I strode furiously over to my parked car, cursing my whole life. I wanted to get away, to disappear and forget about everything he’d told me.
Logan had guessed right. The problem was in my brain, not my body.
I pulled the key fob from my jeans pocket and unlocked the doors. I would have been able to leave immediately if it weren’t for the massive, cherry-red Ducati Monster parked perilously close to my Maserati.
“What the fuck!” I burst out, slowing my stride a little ways away from the bike.
I looked around for the dumbass who had parked it so close that Icouldn’t open my door, but there was no one around. I was on the edge of a meltdown, and I wouldn’t have thought twice about breaking someone’s face. I knew I’d have to get in the gym and start training the minute I got home, and it would have been nice to warm up my fists on some dickhead instead.
“Oh, sorry, Miller. My baby’s out of commission.” An assertive and notably familiar voice piped up from behind me.
I turned in the direction of the sound and spotted a head of black hair and a pair of green eyes that I knew very well.
The bike belonged to Megan Wayne. Of course.
I immediately went rigid and internally cursed this day, hoping it would just end as soon as possible because I couldn’t go on like this. I had reached my limit with everything that was happening to me.
“Okay, great. I’ll go in the other side,” I said irritably.
There, I had found a solution, but even if I hadn’t, I would have figured out some way to cut off this ridiculous situation.
I examined her feminine shoulders draped in a leather jacket and the star-shaped studs on her lapels. I also looked at her tight black jeans that outlined her slim legs tucked into low-heeled leather boots. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, but her savage, snarky charm would never move me.
“Think you could start her for me? Or at least take a look and see why it won’t turn on?” Megan called out again, halting my attempt to escape from her and from the memories that accompanied her. I scrutinized her once again, and I didn’t see any hint of malice or mockery in her eyes. She was just a woman alone in a parking lot at eight p.m., asking for help.
I could have told her no and walked away not giving a shit, like I usually did with everyone else. But some human part of me that I hadn’t even known I had made me stop. I felt sorry for her, and, with a heavy sigh, I brushed past her to get to the Ducati.
“Oh, thank you. I didn’t realize you were nice like that,” she teased and tossed me the key, which I caught in the air, ignoring her needling.
I didn’t answer; I just made myself useful and got on the bike. Calling it a monster was an understatement. I’d ridden bikes like it before, but I’d forgotten the high of it.
I kicked up the stand and put it in neutral before turning the key. I pressed the red start button, but nothing happened.
I got off the bike and spent a few minutes checking for the problem, which I quickly located: The tank was empty.
“Are you familiar with this thing called gas?” I asked her wryly. “Tank’s bone dry.” I looked at her, and she frowned back, her green eyes darting back and forth between me and the bike. Then she raised a skeptical eyebrow at me.
She didn’t believe me.
The woman really was a head case.
“What? That’s impossible,” she said, gesturing at the gas tank. I rolled my eyes and moved close enough to her that she had to crane her neck back to look at me. I took in her pleasant scent and examined the long lashes that framed her vine-colored eyes.
“Can’t you just drive a fucking pink VW Bug? I think that would be more your speed.” I searched her face and quirked the corner of my mouth in a teasing way.
What was she doing on a Ducati when she couldn’t figure out when the tank was empty?
“Why do men always act like sexist dickheads, always assuming a woman is inferior to them both mentally and physically?” she snapped back, her voice steady and self-assured.
I would have enjoyed continuing that interesting exchange of opinions if it were literally anyone else in the world in front of me.
Megan was practically a carbon copy of me, except for the pussy between her legs. I knew how she was. If I indulged her, she would make this discussion last forever, and I didn’t have time to waste on that.
“I’d love to stay here and break down your feminist ideas, but, alas, I have things to do,” I lied. I didn’t have anything to do. Except get away from her as fast as possible and go home to take yet another shower. To that end, I tried to walk past her, but Head Case blocked my route with her hands planted on her slim hips.
“I have things to do,” I said again, slower and more menacing this time, but Megan just smiled and shrugged an arrogant shoulder.
“If you were a gentlemen, you might say, ‘Dear Megan, do you need a lift?’” She tried to mimic my voice and failed miserably. But she wasn’t done with her little pantomime. “And then I would say, ‘Oh, yes, Miller, you are so well-mannered.’” She pressed a hand to her chest and batted her eyelashes. “And you would be a better man for that good deed.” She raised a finger in an instructive fashion, and I glanced around, hoping that no one else was bearing witness to this little scene.
