Three
Raven
My mouth hangs open. I breathe in deep. The familiar smells of gasoline, oil, and rubber calm my nervous stomach. I’m in my sanctuary.
Jonah’s garage looks like something out of Car and Driver magazine: The diamond-plated chrome and black metal cabinetry polished to a shine. Rows upon rows of drawers in different widths probably hold every tool imaginable. The floors are covered in a slick, gray coating that is so clean I could eat off it. He wasn’t kidding when he said I’d have all the tools I need. There’s even a BendPak hydraulic car lift.
“This is amazing,” I whisper to myself, feeling completely relaxed and at ease. “Why do you have all this stuff?” My eyes continue to take in the surroundings.
“Hobby. I like fast cars, like to fuck around in here. Problem is I don’t have time to learn the ins and outs.”
“I could teach you.” The words fly on a knee-jerk reaction. I scrunch up my face and sink into my shoulders, fighting my chagrin. I glance over my shoulder and find him staring at me.
His answering grin sends my gaze across the garage. I can’t look at him when he’s smiling at me like that.
It’s then that I notice the truck he drove to the shop yesterday. I take a closer look. Walking around it, I study each component from the Pro Comp forty-inch tires to the RBP custom grille. I swear the thing looks like it’ll growl.
Stepping deeper into what’s at least a ten car garage, I see a gunmetal gray beast that makes my heart rate kick double time.
“That’s a ’68 Camaro.” I tell the car. Jonah steps to my side from behind me.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he nods. “I didn’t fix her up. Bought her from a guy in Arizona.”
I walk around, trailing my finger along her flawless gray paint. “What’s she running?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and his eyes are dark in a way that I feel deep in my belly. “572 big block.”
I whistle low. “That’s freaking spectacular.” I’d do almost anything to get under the hood and fire this baby up. I bet she roars like—
Something sinister demands my attention. My arm shoots towards it, my finger pointing in accusation. “Harley Blackline!” My voice echoes through the space, allowing me to hear the embarrassing high pitch of my outburst. I’d care if I weren’t so utterly beside myself with Jonah’s collection.
“You into bikes too?”
“I’m into Harleys. I don’t know how to ride them, but the power behind these babies deserves anyone’s admiration.”
He chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll take you for a ride sometime.”
Go for a ride on the back of a Harley with Jonah Slade? His magnificent body between my knees, hands resting against his six-pack abs?
Yes, please. “Okay.”
He hits me with his megawatt smile that has me fighting to breathe. “Come on. The Impala’s over here.”
I follow behind Jonah, my eyes firmly planted on the way his jeans move with every stride of his long legs as he leads me to the back of the garage. He stops and I almost slam into his back.
I step around him and there she is: the ’61 Impala. Her classic blue paint still shimmers in places, like an old woman who insists on wearing her red lipstick. This old girl isn’t going down without a fight. I study every inch of her frame, and assess how much work needs to be done. There’s surprisingly very little bodywork outside of a couple rust spots and a dent.
“Oh, Jonah, she’s beautiful.” I check out the wheel wells, notice the window rubbers all need to be replaced, and make a note to order new taillight covers.
I pop the hood and lean in to take a peek. The engine needs new motor mounts, all new belts, and a good cleaning. It could be replaced with something bigger, but this isn’t a muscle car. This car is for cruising. I need to take it apart piece by piece to see what can be salvaged and rebuilt. A moan from behind me cuts through my thoughts.
With a twist, I squint over my shoulder at Jonah standing a few feet from my back. My position, bent beneath the hood and reaching into the back, has my bottom out and up and right in Jonah’s line of sight. His eyes are firmly planted and my face ignites.
With a speed I didn’t know I was capable of, I straighten up and look to the floor, hoping to hide my embarrassment. Being in this place, my mind focused on the project, I almost forgot he was there. Almost.
“Sorry, I um . . .” I have no words. The heat from my cheeks crawls down my neck.
“Do you like rap?” He turns to nearby countertop.
