Nice Girls Don't Ride Page 3

  “Too bad. I’m coming in with you anyway.” I climb off my bike. “And for the record, the make-out offer still stands.”

  She turns to me, the tension on her face smoothing a bit. “Try it and you’ll see just how skilled I am at self-defense. Warning: they teach us to aim for the soft parts first.”

  “Kinky.”

  “But if you’re going to come anyway, fine. Just don’t say anything and let me handle it. Here”—she reaches forward and swipes her fingers along my cheek—“you’ve got grease.”

  The warm touch jars me, and I have to fight not to grab her hand and keep it against me. When she pulls away, her fingertips are black.

  “Hold on.” I grab the bandanna I keep folded and tucked in my back pocket and take her wrist, turning her hand palm up so I can clean her fingertips. “Can’t have a princess getting her hands dirty.”

  Her eyes are fixed on what I’m doing, but she doesn’t say anything. And more importantly, she doesn’t pull away. When I’m done, I take a chance and don’t release her hand. I lace my fingers with hers and tug.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Let’s get this show on the road. What’s on the other side of those doors isn’t going to change no matter how long you stand here. Might as well see what’s what.”

  She lets me pull her for a few steps, but when we reach the restaurant, she quickly tugs her hand back, that tight nervousness taking hold of her features again. “Remember, let me handle this.”

  “You won’t even know I’m here.”

  The door is opened for us, and we head into the swanky restaurant, soft Spanish music drifting around us. The whole place smells like smoked paprika and garlic. It’s an enticing smell, but I’ve heard this place is overrated and overpriced.

  The host lifts her head from studying the list on the podium and offers Natalie a warm smile and me a crinkled brow. Jeans and a T-shirt aren’t acceptable attire here, but I’m not apologizing for my clothes. This is Texas. No restaurant should ban jeans.

  “May I help you?” That, of course, is directed at Natalie.

  “Yes, my boss Caleb Dewhurst is here, and he asked me to stop by and drop off a document he needed for his dinner meeting.”

  “Oh, well, I can bring it to him.” The hostess holds out her hand.

  “Actually,” Natalie says, patting her purse. “It’s a confidential document I have to deliver in person. You know how bosses are. It’ll only take a minute.”

  The hostess smiles in that overly bright way that’s almost hard to look at. “Sure, not a problem.”

  She scans the reservation list.

  “He said he’d gotten a table on the terrace,” Natalie adds.

  “Oh, perfect. Stephanie can lead you up there.” She points to a brunette who’s just returned to the stand.

  “You’re the best,” Natalie says, all southern sweetness.

  Natalie follows the woman, and I head that way, too. The hostess gives me another look as I pass, but she’s smart enough not to stop me and cause an unnecessary scene. I’ve learned in life that if you act like you’re supposed to be somewhere, most people let you stay.

  I trail after Natalie up a set of stairs, my dread rising. For Natalie’s sake, I hope the dickhead boyfriend isn’t really here, that he’s given the reservation to a friend or something. Birthday Girl has already had a shitty enough day. But I have a feeling that’s not going to be the case. And I have a feeling Natalie knows that.

  When we reach the rooftop terrace, the hostess leaves us to get back to her post downstairs. The minute she’s out of sight, Natalie scans the dining area then stiffens like someone has run a rod up the back of her dress. Uh-oh. I follow her laser gaze and find the table she’s honing in on. A guy with a too-neat haircut and a navy blue blazer is sharing a candlelit table with a blonde in a tight black dress. Appetizers and a bottle of wine are already on the table, and lover boy has his hand draped over the girl’s. He leans forward and kisses her. On the mouth. With a little tongue.

  Damn. Douchebag status: confirmed. I called it. But I hate that I’m right on this one.

  Natalie hasn’t moved a millimeter. I touch her elbow. “Hey—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says in a dangerously calm voice.

  “Natalie, maybe we should—”

  But she shakes off my touch. “Oh, no. This is gonna get handled.”

