Nice Girls Don't Ride (3 page)

Shit. Shit. Shit.
I can feel my face flushing. Wrapping my legs around him is
so
not a good idea. I scramble for an excuse. “You know how dangerous these things are?”

He laughs. “Thanks, Mom. Duly noted. I promise to go the speed limit and observe all traffic laws.” He raises his hand in the Scout’s Honor mode, three fingers in the air. “But have you ever heard that saying about beggars not being choosers. You want a ride or not?”

“Goddamn it.” I shove the ridiculous helmet on my head.

His smile screams victory. “Oh, and if you need me to make out with you or anything for show when we drive up, I can find it in my giving nature to make that sacrifice for you.”

I give him a droll look. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

He nods solemnly. “I’m a giver, birthday girl.”

“Just get me over to Willows Avenue without killing me.”

He pats the seat behind him. “Hop on, princess. You’re safe with me.”

What a lie that is. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt less safe around someone. I look down at my dress and then the bike, trying to figure out logistics. “Turn your head.”

“Of course,” he says with a smug smile.

He turns to face forward, but when I adjust my dress and swing my leg over the bike, I see a flash of red and realize I’ve probably given him an R-rated show in the rearview mirror. Fantastic. What a day to choose to wear lacy lingerie. But if he saw anything, he gives no indication.

I situate myself on the seat, tucking my loose skirt beneath my thighs, then look for a place to hold on. But, of course, there’s nothing to grab onto except him. Feeling more than a little awkward, I place my hands on his hips.

“Come on, you’re going to have to hold on better than that.” He takes my hands and guides my arms around his abdomen. His very hard, very flat abdomen. My body is automatically drawn forward to accommodate the hold, and my chest presses up against his back. God help me.

Warmth bleeds from him and through the very thin fabric of my dress and bra. And I’m intensely aware of every single place where my body is touching his. He smells faintly of grease, like the WD-40 I used on my bike as a kid, but somehow it smells good on him instead of acrid like it did back then. I kind of want to press my nose to his neck.

He turns on the bike, the beast of a thing rumbling to life beneath us, and heat that has nothing to do with the weather is quickly chasing away the internal chill that the phone call caused. My thighs are pressed along the edge of his, and there isn’t much of anything between the vibration of the bike and the awareness building between my legs. A faint
oh
escapes me.

“She’s got a lot of power,” he says, pride in his voice.

The noise and my own whirling thoughts are almost too much to talk over, so I just nod.

“Ready?”

“No,” I shout back.

He chuckles and I feel it against my chest. “Relax, Nat. I’ve got you.”

The bike jumps forward, and without thinking, I press my face into his shoulder and squeeze tight.

Monroe

This chick is going to kill me.
I merge onto the highway, working hard to focus on the road, as Natalie’s hold on me goes spider-monkey tight. Her face is buried against my shoulder, and I can feel every damn curve of hers pressing along my back. And though I’d actually attempted to be decent when she’d gotten on the bike, I’d caught a glimpse anyway. Now all I can think about is the fact that she’s got fuck-me red panties on beneath that bring-a-guy-to-his-knees dress.

But she’s not my date, and I’m not going to be seeing those panties or anything else tonight. No, I’m just the idiot going ten miles out of my way to help a sexy redhead meet up with her jackass boyfriend.

I know better than this, know not to mess with girls like her. The look on her face when I’d first gotten out of the truck told me everything I needed to know. She doesn’t see me as a member of the same planet she inhabits. She’s one of those uppity chicks from Texas Methodist University—the school that cost almost as much a semester as I make in a year. In her eyes, I’m just the help.

Usually that would piss me off enough to tell someone to go to hell, but Natalie had gotten under my skin back at the shop. Something about her doesn’t seem as distant and polished as the other debutante rich girls I’ve come across. There’s a realness there, a vulnerable side, one that had cracked wide open when her boyfriend said he wasn’t coming to pick her up.

