Nice Girls Don't Ride (2 page)

Natalie

An hour later, I’m ready to climb the walls of the body shop as I wait for the verdict on my car. Monroe disappeared when we got here, and I’ve been stuck listening to the same ten eighties songs over and over again with the occasional Britney song thrown in for variety. I imagine it’s the soundtrack in hell.

When I realize I’m peeling the protective cover off my phone with my fidgeting fingers, I set it down on the ugly orange chair next to me and peer at the clock above the service desk again. Almost seven.

The reservation at Madrid is for eight. I’ve wanted to try that restaurant for a long time, and Caleb had said he’d treat me for my birthday. So I’d booked a table two months ahead and had been counting down the days. The fact that Caleb, Mr. Penny Pincher (despite having a fat trust fund), is willing to shell out for an expensive meal has had me wondering if he’s finally going to ask me to move in with him. It feels like the right time since we’ve been seeing each other for almost a year and we’ll both be graduating soon. Plus, it’ll save me from having to move home for the summer or find another place since my roommate’s sister is going to be staying with her over the break.

If nothing else, Caleb is imminently practical, so moving in makes sense. But now I have no idea where he is, and even if he does get here soon, the plans are probably off anyway because I can’t walk into a fancy restaurant smelling like roadkill and auto repair shop—which is turning out to be some weird combination of stale coffee, those scented pine trees that hang from rearview mirrors, and motor oil. Or is it axle grease? I’m not sure what vehicular thing actually produces such a smell, but I know I’ll forever think of the scent as
eau de broken car
.

I bounce my knee and fight the urge to gnaw on a fingernail. Lyle, the guy in charge of the desk, had closed up about twenty minutes ago. But when I’d basically begged that they try to get my car fixed tonight, he said Monroe was going to work on it a little longer. But Lyle hadn’t stuck around to wait with me. He’d pulled the chain on the flashing
Open
light and had waved good-bye. So now it’s just me and that endless loop of songs.
Hit me, Britney, one more time.

Of course, the longer I sit in the closed shop, the more I start thinking slasher-movie thoughts again—the curse of being a creative writing major with a penchant for horror fiction. I can see the story line now . . . Stranded girl with a boyfriend who won’t answer his phone. Mysterious but strangely sexy mechanic probably rigging her car so it would never allow a getaway. No weapons available except a can of Billy’s Custom Cycles ink pens and an empty can of Sprite.

I eye the grimy window that leads out to the shop but can only see the top of my car. Monroe hasn’t given me an update in a while, but I’m guessing the outlook isn’t good. My phone rings, making me jump. When I see the name pop up on the screen, I grab for the thing like it’s the last phone on earth. “Oh my God, finally.”

“Natalie, hey,
so
sorry,” Caleb says, sounding out of breath and barely audible over the hum of voices in the background. “I just got all of your messages. We’ve been buried. The rally site for tomorrow had to be changed and Carolyn assigned me all these duties. She’s never given me so much responsibility, and . . . well, I couldn’t let her down. I thought I’d be able to get it all taken care of, but I lost track of time and now I’m stuck out here. Man, I’m really sorry. I know it’s your birthday. I swear I’ll make it up to you . . .”

“You’re not coming to get me?” I say, failing to keep the edge of you’ve-got-to-be-freaking-kidding-me out of my tone.

He sighs. “I’m not in my car. I rode with Randy. Can you call Jess?”

“She’s gone home for the weekend. I told you—”

“Baby, look, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to call a cab or something. They need me for a few more hours. And I’ve got to go. But I promise, I’ll make it up to you next week, okay? Love ya.”

“But—” The phone clicks before I can protest. I pull it away from my ear and stare at it like it bit me. “Seriously?”

A cab?
Did he forget we weren’t living in New York? This is Austin. Unless you’re at the airport or a downtown hotel, there are no cabs rolling around looking for passengers. I’d have to call a service, which would take forever to get here. And it would cost me a fortune from this far out.

“Your knight heading over on his white horse?”

The low, rumbling voice jerks my attention upward. I automatically clutch my phone to my chest like I don’t want anyone to see that it’s let me down. Monroe gives me a ghost of a smile.

“I don’t need a white horse. I need my car.”