  She stalks forward, heels clicking on the copper stained concrete. Shit. This isn’t going to be good. I stride after her, hoping to intercept, but she’s already two steps ahead of me, target in sight. She reaches the table and the boyfriend, Caleb, glances up. His smile freezes in place then sags like a wilting flower.

  “Natalie?”

  “Caleb,” she says, all poise and icy resolve.

  “Oh, crap,” the blonde says, looking panicked. “This isn’t—”

  Natalie’s attention swings to the girl. “This isn’t what, Rebecca? You just kissed my boyfriend. What exactly is it? A dental exam?”

  The girl looks ready to crawl under the table. “I was just . . . thanking him for helping me pass my econ exam.”

  Caleb stands, putting a tentative hand out. “Natalie, baby, it’s fine. Let’s not make this a big deal.”

  The chatter around us quiets and heads are turning our way, which seems to make Dickhead supremely uncomfortable. He offers the onlookers a weak smile but comes off looking constipated.

  “Not a big deal,” Natalie repeats, her voice rising and some of that stoic mask cracking. “Not a big deal.”

  Her tone says it all. I can hear the detonation clock ticking down like on that TV show 24. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Exactly. You know you’re important to me.”

  “Important,” Natalie repeats, as if testing out how the word rolls around her mouth.

  “But, you know, we never really said we were exclusive, per se . . .” Caleb continues.

  Boom! Bomb detonated.

  The look on Natalie’s face morphs into quiet, seething rage. She reaches out for the lapels of Caleb’s jacket as if to smooth them. One, two strokes, totally chill, then she yanks him closer. The guy never sees it coming when her knee jabs upward.

  I wince as the guy doubles over with a resounding groan. She hadn’t been kidding about going for the soft parts. But using the words per se in any context? The dude earned that knee to the nuts.

  The other girl tries to come to Caleb’s rescue and sends an evil glare at Natalie. “Jesus, what is wrong with you? This isn’t the trailer park.”

  Natalie’s expression is what I imagine a bull looks like when that red cape is waved. Wild, a little crazed. I kinda like it. And I’m not wrong; she’s ready to charge. Natalie plucks the bottle of wine off the table and steps around the girl’s abandoned chair. A big leather handbag hangs off it. Natalie opens the purse wide and pours.

  The blonde screams some high-pitched primal shriek. “You bitch, that’s Coach!”

  The girl launches herself at Natalie, nails bared, but I step in between them, blocking her attack. I catch her wrists and ease her arms down. “Back off, sweetheart.”

  “And who the hell are you?” she demands, glaring and yanking out of my loose hold.

  “Not your business.”

  “The fuck it’s not,” Caleb says, his gaze going to Natalie. “You’re with Natalie, it’s my business.”

  Natalie scoffs then sidles up next to me and grabs my hand. “He’s the guy who’s going to show me a good time on my birthday.”

  Well, then. I school my expression into my poker face.

  Caleb’s lip curls as he sizes me up. “Right. Who is he? Your cab driver? Or did you pick up a stray at the bus stop?”

  My fist curls. I could take out this smarmy motherfucker with one swift right hook, but I manage to keep my control. Barely. I’d rather not spend the night in lockup.

  Natalie looks to the girl, who’s back to having a hissy fit about her purse. “I won’t be home tonight. T
ouch any of my stuff, and I’ll call the cops.”

  The girl is Natalie’s roommate? Ouch.

  “Come on, Natalie, let’s not play this game,” Caleb says, moving closer. “You’re not going home with some stranger.”

  “No?”

  “No. You’re not like that.”

  “I’m not, huh?” At that, she turns to stand in front of me. Our gazes collide for half a second and her eyes are . . . pleading for me to play along. Big, green, please-oh-please eyes. Like I could say no to that. Whatever she sees on my face she takes as consent because she reaches up and cups the back of my neck, dragging me down to her. I don’t resist when she presses her mouth to mine.

  In fact, for a moment, I forget where we are and what’s going on because holy shit. She isn’t going for a peck; she’s jumping off the high dive and taking me with her. My hands lower to her hips, and I bring her up against me as she parts my lips, touches her tongue to mine, then strokes against it. Full, openmouthed assault. And I’m so totally down with this plan. Sign me up. Let’s do this.