What a douche bag. Canceling on a girl on her birthday is bad enough, but if this guy bailed on her to take some other girl out . . . well, then he deserves whatever Natalie’s planning to dish out. Though, part of me wonders if she’ll react outwardly at all. Apparently, she’s highly concerned with being nice and non-psycho and non-high-maintenance. Where’s the fun in that?

I run in circles where girls don’t take that kind of shit lying down. Most of my female friends go with the scorched-earth philosophy if a dude does them wrong. Screw one over, and she’ll make you rue the fucking day. I’d seen more than one of my friends taken down after making a stupid mistake. It’s one reason why I steer clear of relationships and stick to the casual stuff. I don’t need the drama. I like my life simple: take my classes, do my job at my brother’s shop, and have a little fun in between. Perfect. But that doesn’t mean a woman who isn’t afraid to spar with me won’t turn my head. It’s what had captured my interest with Natalie up front—well, besides the legs on her; those had been hard to miss. But it’d been disappointing to see her yield to some boyfriend.

Nice girls. Yawn.

Though, I admit the “do you know how dangerous this thing is” bit pushed a button I didn’t know I had. That Miss Priss vibe she’s got going on kind of does it for me. It makes me want to get her dirty. Really, really dirty.

Images of all the things I’d like to do to her fill my brain as I exit the highway, and my dick goes hard against my zipper. I tighten my grip on my bike and try to rein in the X-rated thoughts before I look like some hard-up pervert. Thank God Natalie still has her face pressed to my back.

This is what I get for taking double shifts at the shop for the last few months. All work and no play has left me wound tight and sporting a hard-on for someone else’s girl. Pathetic. This is exactly why I can’t wait to head out for my summer trip. Open road. The beach. And no obligations but housesitting my buddy’s condo and taking in the view. Next week can’t come fast enough.

Before long, we pull onto the street Natalie requested, and I circle the block twice before finding a parking spot near the restaurant. I cut the engine and Natalie startles behind me, like she has no idea where we are.

She peels her grip from my T-shirt. “That was quick.”

“You kept your eyes closed the whole time, didn’t you?”

She climbs off my bike, pulls off the helmet, and gives me a sheepish grin. “Maybe.”

I shake my head then let my gaze trace over her windswept form. That wild red hair is killing me. “You missed a nice view of downtown when we drove in.”

She adjusts the neckline of her dress and hands me the helmet. “You can show me next time.”

“Next time, huh? You asking me out, princess?”

She presses her lips together. So prim. “That’s not what I meant. I was just saying it—”

“To be nice?” I ask, lifting a brow.

She catches my sarcasm and her eyes narrow. “I’m not that nice.”

“I sincerely hope not.”

She sighs and glances toward the restaurant, worry flickering over her features. “Well, I guess I’d better go in.”

“Want some backup?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s a mix-up and will turn out to be nothing.” But she’s still staring at the restaurant, looking like she’d rather eat a pile of rotten sushi than take another step.

“Too bad. I’m coming in with you anyway.” I climb off my bike. “And for the record, the make-out offer still stands.”

She turns to me, the tension on her face smoothing a bit. “Try it and you’ll see just how skilled I am at self-defense. Warning: they teach us to aim for the soft parts first.”

“Kinky.”

“But if you’re going to come anyway, fine. Just don’t say anything and let me handle it. Here”—she reaches forward and swipes her fingers along my cheek—“you’ve got grease.”

The warm touch jars me, and I have to fight not to grab her hand and keep it against me. When she pulls away, her fingertips are black.

“Hold on.” I grab the bandanna I keep folded and tucked in my back pocket and take her wrist, turning her hand palm up so I can clean her fingertips. “Can’t have a princess getting her hands dirty.”

Her eyes are fixed on what I’m doing, but she doesn’t say anything. And more importantly, she doesn’t pull away. When I’m done, I take a chance and don’t release her hand. I lace my fingers with hers and tug.

