She climbs back up onto the mattress and places the case next to her on the light comforter, watching me with a kind of focus I could revel in, if I was free to do as I please where she’s concerned.
But after talking all night, I know now that she, too, prefers one-night stands, for reasons of her own. If there could be some fun between us, it’s gonna have to be at the end of her stay here, when no attachment could be formed, and no older brother could condemn me for it.
So I’ll be strong for both of us until then.
But if she’s up for one hell of a mind-bending night before she’s gone… I’ll give her something to remember. Shit, I’ve got weeks to plan it out.
“Before you leave town, Amelia,” I promise her.
Her throat bobs with a swallow I need to feel for myself, but now isn’t the time.
“Your last night here, it belongs to me, darlin’.”
That delicate mouth parts, her breath hitching as she moves her head in a small nod, lying back down, eyes never leaving mine.
Standing, I lean forward, into her personal space, and grab the plastic case. My lips find her ear, and I hear her suck in a sharp breath from the proximity, the electricity sparking between us at such a close range.
My hand finds hers, and I place the toy in her grasp.
“For tonight, use this on yourself and think of me while you do,” I whisper into her ear.
And then, with all the strength I possess, I leave, stepping into the early morning light of the sunrise, and heading back to my temporary home, where nothing but my hand—and thoughts of a beautiful girl with short dark hair, perfect tits, and multiple piercings—is waiting for me.
EIGHT
AMELIA
I hope this van is ready soon. Because if I don’t get on the road and find someone to cure this raging appetite of sexual destruction with, I’m liable to corner Weston Grady and try to change his mind on waiting until my last night by pleading a case withlotsof physical evidence.
Begging for sex really isn’t my vibe, though, and if his brother is his holdup, I’m not about to get in between him and Oscar the Grouch.
Seriously, if this garage were going to be named after any Sesame Street character, that one sure seems pretty spot-on if you ask me.
“Parts are in,” less fuzzy, grumpier Oscar says to me, plopping a bag of small metal pieces down on the workbench beside him.
One step closer to being back on the road.
That thought should make me happy. So why do my insides feel chilled and hollow?
I give him all the enthusiasm I can muster in a lackluster little cheer, arms over my head, pulling my crop top dangerously high, but this man couldn’t be less interested in anyone that isn’ta tall bombshell in killer heels who goes by Rory, and he doesn’t even notice when I tug my shirt back down for modesty’s sake.
“So now?” I prompt him.
“Now we gotta get the tranny and the engine rebuilt, in between all this othershit.” Wyatt waves an arm around the garage, which somehow has even more vehicles in it than it did when mine arrived.
Labor costs for rebuilding a transmissionandan engine. Just what I wanted to think about. Yay for me.
Regulating my voice to the approximate moisture level of sandpaper, I say, “Don’t give me too much hope now. Might give me a reason to live, and we wouldn’t want that.”
His eyes—so similar in color to Weston’s, so different in sentiment—float toward the ceiling, as close as he probably gets to rolling them.
“Hand over the razor blades, Wednesday Shortcake. Today’s not your day. Not on my watch.”
“Did you call me Wednesday Shortcake?”
“You’re half depressing, half irritatingly sunny. Could call you Strawberry Addams instead, I guess.”
That’s what I get for trying to find the bright side after the trauma I’ve been through. An amateur diagnosis of manic-depressive and suicidal by a mechanic with the emotional range of a carburetor. Hasn’t he ever heard of dark humor?It’s called coping, asshole.