“Yeah, well, about that. I’ve been trying to work a miracle.” He wipes his hands on a dirty rag and tucks it in the back pocket of the grease-stained blue jumpsuit he put on over his other clothes. The move looks smooth and natural, like he’s been doing this forever and the towel is somehow a part of him. “But I’m afraid there aren’t going to be any angels singing tonight.”

“But that Lyle guy told me you were making progress.”

“Progress, yes. Success? No. Believe me, I tried to do a few work-arounds to see if I could get her going. But you need a part that we don’t have in stock. I’m going to have to order it, and it’ll take at least a day to get here.”

My shoulders sag. “Son of a bitch.”

“I’ve been called worse. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t do anything about it tonight.” He walks from behind the counter to lean against the front of it. His arms cross over his chest as he considers me.

I try not to notice how the grease smudge on his jaw makes him look both menacing and distractingly attractive. God, what is my deal tonight? This guy’s giving me bad news, and my hormones decide to go rogue. Maybe it’s the Britney songs.

“My boyfriend got held up at work. He can’t come pick me up.”

“I thought you had a date tonight.”

“We did. But there’s some crisis at his internship.”

He frowns. “He’s leaving his girl stranded for a crisis at a job that he’s not even getting paid for? Nice guy.”

I press my lips together, my defenses rising. “He takes his job seriously. He’s not going to bail on his responsibilities.”

Monroe takes the clipboard of paperwork I’d filled out and left on the front counter. “Looks like he’s bailing on
you
, princess. In my book, that’s dropping a pretty important responsibility.”

My spine stiffens. If I had feathers, they’d be fluffed. “Last I checked, it’s not 1952. I’m his girlfriend, not a responsibility. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can.” His eyes skim over the yellow papers. “But that doesn’t mean . . . Ah, come on, really?”

“What?”

He flips the clipboard toward me and points at a line on the insurance verification form. “It’s your birthday. The dude is ditching you for work on your
birthday
?”

“It’s not a big deal . . . I mean, we can do it some other—”

He tosses the clipboard back onto the counter. “You can lie to yourself, princess, but you’re not going to convince me. Twenty-one is supposed to be one of the best birthdays. And no girl gets herself all, you know”—he waves a hand, indicating my outfit—“because it’s a no-big-deal night.”

I clench my jaw.

Monroe walks over and swipes the phone out of my hand. “What’s Romeo’s name?”

“Hey, give that back.” I jump to my feet and reach for my phone.

But he steps back and holds it up. “Smile.”

I grit my teeth. “Give. It. Back.”

“Pissed and mean, even better.” He grins and takes a pic with my phone.

“What the hell?” I stalk toward him, but he backpedals until he’s behind the counter, scrolling through my phone.

“There it is, Caleb with the little heart symbol next to it,” Monroe says triumphantly. His thumbs fly over the screen, typing. “Hope . . . work . . . is . . . worth . . . missing . . . this.”

“Oh my God.” I lunge around the counter, but Monroe slides out of reach and shows me the screen. He hasn’t hit Send on the message yet, but the pic of me is there—cheeks flushed, eyes a little wild, and my cleavage on prominent display. I don’t look like myself. I look kind of dangerous. And hot. Go me.

He slides the phone across the counter toward me. “Hit Send, princess. It’ll be good for the soul. Make that dude suffer for blowing you off. Because, believe me, when he sees that picture, he’ll suffer.”

My hand wraps around my phone. “I can’t. I don’t . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t want him to think I’m mad.”

He scoffs. “Come on. You
are
mad. May as well be honest about it.”

“Yeah, but, we don’t have that kind of relationship, and I don’t want to look like . . . needy or high-maintenance or psycho or whatever.”

It sounds lame coming out, but I’m just not explaining it well. Caleb always tells me how much he loves how calm and cool I am, how nothing seems to ruffle me.
Very Jackie O., Natalie,
he’s said more than once. And from Mr. Political Science Major, there’s no higher compliment.

I love that he sees me that way and not as the girl from that trashy Bourne family like I’ve been all my life. Caleb thinks I’m elegant, a lady. And I want to be that for him. So I’ve learned to tame my fiery temper when things don’t go the way I want.

But, of course, someone like Monroe won’t understand that. He’s probably never edited a word in his life.

