Slow Ride (2 page)
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SLOW RIDE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / October 2011
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / October 2011
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ISBN : 978-1-101-54482-2
BERKLEY SENSATION
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Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION
®
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®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION
®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For my father
Even after ten years you are greatly missed.
PROLOGUE
TUESDAY
Jones stared at the minister in front of her, watching his mouth move, but unable to process what he was saying. The sun was hot on her arms, the breeze flapping her skirt, heels sinking into the soft grass, while her mother wept quietly beside her. None of it seemed real. It was like her entire body and her brain had been dipped in analgesic, and she was completely numb as she watched them lower her father’s casket into the ground.
Jones stared at the minister in front of her, watching his mouth move, but unable to process what he was saying. The sun was hot on her arms, the breeze flapping her skirt, heels sinking into the soft grass, while her mother wept quietly beside her. None of it seemed real. It was like her entire body and her brain had been dipped in analgesic, and she was completely numb as she watched them lower her father’s casket into the ground.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to beat cancer, be one of those miraculous stories of triumph.
Instead, he was dead just three months after diagnosis, and Tuesday couldn’t believe it was real.
She hadn’t cried. She couldn’t cry. It was like all of her emotions were locked inside her, frozen solid.
It even took her a second to realize when her sun hat was lifted off her head by a gust of wind. She actually stared at it blankly as it tumbled past her mother’s legs.
Only when it appeared her grieving mother was going to give chase did Tuesday react. “I have it,” she murmured to her mother, squeezing her hand as she moved across the grass.
If it had been up to her, she would have just let the hat fly away to God knew where. She didn’t care about the hat. She didn’t care about anything.
A man a few headstones over bent down and caught her hat.
“Here you go,” he told her, holding it out with a wisp of a smile.
“Thank you.”
“My condolences.” He nodded toward her father’s funeral, now complete.
Her family and her father’s friends were murmuring to each other, standing around in small groups. Tuesday swung her head back to the man in front of her. “Thank you. The same to you.”
He nodded.
When Tuesday just stood there, staring at him without even really being aware of what she was doing, he cleared his throat.
“I guess you were close with him?”
“Yes. It’s my father.” And she couldn’t go back. She knew it was weird and awkward that she was just standing there staring at this man, intruding on his grief, but she knew that if she turned, if she walked across that grass and had to face her mother, she would lose it. Which she couldn’t do. She needed to keep it together for her mother, who was beyond devastated. Her mother had lost her life partner and she was walking around in a haze. Tuesday needed to be strong.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“And you?” she managed, determined to force normal conversation from her mouth, to focus on this man standing in front of her in a white dress shirt and black pants. As long as she concentrated on being normal with him, she could hold the tears, the hysteria at bay.
“My cousin.” His thumb jerked behind him. “My mother.” He pointed to the left. “My kid brother.” His finger stayed in the same direction, then slowly fell to his side. “It does get easier with time, I promise.”
And suddenly Tuesday lost it. The lip started to tremble, then the tears sprang out, while the low, deep sobs burst forth from her chest. She fought for control, but grief was winning. His eyes went wide, then suddenly his arms were around her, holding her.
“Shh, it’s okay, let it out. Stop fighting it.”
So she did. She let the sobs wrack her body, let the tears stream onto his gray-striped tie and shirt, even as she held her arms awkwardly at her sides, unable to wrap them around him. He had a muscular, solid chest, and arms that held her with gentle yet strong confidence. He smelled like aftershave, and his deep voice was soothing as he murmured in her ear over and over.
When she finally got a rein on her crying, and was able to step back, too upset to even feel embarrassed that she had sobbed on a stranger, he reached out and wiped her cheeks with callused fingers. “Everyone needs a good cry now and again.”
Tuesday sniffled, using her arm to wipe her nose like a little kid.
“I’m Daniel, by the way.”
“Tuesday.”
“I think you should get back to your family, Tuesday,” he told her. “Take care of yourself. Again, I’m sorry.”
He squeezed her hand in good-bye, his green eyes flooded with sympathy before he turned and left.
Tuesday glanced down at the headstone he had been standing over. Peter Briggs. The stock car driver, killed in a wreck a few years earlier. His cousin, he’d said.
She watched Daniel walking across the grass, a slight limp to his gait, and she knew immediately who he was.
Daniel “Diesel” Lange.
Pete Briggs’s cousin and a driver of considerable reputation and success until his car had kissed the wall head-on, leaving doctors and officials alike wondering how the man was still alive. He’d suffered a broken neck, a punctured lung, and a shattered leg, but he had survived, though he had retired.
A good ol’ boy, Tuesday’s father had called him.
And her dad’s favorite driver.
As she made her way back to her mother, she found herself glancing up at the sky, like she could somehow see her dad there.
Her father’s favorite driver had been standing ten feet away during his funeral. She thought her dad would have appreciated the irony of that.
It was the first peaceful thought she’d had all day.