“Huh?”
“Music.” Jonah plugs his iPod to a space-age-looking dock and hip-hop beats fill the room.
I nod to his back. I’m not a rap music fan, but, at this point, I’d agree to anything that takes the focus off of me.
“Come over here and I’ll show you where everything’s at.”
I exhale a breath. Thank goodness he didn’t make that more awkward than it was.
After a short guide to his available tools, we get to work. I get into a zone and concentrate on the build. He asks questions, eager to learn the process. We talk about our jobs and friends, falling into comfortable conversation.
A few hours into breaking down the engine, we take a break. Jonah grabs a bottled water for me from the mini fridge. Its diamond-plated chrome covering matches the cabinetry. Fanciest garage I’ve ever been in, no doubt.
I work to unscrew the cap from my water. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been working out every day, letting your friends kick your butt, and taking any fight you can get, all for a big ugly belt?” I attempt to summarize the UFL 101 lesson Jonah gave me.
His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. “They don’t kick my butt.”
Laughing at his defense, I struggle with the welded-shut water bottle.
He motions for me to hand him my water. “Here, let me.”
Unscrewing the stubborn thing with ease, he hands it back.
“I loosened it for you.” I drink deeply, hoping the cool water will quell my pounding pulse.
“Of course, you did.”
“Okay, but really, the belt is ugly. What do you do with it once you get it? Do you, I don’t know, wear it out to dinner or around the house? Do you, like, model it for your billboard ads?” Judging by the faint pink coloring Jonah’s face at the mention of his ads, I bet he gets teased often.
“Maybe a black and white layout of you and your belt on a sandy beach for, say, a protein shake billboard?” Sucking both my lips between my teeth to hide my smile, I watch in fascination a shy Jonah. He recovers quickly and narrows his eyes on me. I’d worry that I’d offended him if it weren’t for the humor lighting his face.
“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny,” he drawls.
“What? You do model, don’t you?” I tease doing my best Derek Zoolander face.
Exhaling, he throws his hand in his hair and drops his chin. Bringing his head back up, his eyes lock with mine. “Yes. I have sponsors that I’ve modeled for. Happy?”
I’m still smiling.
“You think that’s funny, huh?”
“Well, yeah, I do. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the modeling I think is funny. It’s the look on your face when I talk about you modeling that’s funny.”
Tilting his head, I see something working behind his eyes. Then, to my surprise, he dips his finger in black grease and swipes my cheek. “There. You think that’s funny?”
I stare silently, glaring in his direction. I snag the tin of grease, dip four fingers into it, and hold them up. “You’re going down, Slade”
I lunge at him and make a swipe on his neck. My instincts tell me to be careful, reminding me that this is a trained fighter and that I’m a lanky, twenty-year-old girl. But a comfort that defies explanation has me trusting him.
Dipping both sets of fingers into the grease, he gives me a look that says I better run or else. I turn to bolt just as I feel two strong hands wrap around my biceps from behind. With a girlish squeal, I’m pulled, my back forced to the firm heat of his chest. I swallow a moan that almost escapes my lips at the feeling of his hard body pressed to the length of mine. His strong hands grasp my arms, rubbing the oil with one long stroke from elbow to shoulder, and igniting the blood beneath my skin.
“You’re going to have to tap out. No way you’re going to win this one.” His words are spoken into my ear, making me shiver and practically sag in his arms.
“Oh yeah?” My question sounds weak in my own ears. Darn it.
“Mmm-hmm.” The vibration of his low voice rumbles against my back.
If I don’t get out of this hold soon, I may end up doing something stupid like rub up against him and purr.
I twist hard and he releases me. Darting around the Impala, back to the grease tin, I lather my hands up with ammo and slink towards him, hands held forward in warning.
He crooks his finger at me and lifts an eyebrow. I lunge again.
We chase and dodge, while laughing and throwing threats at each other, until we’re out of grease and forced to call a truce. Our clothes and skin are covered in the oily evidence of our horseplay. Against a wall, I slide down to sit and catch my breath. He tosses me a stack of shop towels and goes to work cleaning off his neck and face.