  Time seems to stop for long seconds as our tongues and lips tangle, and her fingers curl in my hair. My blood goes hot, and I have to remind myself that we’re in public and that I can’t grab her thighs and wrap her legs around me.

  She pulls back with a soft gasp, leaving me blinking and a little stunned. Well, that hasn’t happened in a long time—a girl taking charge and leaving me speechless. I’m usually the one making the moves. But I’m definitely not complaining. She spins to face Dickhead again, and I keep my hands on her waist, unsure if I’m doing it to keep her steady or to keep me from tossing her over my shoulder and carrying her out of here caveman style.

  Meanwhile, Caleb is doing an excellent impression of a fish, his mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out—the yuppie guppy. Finally, he seems to come back into himself. “You wanted to make me mad, fine. Mission accomplished. Now let’s go home.”

  “I’m going home with him, not you,” Natalie says.

  “For what? To prove some stupid point?”

  “I don’t need to go home with him to prove a point. Apparently, I’ve been missing out on the benefits of our open relationship,” she says, her tone as sweet as Karo syrup. “I guess it’s happy birthday to me after all. Good-bye, Caleb.”

  The staff has come up to intercept the disturbance, but Natalie’s already pulling me with her and striding for the stairs. Wide eyes follow our progress, but she doesn’t stop until we’re back on the sidewalk in front of my bike. Her proud shoulders sag instantly, and all the breath seems to wheeze out of her.

  She puts her hands to her face. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I just did that. I am so sorry.”

  I grin. “Well, I’m sure as hell not. Holy shit, woman.”

  She peers up at me, wary. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Oh, too late, princess. I’ve got ideas. Lots of ideas. You don’t kiss a guy like that and expect him to forget it.”

  “It was an act.” But her gaze flicks away and her cheeks go pink.

  I lean against my bike. “It was hot as fuck. You can’t fake that.”

  “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  Ha. She wasn’t denying the hot as fuck part. “All right, how ’bout I make you a deal? I won’t sleep with you unless you ask me to.”

  She snorts. “Would you like a sidecar for that ego of yours?”

  “Come on, seriously. Putting aside the question of whether you’ll be able to resist my infinite charm or not, no one should spend her twenty-first birthday alone, especially after that spectacular throwdown upstairs. It’s time to celebrate.”

  “No, it’s time to get a pint of ice cream and do an ugly cry. Because I guarantee you, as soon as this adrenaline wears off, it’s not gonna be pretty. You need to get out while the gettin’s good because it’s gonna be all snot and chick flicks in an hour.”

  “No fucking way. This is not a tragedy. You just got rid of a dickbag boyfriend and a skank of a roommate. You, princess, are a free woman and the town is yours tonight. Plus, you told them you weren’t going home. You can’t lose that poker hand.”

  She groans. “I had to add that part, didn’t I? God, I just want to curl up in bed.”

  “No bed to go to except mine.”

  “Opportunist.”

  “Always.” I grab the helmet and put it in her hands. “But there’s another option besides finding a place to crash.”

  She shoots me a suspicious look, but I can tell she’s working hard to keep it together. The girl has had the shit day of all shit days. And the minute she slows down, it’s going to take her down hard. So I know what my job needs to be.

  “The other option is you don’t go to sleep at all.” I pull my phone from my pocket and show her the time. “It’s almost nine. Sun’ll be up in about ten hours.”

  “Ten?” She cringes. “That seems like forever.”

  “If you’re going to mope around, yes. But you know what they say about time flying. All we need to do is find something fun to do each hour. Then you can walk into your place looking like the badass wild girl you want them to think you are.”

  She gives me a skeptical lift of her brow. “You want to spend the next ten hours with me? We don’t even like each other.”

  Wrong. “I’m liking you better all the time, princess. Come on. Get on the bike. Hour one, I’ll take you to my favorite bar, and you can tell ’em it’s your twenty-first. Everyone will buy you a drink.”

