“I’m not sure they’d let the likes of me in a church, sweet cheeks. It’s my club—well a chapter of my club. I’m from Kentucky.”
“You’re a biker?” I ask, pumping him for information, as we round the corner of the house.
“You got something against that?” he asks, and I roll my eyes even though he can’t see.
“The only thing I have against you is the fact that if you don’t stop calling me that obnoxious nickname, I’m going to have to kill you. I don’t really want to go to jail. I need to wash my hair tonight.”
I hear the man laughing, but I don’t bother turning around.
“I’ll be right back with my phone.”
I run inside, grabbing a jacket, putting it on before I do anything else. When I come back outside, I have my cell phone in my hand. Mr. Cocky is standing there leaning against the railing of the steps, waiting. I know the minute he laughs he’s mocking me for putting a jacket on. I ignore it.
“Here you go,” I tell him.
He reaches out to get the phone, his fingers brushing against mine. He’s got ink on his arms and his fingers. I’d like to say it’s not hot, but it is. I ignore that fact, along with the fact that his touch feels like an electrical current.
“Thanks, sweet cheeks,” he says, dialing the phone.
“Seriously, just stop,” I demand, but he’s already talking to someone on the phone.
“They’ll be here in an hour,” he says when he hangs up.
“That’s good,” I respond standing there watching him.
“Want some help washing your dog?”
“Excuse me?”
“You looked like you could use some help,” he says with a shrug. “I apparently have some time.”
“No thanks. I think I can handle it.”
“Scared, sweet cheeks?”
“Of you,” I laugh. “Not hardly. I just find you obnoxious.”
“I don’t know. It sounds like you’re scared to spend time with me.”
“Oh, please.”
“C’mon. You and I both know you’re not going to get that dog bathed without help. I’m offering. What have you got to lose?”
I scrunch my nose up, knowing I need to send the guy back to his bike and away from me.
“I don’t want—”
“Bawk, bawk, bawk,” he laughs softly, trying to imitate a chicken and doing it rather badly.
“I must be insane,” I grumble, walking toward the back of the yard.
“Is that a yes, sweet cheeks?”
“I think it’s only fair to warn you that while you’re washing the dog, I’m going to be plotting your murder,” I warn him.
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to do so,” he responds dryly.
“Now that I would believe,” I reply, snarky as hell. I can’t believe I’m letting someone so annoying help me. I have no idea why I’m agreeing either. He’s a jerk and I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s hot. Seriously it doesn’t. Really! “Let’s get this over with,” I tell him looking around for Stinker.
“Sounds good. Since we’re going to be working together, are you going to give me your name, or do I just go ahead and make one up like I threatened?” he asks as we walk over to Stinker. I look up at him, cutting him an annoyed look without replying. His full lips spread into a smile. I shouldn’t find that sexy—but I kind of do. Damn it. “Okay then, I’ll just make one up.”
“If it makes you happy,” I breathe.
“Does your dog bite?”
“Only if you’re a steak,” I tell him.
He somehow manages to pick Stinker up in his arms without any help.
“That’ll work Alotta Melons.”
Alotta Melons?
“Oh my God, you’re insane,” I laugh. I shouldn’t find his make-believe names hilarious, but I do.
“I did warn you,” he says, dropping Stinker into the water and not even sounding winded.
“I guess you did. Maybe it’d be better if you didn’t talk and we just hurry and get Stinker washed. Okay?”
“Sounds good to me. Feel free to take your jacket off and get your t-shirt wet again if you want,” he says.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Lance Softwood,” I respond with a smirk, refusing to look up at him again.
I’m rewarded with the man’s rich, full-bellied laugh. I don’t know why that should make me feel like I won some kind of special prize… but it does.
2
Keys
“Damn. Do you do this all the time?” I ask her, sitting down on one of the chair’s she has sitting around outside.
“Not all the time, but often enough. I’m trying to get them homes for Valentine’s Day.”
“I thought girls liked chocolate and candy for that God-awful day.”
“Is there a law against both?” she asks and since she has a point, I just shrug.
I watch a smile play on the corner of her lips as she hands me a beer and sits down beside me. Her legs stretch out, resting on the small table in front of the chairs. My feet are right beside hers and I’ve got to say, I don’t hate how it feels. Her feet are encased in muck boots, but they have little pink and green umbrellas all over them. Now it’s my turn to smile.
I take a swig of my beer and my gaze moves to her as I watch her open her own. She takes a drink and lets out a big, “Ahhh,” in a groan that my cock likes almost as much as I like being close to her. Breaking down in a town that looks like it vomited pukey-pink diarrhea medicine sure is turning out better than I thought it would.
“You like beer?” I ask the obvious.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” she asks and this time my smile becomes a full-on laugh.
“You’re different, Justine Beaver,” I mutter, watching her face for a reaction. She nearly strangles on her beer as she tries not to laugh. Her red hair has been gathered on top of her head. She doesn’t have make up on, and she’s still got that jacket on that hides those big, perfect tits of hers from my eyes. She’s the most gorgeous piece of ass I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
“Gee, Tom Wanker, I appreciate that,” she mutters.
I give out a chuckle. Right now, I’m wondering if there’s such a thing as a perfect woman. I didn’t think so, but this chick is definitely making me change my mind.
“I think you like playing games with me, woman,” I eventually respond, my gaze unable to move away from her.
“How do you figure?” she asks, her hazel eyes appraising me, and I swear I can see the green in them sparkle brightly.
“You’re trying to make me fall in love and you won’t even tell me your name,” I respond, making her roll her eyes. She doesn’t, however, give me her name. All this time, I thought I didn’t like the girls who made me work for it. Turns out, I’ve been wrong. “What’s next to do around here?” I ask out of mild curiosity. Mostly, I just want to get her to keep talking. Her voice is like aged whiskey—smooth and heats you from the inside out.