“Okay, all fun aside, whose booty do you have to kick to get this belt?” I wipe grease from my shoulder.
He sits next to me, cleaning the muck from his fingers. “Victor Del Toro. He’s the current heavyweight champion. No one’s been able to knock him off the throne—until now, of course.” The confidence in his voice makes it a statement of fact rather than a prediction.
“Hm. Well, good luck.” A quick glance has me locked in his stare, fiery hazel pulling me in. “Not that you’ll need it.”
His eyes roam my face and neck. My defenses try to push my gaze to the floor, but I’m captivated by his allure. Awareness, like a silent confession, passes between us igniting my blood. I suck in air and roll my bottom lip between my teeth to avoid saying something I’ll regret like kiss me.
A slow grin pulls at his mouth, his eyes sparkling. “You should come to the fight.”
The way he’s looking at me wakes the butterflies in my stomach. Come to the fight? I’d say yes to anything he asks. “Sure, yeah.”
He’s still staring, but his smile grows, his dimples forming bookends to his radiant smile. “It’s September fourteenth at—”
“Shut. Up.” My powerful response surprises even me.
“What? Why?” He’s genuinely confused which only endears me to him more.
“Oh, no, I just mean . . . shut up . . . like . . . no way . . . My twenty-first birthday is September fifteenth.”
“Wow, twenty-first. That’s a big one. I remember my twenty-first.” His eyes search the rafters, concentrating. “Actually, I don’t.” Shrugging one shoulder, he smirks. “I heard it was great though.” He runs a hand through his hair with a shy grimace that I find completely sexy.
I fold the greasy shop towel. “How long ago was your twenty-first?”
His eyes narrow on mine. “Raven, are you trying to ask me how old I am?”
Heat warms my neck, rising up to color my cheeks.
“Five years ago. I’m twenty-six.” Comfortable silence fills the air. “Anyway, you should come to the fight. I’ll get you a ticket. Call it an early birthday present.”
“I’d love that. Thanks.”
~*~
Jonah
Thirty minutes with the heavy bag didn’t make a dent in my attempt to exorcise Raven from my head. I thought for sure that spending time with her this morning would work in my favor. Figured if I got to know her better, I’d realize she’s just like other girls. I was wrong.
From the moment she walked into my house to the moment she walked out, she held my rapt attention. Usually when women start talking I zone out, but this girl said things I wanted to hear. She talked about cars like they were family. It was captivating. If that weren’t enough, working together was a breeze. We fell into easy conversation and comfortable silences, as if she were one of the guys—well, one of the guys in a supermodel package. Damn. What a package. Even the garage, with its twenty-foot ceilings, felt small with her in it. No matter how far away I would move, her perfect body seemed too close. Thank God I had to get to training or I’d probably fallen to my knees and begged her to have dinner with me.
This isn’t good. With the title fight coming up, I can’t afford any distractions. Maybe I should put the restoration on hold until after the fight. That should give me time to forget about her. Or maybe I should pull my shit together and stop acting like some teenager with perma-wood.
I can’t blow her off now. I promised her tickets to my fight, and I can’t go back on a promise. Comfort washes over me at the thought of looking out from the octagon on the biggest fight of my life and seeing Raven standing in my corner. This shit is not cool. I’ll get one of the guys to give me a thorough ass kicking before I leave for being such a pansy.
But pansy or not, I’m drawn to her by some unseen force. Everything from my thoughts to my dick gravitates in her direction. Like getting caught in a rip tide, one minute I’m swimming, free to go in any direction, and then I feel a tug. I’m kicking and flailing my arms and legs toward shore while the invisible pull takes me in the opposite direction. No matter how hard I swim, I keep going further and further out to sea.
Yeah, that’s how it is with Raven. One minute I’m free, navigating the waters of my life, and, now, I feel a tug.