CHAPTER
ONE
ONE
GRATEFUL
that her toast as maid of honor was behind her, Tuesday also appreciated that her orange bridesmaid dress looked remarkably better under the muted ballroom lights than it had earlier in the day. Heading for the bar—because one glass of champagne clearly wasn’t enough—she veered at the last second to the dessert table. She was supposed to meet Evan Monroe, the man who had been smart enough to marry her best friend, Kendall, and throw her a big old wedding reception four months after their impulsive elopement. When Evan had commented during dinner that women couldn’t do shots of whiskey, Tuesday felt it was her duty, orange dress and all, to stand up for her gender.
that her toast as maid of honor was behind her, Tuesday also appreciated that her orange bridesmaid dress looked remarkably better under the muted ballroom lights than it had earlier in the day. Heading for the bar—because one glass of champagne clearly wasn’t enough—she veered at the last second to the dessert table. She was supposed to meet Evan Monroe, the man who had been smart enough to marry her best friend, Kendall, and throw her a big old wedding reception four months after their impulsive elopement. When Evan had commented during dinner that women couldn’t do shots of whiskey, Tuesday felt it was her duty, orange dress and all, to stand up for her gender.
But first she wanted a piece of cake.
To coat her stomach for the liquor.
Or maybe just because she liked cake.
She had to admit she was feeling weird-happy for Kendall, but also like she still wasn’t totally enjoying herself. Like she couldn’t. Yet for the first time in the three weeks since her dad had died, she didn’t feel like she might burst into tears at any given moment, so that was progress. Baby steps. Little tiny almost nonexistent baby steps, because there was nothing easy about losing her father. Death sucked. Grief sucked.
On that very unpleasant thought, she grabbed a piece of cake from the assortment and crammed it into her mouth.
And discovered that she had chosen the damn coconut slice, one of her very least favorite flavors ever. There was good, there was bad, and then there was coconut. Her mouth automatically opening in horror, she looked around for a napkin, the flavor invading and offending every single one of her taste buds. Feeling like she might gag from the texture, she worked the cake forward with her tongue, debating just chucking it out of her mouth and into her champagne glass.
A hand shot out in front of her mouth and Evan said, “Just spit it out.”
She only paused for a second before depositing the vile waxy coconut hunk into Evan’s hand. “Oh, my God, thank you. Coconut. Ick. That was so freaking gross—”
Tuesday forgot the rest of her sentence when she looked up and realized that it wasn’t Evan next to her. It was Diesel Lange. Retired driver. The man she had cried on at her father’s funeral.
And the man she had now just spit chewed-up cake into his outstretched palm.
Oh. My. God. She felt heat flood her face as she stared at him, trying to think of something, anything to say. “Sorry,” was the best she could manage. “I thought you were Evan.”
It was a lame explanation, but how did you really explain regurgitation onto total strangers?
His eyebrows furrowed. “Why would you think I was Evan?”
“Because I was meeting Evan.” Tuesday licked her lips, still tasting the coconut, still feeling like an ass. “I don’t usually just spit out food into random people’s hands, you know.” Food she realized he was still holding. “God, that’s so gross, I’m sorry.”
She reached out and grabbed the cold, mushy, spit-filled blob off his hand. It left a slimy smear across his skin. “Crap, sorry.” She was tempted to lick it off, but figured that would make it worse. A lot worse. She didn’t imagine any man wanted a woman to just lick them at a wedding reception.
Then again, maybe men did.
The oven her face had become burned a little hotter.
But he just gave her a lopsided smile. “Quit apologizing. I’m the one who stuck my hand out. I don’t like coconut either, so I’m glad I could help. The texture makes me want to hurl.”
She felt slightly better, or at least she would when that saliva trail across his hand was gone. First she’d snotted on his dress shirt at the funeral, now she’d spit on him. Classy.
“Let me get you a napkin.” Which now that she was glancing around, she saw they were plenty on the corner of the table, but they were blending into the tablecloth, which had created this moment of horror for her. “Here.” Grabbing several off the top of the stack, she scrubbed at his hand with it. “I can’t believe I spit on you.”
His other hand reached out and stilled her, wrapping loosely around her wrist. “Stop. A little saliva never killed anyone.”
“I don’t have any communicable diseases, just so you know.” Oh, God, did she really just say that? Tuesday downed the rest of her glass of champagne.
Diesel burst out laughing. “That is good to know. But I wasn’t worried.”
Then he just . . . looked at her. Tuesday wondered if he remembered who she was. Wondered if she was supposed to acknowledge that she had cried on him. But what if she said something and he didn’t recognize her? She glanced ruefully into the bottom of her empty glass.
What was the most disconcerting of all was that she had never been the type of woman who worried about things like this. She was no stranger to voicing her opinion, and she had never lacked for confidence. You couldn’t be missing either if you wanted to be successful in the field of sports reporting. So why she was standing there wide-eyed and mute like an anime cartoon girl she did not understand. That shit had to stop.
“I was meeting Evan at the bar. I should head on over there,” she said. “Come with me and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“It’s an open bar.”
She grinned. “I know. But it’s the thought that counts.”
He smiled back, a crooked smile that sent a shiver racing up her spine.
Hello.
She’d just felt the first jolt of sexual interest she’d had in months. It had been instantaneous when the corner of his mouth had risen slowly and slyly, and Tuesday cleared her throat, suddenly unnerved. He was tall, with shaggy dark blond hair and some short facial hair that she felt the urge to touch to test its softness.
Hello.
She’d just felt the first jolt of sexual interest she’d had in months. It had been instantaneous when the corner of his mouth had risen slowly and slyly, and Tuesday cleared her throat, suddenly unnerved. He was tall, with shaggy dark blond hair and some short facial hair that she felt the urge to touch to test its softness.
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