Chapter 10

My gaze bounced between the pickup and the Camaro. Stupidly, all I could think was, "Army Ant? Or Steamroller?"

I was still standing there, dumbstruck, when two things happened at once – the painter emerged from the Camaro's driver's side, and Chester reappeared in the pickup's window, wearing not the dreaded shirt, but no shirt at all.

Was that improvement? Honestly, I had no idea. In passing, I couldn’t help but notice that I'd been right about one thing. He was still in good shape, in a big, beefsteak sort of way. But that didn't mean I wanted to see him shirtless – I hesitated – or pantless for that matter.

Oh, God. He was wearing pants. Right?

My gaze was still bouncing back and forth when I heard myself call out toward the painter, "Oh, hey…" Drawing a total blank, I said the only term of endearment that came to mind. "…Honey."

Honey?

Cripes. He wasn't a honey. He wasn't gooey or sweet. He was, from the looks of him, a steamroller on a mission.

And, judging from his stride, the mission was me.

In cheerier news, he hadn't contradicted the gist of my greeting. Not yet, anyway.

I looked back to Chester, who was hanging out of the pickup, looking ridiculously confused. I forced an awkward smile. "It was, uh, nice catching up. But my ride's here, so…."

Before Chester could say anything in response, the painter was at my side. He draped a possessive arm over my shoulders and said, "Sorry I'm late. Car trouble."

If the trouble involved a vehicle with no plates, I could definitely see what he meant. But of course, I knew his words weren't really meant for me. They were meant for Chester, who was watching us with that same perplexed expression.

Probably, my own expression wasn't much different. Suddenly, I felt so confused. Draped over me, the painter's arm felt embarrassingly nice – firm and strong, with the perfect amount of pressure.

Worse, it fit perfectly, too, resting over me like a warm, protective cocoon. Against all logic, I fought a humiliating urge to lean against him and close my eyes.

Just maybe, if I closed them long enough, all of this would magically disappear. Or maybe, I'd disappear.

Talk about wishful thinking.

The painter said, "Baby, is everything okay?"

My breath hitched, and my heart gave a funny little leap. Baby? From his lips, it sounded surprisingly good. Too good, all things considered.

I knew it was all just an act. And I thanked my lucky stars that he'd caught my hint. Still, I was liking this way more than I should've, especially considering what a jerk he'd been earlier.

Somehow, I managed to say, "Uh, yeah. Everything's fine." I looked to Chester, who looked as clueless as ever.

Did he even realize he was half-naked?

Hoping to end this, I gave him a little wave. "Alrighty then, have a safe trip back, okay?"

Chester's gaze darted from me to the painter. "Is that your…?"

"Yup," I chirped. "It sure is."

My what? My boyfriend? My ride? My rescuer?

Okay, I knew this wasn't really a rescue, because technically, there hadn't been any danger, well, except to my sanity. In hopes of sparing everyone further embarrassment, I turned to the painter and said, "Ready to go?"

He dropped his arm from my shoulders and flicked his head toward the Camaro. "Get in the car. I'll be there in a minute."

Well, that wasn't bossy or anything.

Still, I gritted my teeth and forced something like a smile. "But we're running late. Remember?"

"Thirty seconds then." He turned back to Chester and his tone grew decidedly less friendly. "Where's your shirt?"

Chester looked down to study his bare chest. "Uh…"

I spoke up. "He was just getting changed."

"Uh-huh," the painter said, keeping his gaze on Chester. "Next time, do it somewhere else, alright?"

I bit my lip. I didn't want any trouble. I just wanted to leave. I reached for the painter's hand and gave it a tug. "Come on. We're gonna be late."

"Yeah?" He turned and flashed me a cocky grin. "So why don't you get your sweet ass in the car, and let me finish up?"

I swallowed. If he thought my ass was sweet, he should see his own.

Damn it. Not helpful.

Shaking off the distraction, I tugged harder at his hand. "There's nothing to finish up. Let's just go. Okay?"

When he still made no move, I gave a sigh of irritation and dropped his hand. I took a deliberate look around. If nothing else, there was always the ditch.

Under his breath, the painter said, "Don't even think about it."

So, under my breath, I replied, "I wouldn’t have to, if you'd just cooperate."

But already, he was looking back to the pickup. He frowned, like he didn't like what he saw.

Oh yeah? Welcome to the club, pal.

Still, I followed his gaze, only to feel myself pause. A second face had appeared in the passenger's side window. This new face belonged to Mike Lakowski, another wrestler from high school.

His eyes were wide, and his mouth was open. He was staring, star-struck, at the painter. "Hey, I know you."

After a long, awkward pause, the painter said, "No. You don't."

"Sure I do." Mike grinned. "I saw you fight at State."

The painter's mouth tightened. "I never went to State."

"Well, not state-state," Mike said. "It was in that warehouse on the East Side." He gave a low chuckle. "Man, you totally slaughtered that guy."

I tensed. What?

Slowly, I shifted my gaze back to the painter. He wasn't denying it. In fact, he wasn't saying anything at all. But from the look on his face, he wasn't thrilled with Mike's comment.

Well, this was just great. So the steamroller was also a butcher? Yes, I realized that Mike wasn't speaking literally. Still, an image of blood and guts flashed in my brain.

Unlike the painter, it wasn't pretty.

I was so ready to leave. But I was hemmed in on all sides. I turned and gave the ditch a longer look. Was the water dirty? Or just dark?

Suddenly, a strong hand closed around mine. When I looked up, the painter tightened his grip and gave me a warning look.

Oh, for God's sake. I wasn't really planning to hit the ditch.

Well, not without a canoe, anyway.

I met his gaze straight-on, refusing to be intimidated. While I was at it, I also refused to be intimidated by his insanely long eyelashes, that full mouth, or his finely cut muscles – the ones that made Chester's look like budget beef in comparison.

Still gripping my hand, the painter turned back to Chester and gave him a final warning look. And then, he turned away, guiding us toward the Camaro.

As we moved, I snuck a quick glance over my shoulder. Chester was still staring, and he still looked perplexed.

Yeah, I knew the feeling.