The Closer (4 page)

Monica looked at the keys in her hand and blinked. “What?” She shook her head as Jess's meaning sunk in. “Oh, no. I couldn't—”

“I insist,” Jess told her. “Leave your keys at the store and when I get back, I'll take Clementine out to the house and get that oil leak fixed for you. In the meantime, drive mine.” She grinned at her. “It's just going to be sitting there for the next few days and—” she patted the roof of the car “—Clem needs a break.”

Monica swallowed, clearly touched and torn, then briefly looked away. “Jess, I appreciate the offer, but I don't know how I'd pa—”

“We'll work that out later,” she said, waving her concern away. “Maybe trade it out in manicures?” She grinned ruefully and held up her hands. “These nails are always in need of help.”

A tentative smile peeked around her lips. “Are you sure? I—”

Jess nodded decisively. “I'm sure. I'll give you a call when your car's ready, okay?”

“Thanks, Jess,” Monica said, her eyes soft with sincerity. “I really appreciate this.”

Jess knew she did. That's why she didn't mind helping her. “You're welcome.”

Looking relieved and a little excited, Monica waved as she drove away.

Jess heaved a small sigh, then turned to find Griff staring at her, an inscrutable look on his handsome face. It was unnerving. “I know, I know,” she said, plucking her snack bag from his hand as she started for his truck. “We need to go. We're on a schedule.”

And for perverse reasons she wasn't certain she understood, she had every intention of wrecking it as often as possible. Because something told her that Griff Wicklow needed to learn to roll with the punches instead of holding too fast to his agenda.

It had to be exhausting.

4

G
RIFF
DIDN
'
T
KNOW
precisely when he'd become so jaded, but it was rare that anyone ever surprised him. Truly, genuinely surprised him. He'd taken one look at Jessalyn Rossi and, while every cell in his body had seemed to misfire and short out, he'd still thought he'd had her pegged. Pretty, creative, more than a little reckless.

Interesting? Definitely.

Hot? Without question.

A potential problem? Oh, hell, yes.

But watching her hand her keys over to the young woman at the gas station—keys to what was obviously a prized possession—and then offer to fix her car in exchange for manicures? That... He inwardly reeled.

That was something else.

Not to mention learning that she raced stock cars—and was missing a race this weekend to make the trip for her father—and knew her way around an engine well enough to know that the leak was coming from the valve cover gasket and not the drain plug or the filter. He knew his way around one, too. He'd worked part-time at a garage while in high school. He mentally grimaced. He'd worked
lots
of part-time jobs while in high school.

At any rate, Jessalyn Rossi wasn't just surprising—she was a revelation. One that he found as intriguing as irritating. He smothered a snort, glancing at her from the corner of his eye while she carelessly popped chips into her mouth and thumbed through a magazine. Every once in a while he'd catch a smile or a moue of distaste—she had the most interesting face—and it was a continual struggle not to stare at her, not to ask her the cause of each reaction. When, by all rights, he shouldn't care, shouldn't give six damns or a bloody hell. She was merely an accessory to the job at hand, a necessary inconvenience, a premature pain in the ass.

And yet...

An undeniably singular thrum of excitement vibrated through him, a bizarre sense of expectation tightened low in his belly—along with all the usual parts, of course—and it was with as much dread as anticipation that he admitted to himself that she was quite possibly the most fascinating woman he'd ever met.

He didn't have the time nor the inclination to be fascinated, Griff thought darkly. He had enough problems as it was—an image of his half brother Justin's hopeful smile surfaced at the thought, making him instantly uncomfortable—without throwing an inappropriate attraction into the mix.

They'd been on the road for the better part of an hour and he'd made up the extra six minutes she'd cost them at the store by needling the speedometer a little farther to the right. The late-afternoon sun filtered through the window, backlighting her dark hair in a sepia-toned halo—a crooked one at that, which seemed strangely appropriate given what he'd observed during their brief acquaintance—and illuminated the side of her face, revealing delicate bone structure and a frankly sensual mouth. Because he didn't need to be thinking about her hot mouth and the things she could do to him with it, Griff decided a conversation was in order.

“That was nice,” he said, his voice a bit rusty.

She looked up, a puzzled line appearing between her sleek brows. “What?”

“Loaning your car to the girl at the station.”