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “What about cake?”

  “Cake?” She perks up a little. “What kind of cake?”

  “The best cake.” I straddle the bike and pat the spot behind me. “Let’s ride, birthday girl. I want to get out of here before the cops arrive to charge you with death of a handbag and ball bashing.”

  “No promises that I’m done with the ball bashing.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She sighs, but I can tell I’ve won. Cake was the clincher. She eyes me for a moment longer then relents. “Fine.”

  But before she can get on the bike, I take her hand and drag her close. Her leg brushes my thigh. She stiffens, almost as if bracing for another kiss—one I probably could take, based on the way she’s looking at me. But instead, I put my mouth close to her ear and whisper, “And don’t close your eyes this time. You’re missing all the good stuff.”

  Chapter 4

  Natalie

  I manage to keep my eyes open for most of the ride since Monroe chooses side roads instead of getting back onto the interstate. I still hold on to him like my life depends on it—and I guess it does—but this time it’s less from fear of falling off and more about the fact that everything in my life feels like it’s crumbling around me, and holding on to something solid grounds me.

  I can’t really process what’s happened. Every time I picture the cozy scene between Caleb and Rebecca, the anger rushes through me all over again, drowning me in rage. I’m sure I looked like a lunatic, kneeing Caleb, ruining Rebecca’s precious purse. Hello, Jerry Springer moment. But it was like all the little annoyances I’d tucked away throughout my relationship with Caleb had gathered together in a ball of crazy and exploded all at once.

  It makes me sick to think I reacted like that. That’s my mother’s style—freaking out, making a spectacle. And she at least has the excuse of being drunk or blitzed on her pills when she has her outbursts. I acted like a psycho while stone-cold sober.

  And the worst part is that it had felt so damn good to go off. Like my screwed-up genes had simply been waiting for me to go into drama-queen mode.

  But regardless of how I must’ve looked, the whole thing might’ve been worth it just to see Caleb’s face after I kissed Monroe. I’d shocked him. And my boyfriend didn’t ruffle easily. Ex-boyfriend. I hope he’s still sitting at that table I reserved, completely distracted because he’s picturing what I’m doing with Monroe right now.

  Because I know I
planted that seed in his brain and then dumped fertilizer on it with my little show. The kiss hadn’t been sweet; it had bordered on obscene. It was definitely not how I usually kiss Caleb, and he knew it.

  It had been a kiss that made me want things I shouldn’t, and I have a feeling my response hadn’t been a secret to any onlookers. Monroe had taken control halfway through the kiss, and in that moment, I’d sort of forgotten I was doing it for show. I’d lost myself. If he would’ve turned and pushed me against the nearby wall to keep things going, I probably would’ve let him.

  So as we cruise along the roads of downtown Austin now, my mind replaying that kiss over and over again, the idea of a one-night stand is gaining some appeal. I’ve never had one of those. White trash girls get white trash reputations without even having to do the crime. In eighth grade, I wore red lipstick to school one day and had gotten called a whore for it. So after getting the hell out of my nowhere Oklahoma town for college, I’d honed my image and my behavior so that no one could ever make those kinds of assumptions about me again.

  But I’m almost out of college now, a grown woman. And I like sex, dammit. Shouldn’t I be able to have it with who I want, when I want, even if it isn’t with someone I plan to have a long-term relationship with? The answer is obviously yes. And Monroe would probably be the perfect candidate. He’s made it clear that he’ll scratch that bad-boy itch if I have one. And he sure as hell won’t be the type trying to send me flowers tomorrow.

  Hot sex with a stranger. It would be so very un-me. Which is exactly what I need right now. I want to leave that girl who has a cheating boyfriend, a conniving roommate, and broken-down car behind at the curb outside that restaurant. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.

  But even with all that, I know I’m not going to sleep with Monroe.

  Because there’s one line I can’t talk myself into crossing. If I ever have a one-night stand, I want it to be about me and the guy. Not because I’m trying to prove a point or get revenge or soothe my wounded pride. No one deserves to be used like that, even if he’s a willing victim.