“What are you doing?”

“Let’s get this show on the road. What’s on the other side of those doors isn’t going to change no matter how long you stand here. Might as well see what’s what.”

She lets me pull her for a few steps, but when we reach the restaurant, she quickly tugs her hand back, that tight nervousness taking hold of her features again. “Remember, let me handle this.”

“You won’t even know I’m here.”

The door is opened for us, and we head into the swanky restaurant, soft Spanish music drifting around us. The whole place smells like smoked paprika and garlic. It’s an enticing smell, but I’ve heard this place is overrated and overpriced.

The host lifts her head from studying the list on the podium and offers Natalie a warm smile and me a crinkled brow. Jeans and a T-shirt aren’t acceptable attire here, but I’m not apologizing for my clothes. This is Texas. No restaurant should ban jeans.

“May I help you?” That, of course, is directed at Natalie.

“Yes, my boss Caleb Dewhurst is here, and he asked me to stop by and drop off a document he needed for his dinner meeting.”

“Oh, well, I can bring it to him.” The hostess holds out her hand.

“Actually,” Natalie says, patting her purse. “It’s a confidential document I have to deliver in person. You know how bosses are. It’ll only take a minute.”

The hostess smiles in that overly bright way that’s almost hard to look at. “Sure, not a problem.”

She scans the reservation list.

“He said he’d gotten a table on the terrace,” Natalie adds.

“Oh, perfect. Stephanie can lead you up there.” She points to a brunette who’s just returned to the stand.

“You’re the best,” Natalie says, all southern sweetness.

Natalie follows the woman, and I head that way, too. The hostess gives me another look as I pass, but she’s smart enough not to stop me and cause an unnecessary scene. I’ve learned in life that if you act like you’re supposed to be somewhere, most people let you stay.

I trail after Natalie up a set of stairs, my dread rising. For Natalie’s sake, I hope the dickhead boyfriend isn’t really here, that he’s given the reservation to a friend or something. Birthday Girl has already had a shitty enough day. But I have a feeling that’s not going to be the case. And I have a feeling Natalie knows that.

When we reach the rooftop terrace, the hostess leaves us to get back to her post downstairs. The minute she’s out of sight, Natalie scans the dining area then stiffens like someone has run a rod up the back of her dress.
Uh-oh
. I follow her laser gaze and find the table she’s honing in on. A guy with a too-neat haircut and a navy blue blazer is sharing a candlelit table with a blonde in a tight black dress. Appetizers and a bottle of wine are already on the table, and lover boy has his hand draped over the girl’s. He leans forward and kisses her. On the mouth. With a little tongue.

Damn. Douchebag status: confirmed. I called it. But I hate that I’m right on this one.

Natalie hasn’t moved a millimeter. I touch her elbow. “Hey—”

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me,” she says in a dangerously calm voice.

“Natalie, maybe we should—”

But she shakes off my touch. “Oh, no. This is gonna get handled.”

She stalks forward, heels clicking on the copper stained concrete. Shit. This isn’t going to be good. I stride after her, hoping to intercept, but she’s already two steps ahead of me, target in sight. She reaches the table and the boyfriend, Caleb, glances up. His smile freezes in place then sags like a wilting flower.

“Natalie?”

“Caleb,” she says, all poise and icy resolve.

“Oh, crap,” the blonde says, looking panicked. “This isn’t—”

Natalie’s attention swings to the girl. “This isn’t what, Rebecca? You just kissed my boyfriend. What exactly is it? A dental exam?”

The girl looks ready to crawl under the table. “I was just . . . thanking him for helping me pass my econ exam.”

Caleb stands, putting a tentative hand out. “Natalie, baby, it’s fine. Let’s not make this a big deal.”

The chatter around us quiets and heads are turning our way, which seems to make Dickhead supremely uncomfortable. He offers the onlookers a weak smile but comes off looking constipated.