Her expression cleared. “Oh, that,” she said, as though she'd already forgotten the kindness. “Thanks. I thought she could use a little good luck.” She frowned significantly. “She's certainly had enough of the other kind, poor thing.”

“Oh?”

Jess casually flipped another page. “Her husband walked out a couple years ago. Left her with a set of twins and an infant. Conner and Cash were barely out of diapers, and Ava wasn't even a month old.” Her face hardened. “Selfish bastard.”

Selfish bastard, indeed, Griff thought, his anger spiking. He had enough experience with fathers who walked out to know what sort of hardship Monica and her children were going through. Jesus. Deciding not to be a husband was one thing—being a father wasn't friggin' optional.

Or at least, it shouldn't be.

He cleared his throat, hoping to dislodge the choking irritation building there. “I'd like to help out on the repairs for her car,” he said.

She stilled and those pale gray eyes swung toward him. He'd clearly surprised her, a feat that he imagined was difficult to do. She looked away, back to her magazine. “That's not necessary. It's just the gasket. It's not an expensive fix.”

Maybe not for the parts, but what about her time? Which begged another question—who taught her how to work on cars? He'd be willing to bet it hadn't been her father. The older Rossi seemed more interested in his jewels and gems than spark plugs and cables. An old boyfriend, perhaps? he wondered, irrational annoyance making his fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

“Be that as it may, I'd still like to help. At the very least, pay for your time.”

She looked at him again, her focus more deliberate. “Why? You don't know Monica.”

He smiled. “Do I have to know her to want to help her?”

She hesitated, studied him, evidently looking for some form of motive behind the offer. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose you don't.” She paused. “Thank you. I'm sure Monica will appreciate it.”

“I imagine that's why you offered to help her in the first place,” he said. She didn't strike him as the type to waste her time on ungrateful people.

Him, neither, for that matter, which had made giving his half brother, Justin, the kidney a little easier. He wouldn't have refused, of course—how could he when the boy had been handed a certain death sentence?—but knowing that Justin understood the sacrifice and appreciated the gift had made things much easier.

Or as easy as it was going to get, at any rate.

He could have happily gone the rest of his life without hearing from his father—he'd made it the past seventeen years, after all—and, though he'd known about Justin and had been periodically curious about the other boy his father
had
raised, Griff wouldn't have ever sought him out. It was too painful, for him, admittedly, but more so for his mother and sister.

Glory had been too small when their father had walked out to truly remember him, and Griff had always made sure to fill that role to the best of his ability. But his mother, while strong, had never fully recovered. She'd never remarried and, despite encouragement, only occasionally dated. But her heart hadn't been in it. Because, ultimately—even after all this time and all the pain—his father, the wretched bastard, still had it. Griff inwardly snorted.

If that was the so-called power of love, he didn't want any damn part of it.

And, much as he genuinely liked Justin, he didn't want any part of a relationship with him either. Strictly speaking, that wasn't true. He
would
like to get to know him better, would even reluctantly admit to a bizarre bond with the boy. But he couldn't afford to get to know him, couldn't put his mother and sister through that emotional turmoil, and protecting them was too ingrained in him at this point to change now. Someone had had to look after them when his father left and that someone had been Griff. They counted on him, depended on him. Going through the surgery had been difficult enough—separate waiting rooms for the families, set visiting hours to avoid running into each other. A nightmare.

It was over and done with, Griff thought. Six months post-op and all was well. Justin was healthy and out of danger, and his own recovery had progressed without complication. It was time to move on and the sooner Justin realized that, the better.

As if merely thinking of his brother had prompted it, his cell vibrated at his waist. Griff frowned, steeled himself before glancing at the display. Another text from the boy.
Need some advice re: the bro code. Can I get a call back when you've got time?

He heaved an internal sigh. Not a demand, but a request. And a hopeful one at that.
Damn...

Jess shifted a little in her seat and her soft scent drifted to him once more. It was something mellow and sweet, and strangely familiar. “Everybody needs a hand once in a while and, in my experience, it's usually those who need it the most who won't ask for it.”

“So you do this often?” he asked, thankful for the distraction. “Trade goods and services for repair work?”

Her lips twitched with wry humor. “Too much according to friends, but—” she shrugged “—I enjoy doing it, and if it lightens someone else's load, then all the better, right?”

He nodded, impressed, and asked her the question that he'd been dying to ask for the past hour. “So...who is Lane Johnson and why has he been ‘running his mouth'?”

