me if I wanted another beer. He had the uncanny ability to sense when I’d drained one without even looking over at me, and he immediately offered another by just holding out the can. I didn’t really want this many, but I couldn’t bring myself to say no. His silent offer was the only thing connecting us at all, besides the fact that we were both human and happened to be sitting in the same room.

I was starting to feel a serious buzz from the three back-to-back beers I’d had, and I was wondering how much longer until my supposedly large brain managed to put forth a flirtatious comment for me to sling at Grant with an artful hair flip. A lot of girls I knew talked more as they drank, but so far, my tongue still seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my ears were ringing.

“Do you think . . . ?” Grant started to say, his whole body suddenly turning to me.

Startled, I choked a little, beer going up my nose. I didn’t know he was going to look at me. Not prepared. No coy smile in place. I blinked at him, hoping that just maybe he’d say something that could lead to something, and I would have a turn at this strange mating game we all seemed to want to play.

“Do you think Tyler and Jessica are serious about each other or are they just hooking up? Or could I, you know . . .”

I sank back into the burgundy plaid. My turn was not today. I was stupid to think it ever would be.

“No,” I managed to say. “They’re definitely serious.” Even though I knew it wasn’t true, that Jessica wasn’t serious about anything right now. But I was feeling mean and a little sick, and drunk in a not-so-good way. It was rare for me to get angry, but I suddenly felt just that.

Because even Grant, who was like a terrified grasshopper clinging to the windshield of a speeding car, was too good for me.

I lifted my beer to my mouth and sucked hard, eyes focusing on Tom on the TV and his cheesy grin.

“She says she adores him,” I added, to emphasize my point, driven to speak by an itchy humiliation that prickled over my skin. It wasn’t a lie—she had said that. But Jessica adored her Hello Kitty slippers, and her iPhone, and Greek yogurt. It was her catchall word for anything that was pleasing her at that very moment. Tyler had been pleasing her half an hour ago. Whether he still was now was anyone’s guess.

Grant looked down the hallway, toward the bedroom. He didn’t say anything, but I could see it. That pathetic, hopeless wanting. The desire for what you want but can’t have. The need for someone to like you.

I recognized it because I saw it in my own face every day.

So I drained my fourth beer completely, my teeth starting to numb, my breath sounding loud and labored to my ears. I knew I should slow down, drink water, stand up, but it was easier to feel sorry for myself, hidden behind a beer can, deep in the recesses of the plaid chair, my new best friend.

When Grant leaned over and suddenly covered my mouth with his, I was so shocked I made a startled yelp and dropped the nearly empty can in my lap, dribbles of cold beer spilling onto my jeans. Grant had eaten up the distance between the two chairs and was leaning on the oak table with one hand, grabbing the back of my head with the other. Confused, I sat there unresponsive for a second, my beer brain chugging along slowly, processing. Grant was kissing me.

I kissed back. Because, well, this is what I wanted, right? Grant to kiss me.

But then I remembered Grant wasn’t really interested in me. He was into Jessica. I knew that. And his mouth was hard, his tongue thrusting and swollen. I started to pull back, desperate for air. He tasted like stale cigarettes, and he smelled like he did laps in a swimming pool of Axe body spray.

“Pass that on to Jessica,” he said, panting hard, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

I blinked. I may have been the awkward girl, but I didn’t want to be second-best. A sexual stand-in for my hot roommate. Humiliation flooded over me, drenching my skin in heat from head to toe as I flushed with embarrassment and anger. When he started to move in again for another kiss, I put my hand on his chest to stop him.

“Tell her yourself,” I spat out, standing up, the beer can tumbling to the dirty carpet. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but away from him.

Only Grant grabbed me by the arm as I walked past and pulled me down onto his lap. Before I could react, he had his arms completely around me, his warm lips on my neck, the hard nudge of what I figured had to be his erection at the back of my thighs. Fear flooded my mouth. He didn’t look this strong. He didn’t look strong at all, yet his grip on me was tight, his sloppy, wet kisses trailing lower down my chest, under my T-shirt.

When I tried to stand, his hands held my arms so tightly it felt like my wristbones were being snapped, and I was too out of it from the beer to have great coordination. Trying to back up, I ended up sliding down his lap, between his legs and to the floor.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, loosening his hold on me to take down his zipper. “Good girl.”

When he pulled out his erection, a mere foot from my face, I couldn’t believe what I was looking at, all smooth skin and dark hair, just out there, all casual. Right in front of my face. I realized he thought I was going to give him a blow job. That I was actually offering to give him oral sex, for no reason, with no conversation or lead-in, just a few shitty kisses when he referenced my roommate. That somehow he was insane enough to think that I would willingly go down on him. Nauseated, I turned my head, so I didn’t have to look at his junk.

The beer was going to come back up. I drank it too fast and it was sloshing around in my gut, ready to rush up my throat in a Bud Light tsunami, crashing out over my teeth onto his lap if I didn’t get some fresh air, didn’t get away from him.

“Let me go,” I said, trying to get my feet on the floor so I could stand.

But he had my hair at the back of my head, and I realized the only way out was to go low, not try to stand. But if I fell to the floor completely, then he could fall
on
me, which meant that if I didn’t get out of this in the next sixty seconds, I might wind up having sex on the hard, filthy carpet of this crappy rental apartment. I’d rather give oral sex than lose my virginity to this douchebag, who I had thought was nice, who I had thought would never victimize anyone because he’d been the victim.

Neither was a good choice.

But if I faked oral, I could bite him instead. Sink my teeth down into his most sensitive spot and get away. Call a cab. I was just panicked enough that I figured I could actually do it, get away or at least go down fighting.

So I tried to stand instead of falling down, and he yanked my hair so hard tears came to my eyes. I had long, dark-red hair, which made it easy for him to entwine his fingers to control my head and my neck, holding me so I couldn’t move.

“Stop! I’m serious.” I braced my knee on the bottom of the chair, my hand on his chest to keep my head as far from him as possible. “I’m going to be sick,” I added, because it was true, and I figured no guy wanted to be puked on.

But he ignored me and said, “Open your mouth.”

So I punched his wrist, trying to break his hold, desperate, panicked, my vision blurred from tears and too many beers, my stomach churning violently. “No! Please, don’t!”

“Let her go, Grant.
Now
.”

He did, and I fell to the ground, gasping, scrambling backward, my floral rain boots giving me traction to butt-scoot out of his reach. Tyler was standing in the hallway, not wearing a shirt, a beer in his hand. He had clearly been to the kitchen, clearly seen what had been happening, clearly planned to stop it.

Relief had my hands shaking and I zipped up my hoodie, wanting my T-shirt covered, wanting all of me covered, gone.

“Mind your own fucking business,” Grant said.

“No. I won’t. She said no.” Tyler was tall, broad-shouldered, his chest and biceps covered in tattoos. He looked at me, and I shrank back a little. His eyes looked angry in the fluorescent glow of the stove light. “Did you say no, Rory?”

“Yes. I said no,” I added, wanting to clarify.

Grant’s foot came out, and he kicked my arm, hard. “You did not, you dick tease.”