Slow Ride (7 page)
“Yep. Just a routine check on the old ticker after the angioplasty. So how’s the car coming along?”
Johnny stuck his head under the hood and they stared in companionable silence for a few minutes. His uncle offered a suggestion or two, which Diesel valued. But there was something his uncle wanted to say and Diesel knew it. He was just waiting for the reveal when Johnny was ready.
“So your aunt wanted me to ask you if you’re busy Saturday night.”
Diesel stood up, eyeing his uncle suspiciously. “Why?” If his uncle invited him to a boat show or something of that ilk it was one thing, but his aunt inquiring over his schedule made him nervous.
“You didn’t answer the question, son. Are you busy or not?”
Damn it. “No.” Rarely was he busy these days. His Saturday night usually involved a beer and his remote control. Living the dream, that’s what he was doing.
“There’s this thing up at the church that’s like a night at the races and Beth’s friend Jean is bringing her daughter, Ellie. There’s an extra seat at our table and Beth wants you there.”
Diesel fought the urge to groan. Ellie was the kind of marriage-hungry woman on the hunt who made his nuts shrivel up and his bank account squeal. “Johnny, I don’t want to sit with Beth’s friend Jean’s daughter, Ellie. There is nothing more awkward than an obvious set-up date with all of your parents around.”
His uncle lifted his ball cap and scratched his forehead. “That’s what I told her, but your aunt has her ideas. She means well.”
“I can find my own dates.” He just chose not to.
“Yeah? When was the last time you had a date? And hanging with Wilma here don’t count.” Johnny reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Even if she is a pretty dog, aren’t you, Wilma?”
“If I wanted a date, I could have one.” He was aware that sounded childish, but how the hell did he explain to his uncle that he was afraid to date? The last sexual encounter he’d had with a woman had ended in total deflation of his man parts when his knee had given out in the middle of banging her. He’d had to abort the mission and finish her off manually. It had been one of the single most humiliating experiences of his life and not one he was itching to repeat. “I just don’t particularly want one.”
Which was something of a lie. He had met a woman he would like to date. He wanted to see Tuesday Jones again and there was no denying he had wanted to have sex with her the night before. But he was fairly certain he wasn’t going to do anything about it.
“Why don’t you want to date?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Look, son, if you’re gay you know we’ll love you and support you no matter what. You don’t have to hide from your family.”
Diesel looked at his uncle, who was tomato red and shuffling uncomfortably, and burst out laughing. “I’m not gay. But I do appreciate that you’d accept it if I was.”
The red receded and Johnny openly exhaled before throwing up his hand. “Then what the hell is the problem? You’re young, you’ve got money and time, and you’ve got my genetics in you so you’re good-looking. You should be working your way through a steady stream of blondes.”
“I like brunettes.”
“Don’t get smart with me. You’re thirty years old. When I was your age I’d been married for almost a decade.”
“That’s your problem, not mine,” Diesel told him mildly. He grinned when his uncle blustered. “I’m kidding. Don’t worry about me. Tell Aunt Beth not to worry. I’m fine.”
“There’s fine, and then there’s happy. Which one are you?”
It hit a little too close to home and Diesel found he didn’t really have an answer. He was fine. But he wasn’t sure he was particularly happy. “Content” was a better word for it.
“Look, your dad was an idiot jackass for leaving like he did. You’re my sister’s son and I always thought of you and Josh as my boys, too. Now that your mama and your brother and Pete are all gone, it’s just you and me and Beth and Petey and Hunter. And we aren’t going to be around forever, and Pete’s kids have a stepfather now. We want you settled and happy and having kids of your own.”
Trying to ignore the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, Diesel stared hard at his uncle. “Are you sure everything’s okay with your heart? If you start gifting me your boat and your cars, I’m going to get worried.”
Diesel knew the reality. It was just him and Johnny and Beth. Yeah, Pete’s kids were in the picture, and his widow, Tammy, did a fine job of keeping the lines of communication open with Johnny and Beth, but she was remarried. She’d probably be having more kids of her own soon with Elec Monroe, and Diesel couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen those kids. Knowing their family was so small and so finite was scary as hell. He didn’t want to lose the two most important people in his life.
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I told you that. We just want you to go to the goddamn night at the races at church and sit with Ellie. Is that so goddamn hard?”
Apparently the tender moment had passed and his uncle was getting as impatient with the whole conversation as he was. “Alright, alright, I’ll go to the damn night at the races. Jesus, lay off me.” He realized they were both swearing in conjunction with talking about church, but a date with tenacious Ellie warranted some mild cursing.
His uncle clapped him on the shoulder and grinned in triumph. “You’ll be glad you did it. Ellie is a supersweet girl, very passive.”
“Really?” He eyed Johnny skeptically. “Are we talking about Ellie Babcock? Because I’ll have you know that she grabbed my junk at the church’s walk for hunger.”
“She did not,” his uncle scoffed. “You must have misunderstood.”
Yeah, right. Diesel knew what he knew. “How do you misunderstood a hand on your crotch cupping a squeeze? Or her saying we could go behind the baptismal font for a little slap and tickle?”
“You’re making that up.”
Diesel felt indignant. “Why the hell would I make that up? It was weird. Ellie is weird and I don’t want to sit next to her. She’ll molest me under the table.”
“Now that’s just dumb. Why would she do that in the church hall?”
Was his uncle not listening? “She offered to do me behind the baptismal font! Of course she’ll try to cop a feel.”
“Well, so? That will probably be the most play you’ve gotten in months.”
Diesel was not enjoying this conversation. His uncle might have a point, but he was not to a level of desperation that the tiger on the prowl was appealing to him. If he let her out of the cage, she’d tear him limb to limb in bed, and he bet he wouldn’t even like it.