She actually laughed, a light infectious sound that was pleasing to the ear. It was easy, that laugh, not the least bit affected. Her twinkling gaze swung to his. “Ah...I was wondering when you were going to ask.”

Not if, but when. So she'd been certain? Had he tipped her off that thoroughly or was she simply used to the question? The latter, he hoped. He didn't like being predictable. It was...disconcerting.

She expelled a small breath, set her magazine aside, as though the explanation was going to require her full attention. She lifted her chin, her jaw firmed, and he perceived the slightest tightening around her eyes. “Lane Johnson is a fellow driver. He's loud and obnoxious and has a grossly misguided perception of his own skill. And he doesn't like it when a woman runs a better race than he does.”

Ah...
“Are there a lot of women who run a better race than he does?”

The corner of her lip lifted and she shot him a look, self-satisfied pleasure lighting her eyes. “Only one that I know of.”

He chuckled. “You?”

“Me,” she said, nodding once. “I smoked him on the last race—beat him by three and a half seconds—and since then he's credited the loss to a faulty carburetor and has been screaming for a rematch. He just can't accept that I ran a better race, that I—
a mere woman
—beat him.”

Griff grunted. He knew the type. The military was full of them, but considering that women had just been granted the right to fight on the front lines of combat, those guys needed to get over it. He'd admit to having an exaggerated sense of protection when it came to women—particularly his mother and sister—and imagined that the impulse harkened back to cavemen days, when men guarded their women and dragged dinner home every evening. But any man who didn't appreciate a woman's strength was sadly misguided.

“He sounds like an ass.”

“That's because he is.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “And admittedly, there were a lot of them in the beginning. Stock-car racing is a predominantly male sport, so the resistance was there, of course. I was the butt of every ‘woman driver' joke, I was bullied on and off the track. Typical chest-beating, ball-scratching guy stuff.”

Startled by the ball-scratching comment, he felt his eyes widen and he choked on a laugh.

“But I stuck with it,” she continued, darting him a concerned look. “I ran clean races—pushing back when I needed to—and I started winning.” She looked away. “Then I was not as easily dismissed.”

“Not easily dismissed” pretty much summed up his impression of her, Griff thought. He'd been wrong when he'd pegged her as reckless—
determined
was a much better description.

“So you earned their respect?”

“Everyone but Lane's,” she said. “But I don't care whether I've got his or not.” She scowled darkly, her brows furrowing. “I just want him to shut his mouth. More than anything, he's a nuisance.”

There was a little too much bravado beneath that comment to take it at face value. Was she telling the truth? he wondered. Did she really not care what this Lane thought? Or was he the one person she wished to impress and couldn't?

For whatever reason, he found that thought less palatable than the first.

“He thinks that all his trash talking has scared me off, that I'm too afraid to meet him on the asphalt again. That's what he's telling everyone, anyway, and though I know it shouldn't—” she finished the sentence through gritted teeth “—it absolutely
infuriates
me.”

“Really?” he deadpanned. “Because I would have never known.”

The remark scored him a smile, which had been his intention, and as an a bonus he felt his own lips slide into a grin.

“Tell me it wouldn't make you mad,” she said. “He's basically calling me a coward. I'll admit to being afraid of a few things—tight spaces, bats and clowns—but him?
Him?
” She snorted indelicately. “Not in the slightest.”

He swiveled to look at her. “Clowns? Really?”

“Hey, don't judge,” she scolded. “It's called coulrophobia and it's a lot more common than you think.”

“You just made that up.”

“I didn't,” she insisted, laughing. “Look it up.”

“So driving a hundred and eighty miles an hour around a track doesn't scare you but
clowns
do?” he asked, unable to keep the incredulity from seeping into his voice. He shook his head, equally shocked and amazed.

“That's right. Speed doesn't scare me—it's thrilling, actually. All that power beneath the hood, responding to my touch, to my instruction,” she said, her gaze turning inward, her voice going low. “It's...incredible,” she told him wonderingly. “The best feeling ever.”

Right, Griff thought, feeling his dick shift at her almost sensual description. He swallowed, momentarily at a loss to respond. Thankfully, he didn't have to, because she smiled a little self-consciously and looked over at him.

“Sorry,” she said, a light blush moving over her cheeks and, for whatever reason, he got the impression that didn't happen often. “I tend to get carried away.”