He smirks and shakes his head. “Right. God forbid you make him think
bad things
. You didn’t seem to have any problem giving me an earful when we met.”

“You’re not him.”

“No doubt about that. You two must have a very . . . nice relationship.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He rolls his neck, looking tired all of a sudden, and turns his back to me. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s been a long day and I’m just talking shit. Give me a minute, and I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

He heads toward the office that sits off the main waiting area and starts unbuttoning his coveralls, peeling them down as he goes and revealing the cleaner clothes beneath.

I follow him, phone still clutched in my hand. “No, go ahead and tell me what you’re thinking. It’s not like you’ve held back yet.”

He kicks his boots off and steps out of the coveralls. “You just didn’t strike me as the type to be so worried about making waves or telling it like it is. You damn near bit my head off when you met me, and you don’t even know me. I guess I’m surprised you’d let the boyfriend get away with ditching you so easily.”

“He didn’t—” But before I can finish, my phone dings.

I glance down at the new email. It’s from the restaurant. Damn, I probably should’ve called and canceled. Can they charge you for not showing up? I slide my thumb over the message.

Good news! Your request to move your reservation from 8:00 to 8:15 has been approved. Thank you for using TableOne to make your reservations.

I stare down at the message, reading it again.

“Something wrong?” Monroe asks as he leans over to a small locker and pulls out a pair of beat-up black Chucks to replace his boots.

“I’m not—” I shake my head. “Looks like there’s some glitch with the dinner reservation I had tonight. I probably should call and cancel.”

He shrugs. “Whatever. Mind doing it outside? I’m going to lock up and set the alarm.”

I nod numbly. “Yeah, sure.”

He pulls on his shoes, and I head outside, dialing the number for the restaurant when I reach the parking lot. I listen to it ring and ring as I watch Monroe through the window. He’s flipping off lights and checking doors. Finally, someone on the other end of the line answers.

“Thank you for calling Madrid, how may I help you?”

“Hi, there was a reservation for two tonight at eight under the name Caleb Dewhurst and—”

“Yes, ma’am, we moved it to eight fifteen, per request, and even got you a table on the roof terrace.”

“But I didn’t make the request—”

“Oh, well, Mr. Dewhurst called a few minutes ago and adjusted it. So you’re all set.”

“I— Wait, he called recently?”

“Uh.” The woman sounds a little flustered now, like she knows she’s given something away. “Yes, a few minutes ago.”

My skin goes cold, and in my peripheral vision, I see Monroe stepping into the parking lot and locking the outside door.

“Did you need anything else, ma’am?”

I shake myself out of the frozen state I’ve entered. “No, that’s all right.”

I press End and my hand lowers to my side.

Monroe closes the distance between us. “Everything okay?”

My heart is beating fast, and I’m chilled despite the humid evening. Surely, it must be some mix-up at the restaurant. But I find myself saying, “Could you drive through downtown before bringing me home?”

His tilts his head. “Yeah, sure. How come?”

I take a deep breath and drop my phone into my purse. “Because he kept the goddamned reservation, and suddenly, I’m not feeling very nice at all.”

Monroe shakes his head, his mouth in a grim line. I expect him to say
I told you so
, but thankfully he refrains. Probably a good thing because I kind of feel like punching something right now. And if he’d said that, it might’ve been him.

“Come on.” He motions for me to follow him to the back of the building, and I stalk after him, girl on a mission.

But my bravado and brilliant plan only last about thirty seconds. Because what greets me in the back parking lot is absolutely not an option. “Oh, hell no.”

Monroe swings his leg over the seat of a motorcycle with handlebars that look way too high to be comfortable, and tosses me a helmet. “Sorry, princess, this is the only ride I’ve got. Lyle took the truck home.”

“I’m in a dress.”

“Just tuck the fabric underneath your legs to hold it down. You’ll be up against me, so it’s not like anyone’s going to see anything.”

Up against him.
God
. “I’m not riding on a motorcycle.”

He shrugs. “There’s a bus stop at the corner that will bring you downtown. Though, this isn’t the best neighborhood at night, so I wouldn’t recommend it. And hey, if you’re really on a mission for revenge, riding up on the back of one of these with your legs wrapped around some other dude could be kind of badass.”