“Not a big deal,” Natalie repeats, her voice rising and some of that stoic mask cracking. “Not a big deal.”

Her tone says it all. I can hear the detonation clock ticking down like on that TV show
24
.
Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Exactly. You know you’re important to me.”

“Important,” Natalie repeats, as if testing out how the word rolls around her mouth.

“But, you know, we never really said we were exclusive,
per se . . .
” Caleb continues.

Boom!
Bomb detonated.

The look on Natalie’s face morphs into quiet, seething rage. She reaches out for the lapels of Caleb’s jacket as if to smooth them. One, two strokes, totally chill, then she yanks him closer. The guy never sees it coming when her knee jabs upward.

I wince as the guy doubles over with a resounding groan. She hadn’t been kidding about going for the soft parts. But using the words
per se
in any context? The dude earned that knee to the nuts.

The other girl tries to come to Caleb’s rescue and sends an evil glare at Natalie. “Jesus, what is wrong with you? This isn’t the trailer park.”

Natalie’s expression is what I imagine a bull looks like when that red cape is waved. Wild, a little crazed. I kinda like it. And I’m not wrong; she’s ready to charge. Natalie plucks the bottle of wine off the table and steps around the girl’s abandoned chair. A big leather handbag hangs off it. Natalie opens the purse wide and pours.

The blonde screams some high-pitched primal shriek. “You bitch, that’s Coach!”

The girl launches herself at Natalie, nails bared, but I step in between them, blocking her attack. I catch her wrists and ease her arms down. “Back off, sweetheart.”

“And who the hell are you?” she demands, glaring and yanking out of my loose hold.

“Not your business.”

“The fuck it’s not,” Caleb says, his gaze going to Natalie. “You’re with Natalie, it’s my business.”

Natalie scoffs then sidles up next to me and grabs my hand. “He’s the guy who’s going to show me a good time on my birthday.”

Well, then.
I school my expression into my poker face.

Caleb’s lip curls as he sizes me up. “Right. Who is he? Your cab driver? Or did you pick up a stray at the bus stop?”

My fist curls. I could take out this smarmy motherfucker with one swift right hook, but I manage to keep my control. Barely. I’d rather not spend the night in lockup.

Natalie looks to the girl, who’s back to having a hissy fit about her purse. “I won’t be home tonight. Touch any of my stuff, and I’ll call the cops.”

The girl is Natalie’s roommate? Ouch.

“Come on, Natalie, let’s not play this game,” Caleb says, moving closer. “You’re not going home with some stranger.”

“No?”

“No. You’re not like that.”

“I’m not, huh?” At that, she turns to stand in front of me. Our gazes collide for half a second and her eyes are . . . pleading for me to play along. Big, green, please-oh-please eyes. Like I could say no to that. Whatever she sees on my face she takes as consent because she reaches up and cups the back of my neck, dragging me down to her. I don’t resist when she presses her mouth to mine.

In fact, for a moment, I forget where we are and what’s going on because
holy shit
. She isn’t going for a peck; she’s jumping off the high dive and taking me with her. My hands lower to her hips, and I bring her up against me as she parts my lips, touches her tongue to mine, then strokes against it. Full, openmouthed assault. And I’m so totally down with this plan. Sign me up. Let’s do this.

Time seems to stop for long seconds as our tongues and lips tangle, and her fingers curl in my hair. My blood goes hot, and I have to remind myself that we’re in public and that I can’t grab her thighs and wrap her legs around me.

She pulls back with a soft gasp, leaving me blinking and a little stunned. Well, that hasn’t happened in a long time—a girl taking charge and leaving me speechless. I’m usually the one making the moves. But I’m definitely not complaining. She spins to face Dickhead again, and I keep my hands on her waist, unsure if I’m doing it to keep her steady or to keep me from tossing her over my shoulder and carrying her out of here caveman style.