Fortunately he was saved from having to answer by his phone buzzing in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw it was a text from Evan Monroe.
Did Tuesday get home ok?
He typed back,
Yes. Hoping she’s feeling alright today
.
Yes. Hoping she’s feeling alright today
.
“Who are you texting?” Johnny asked. “Feel free to text when you’re alone with Wilma but when I’m standing here that’s rude.”
“Sorry. It was Evan Monroe. I gave one of the bridesmaids a ride home last night and Evan was checking on her.”
“Yeah? Did a little post-wedding horizontal shuffle, huh? No wonder you don’t want to meet Ellie.”
Really? The horizontal shuffle? Diesel wished. “Of course not. She was completely loaded and passed out the second I got her into her apartment. Actually, she passed out in the car first. I was just being a nice guy.”
“Well, good for you. But it would have been a better story if you’d spent the night knocking boots.”
“Horizontal shuffle? Knocking boots? Are you afraid to say ‘sex,’ Uncle Johnny?” he said, deflecting from the fact that he agreed. It would have been much better to have woken up this morning with Tuesday wrapped around him than his dog curled at his feet.
“I can say sex. And that’s not the point. The point is if you’re thirty and you’re not married, you should at least be boinking everything in reach.”
“Boink?”
Diesel laughed. “What am I, an ’80s frat boy? Seriously, don’t worry about my sex life.”
Diesel laughed. “What am I, an ’80s frat boy? Seriously, don’t worry about my sex life.”
He was worrying enough about it for the both of them.
His phone buzzed again.
Tuesday’s not answering her phone
.
Tuesday’s not answering her phone
.
Hmm. “Evan says she’s not answering her phone. What do you think that means?”
“It means she’s hungover and wishing everyone would leave her the hell alone so she can die in peace.”
Probably that was true. But what if she’d had blood alcohol poisoning? Passed out in the bathroom and hit her head on the toilet and was unconscious? Diesel started to think maybe he shouldn’t have left her alone. He could have stayed and slept on her couch, but he hadn’t wanted to invade her privacy. “Maybe I should check on her.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
Another text came in.
She’s late for the wedding brunch
.
She’s late for the wedding brunch
.
“Shit.” Her car was still at the reception hall. “She is supposed to be at some brunch and she’s not there and I realized we left her car at the hall last night when I drove her home. She’s probably hungover and stranded. I should go over there.” Patting his pockets, Diesel found his keys in the left side and pulled them out.
“Alright. That’s probably the right thing to do. Who is this girl, by the way?”
“Tuesday Jones.”
“Bob’s daughter?”
“Yeah. She’s having a rough time of it since he passed away.”
“I imagine so.” His uncle eyeballed him. “Probably not someone you want to get involved with right now.”
“No?” he said mildly. He knew his uncle spoke out of concern and he was probably more right than wrong, but Diesel couldn’t get Tuesday out of his head. That much he knew.
“No. Now Ellie on the other hand, is totally date-worthy.”
Diesel laughed. “You don’t even know that. You’re just saying it because now you want to win.”
“That’s probably true.” Johnny slapped him on the back. “But you’ll see. Hot tamale, that one is.”
No doubt about it. “I’m not interested,” he repeated, images of a girl in a pepper suit dancing toward him popping into his head.
Funny that a pile of chewed-up coconut in his hand seemed way more appealing.
TUESDAY
turned her head in bed and instantly regretted it. The room spun and her stomach heaved.
turned her head in bed and instantly regretted it. The room spun and her stomach heaved.
Damn. She was hungover. Big-time.
Why did the fun of a good escapist buzz always come at the price of a pounding head and a sour stomach? It wasn’t fair.
Prying an eye open, she saw that her phone was on the nightstand, but couldn’t muster the strength to pick it up and see what time it was. Then she saw the big glass of water sitting there beckoning like nirvana, and two aspirin resting beside it.
Diesel must have done that. Tuesday was equal parts thrilled and mortified. She really wanted the water and she tentatively stretched her arm and shaky hand out for it. What a guy. What a seriously thoughtful guy. But it was also a little more than humiliating to think what a hot mess she must have been by the time he had dumped her into bed.
Not her best foot forward.
Oh, well. Nothing she could do about it, and she hadn’t done anything truly inappropriate. She had flirted with him, but big deal. She was just as likely to do that sober. Lying on his lap had been a bit much, but it wasn’t like he’d hated it. She was more worried about the fact that she seemed to be wearing nothing but a bra and panties and couldn’t remember taking her bridesmaid dress off. Hopefully she had peeled it off after he’d left instead of before.
She sucked down half the glass of water and dragged herself to a semi sitting position. Grabbing the aspirin, she crammed them into her mouth and downed the rest of the water. When she picked up her phone and saw she had six texts from Evan and Kendall and that it was already eight minutes after twelve, she groaned, falling back against the pillows.
“Crap. Crap, crap, crap.” She was late for the damn brunch and even if she managed to get her sorry butt in the shower and dressed, she didn’t have a ride. Her car was still at the reception hall.
Not the best planning ever.
Not the best bridesmaid ever.
Swallowing back the nausea, Tuesday flung back the covers and stood up. She smelled like sweet-and-sour pork, and a glance in the mirror as she passed the dresser proved that Halloween had come early to her house. Her hair was straight out of a horror film, teased and lumpy and snarled, while her makeup had migrated from her eyes down her face to cluster in black puddles on her chin. Her skin was pale, her undereyes bruised, lids swollen, eyes bloodshot and beady.
Fright Night.
No doubt about it.
Walking carefully, she rolled her shoulders. It felt like she’d worked out for twelve hours straight. Every inch of her was stiff and sore and she seemed to have a mysterious bruise on her hip. She hated sleeping in a bra and she had the indentation in the skin on her back to prove that she had.
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