“What’s up, man? Where is everyone?” Rex calls as he makes his way to the mats to warm up.
“They should be here.” I answer absently, still trying to pull my head out of my ass. “Yo, T-Rex. You missed a couple.” I motion to my eyebrow and lip.
“Shit, man. Thanks.” Rex removes the small barbell from his eyebrow and ring from his lip and places them on the bench.
I stretch my arms and roll my neck. “Where’s Caleb?”
“He’s here, just wrapping his ankle in the locker room.” Rex motions over his shoulder where I see Caleb making his way to the mats.
“Y’all talkin’ about me?” Caleb’s telltale, country-boy accent echoes off the walls. Owen sneaks up behind him, and smacks the back of his head. “Ow, dick!”
Owen ignores Caleb’s pained remark. “You done wrapping your ankle, sweetheart?”
Caleb rubs the back of his head.
“You guys get warmed up, and we’ll break into teams for grappling.” Owen’s order is all business. He’s one of the best coaches in MMA, and when he gets down to it, he doesn’t fuck around.
“You bitches ready to get your asses handed to you?” Blake strolls toward the mats. Late.
The group grumbles and throws back a number of different taunts and insults before we pair off and take our places. This title fight is an accumulation of everything I’ve been working for since I started fighting. It’s the single biggest accomplishment of my life. And I’ll be damned if a girl is going to rob me of my goal. Never.
A few hours into training and I’m breathing deep. Sweat coats my skin, proving without question that I worked hard. I welcome the burn of my muscles and the flood of endorphins that blur the thoughts of a certain female.
Owen calls time. “Take five and we’ll hit the bags.”
We all grab our waters and stretch on the floor.
Caleb flops down next to me lying flat on his back. “Where are we watching the game this weekend?”
“Not my place.” I swig from my water bottle.
“Jonah’s it is.” Owen decides for the group.
I scowl at him and contemplate sweeping his legs. “The fuck you say?”
He shrugs in my direction.
Blake’s standing, grabbing his ankle to stretch his quad. “Sweet. I’ll bring the pizza.”
“I’ll get the beer.” Rex’s voice calls out from behind me.
“Shit, no. I said not at my place.”
Caleb nods to Rex. “Game starts at three so we should be there by two.”
“Fucking assholes.” It’s like I’m not even here.
Rex’s dumb ass looks right past me. “Don’t forget, I have a show that night. Sound check’s at seven. Ghost Bar. We can all head over to the club after the game.”
“You guys want me to bring the Wii?” Caleb puts on his gloves, his eyes darting from dickhead to dickhead, overlooking me.
“No. No fucking Wii.” What started as watching a game at my house has turned into a party, and knowing these guys, they’ll stay all weekend.
“Oh come on, Vajonah.” Blake’s cocky smile makes me clench my fist. “You worried we might dirty your kitchen?” He lifts one eyebrow.
I spear him with a glare. As if one douche bag giving me shit isn’t enough, I don’t need the group giving me a hard time.
“All right, fine. But no pizza. I’ll throw something on the grill. I can’t eat that shit this close to the fight.” Defeated and pissed as hell, I strap on my gloves.
“If you’re going to grill, I’ll bring Nikki. She can whip up some healthy shit in the kitchen and sit by the pool.”
Owen’s wife Nikki is a nutritionist and kicks all kinds of ass in the kitchen. That alone makes this worth it.
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring some girls so Nik will have chicks to hang out with.” The group goes still, staring at Blake. “What?”
Everyone knows the kind of girls Blake keeps company with. I’m not interested in having a bunch of jock-sniffing groupies around, and Blake travels with a fucking harem.
Owen looks at Blake, a grin pulling at his lips. “This should be interesting.”
Blake glares at Owen. “That was a long time ago, man. You two weren’t married yet.”
“Nah, but Nikki sure didn’t appreciate your bitches rubbing up on my shit.” Owen laughs and shrugs.
“How can you laugh?” Blake throws his arms out to his sides. “Nik broke that chick’s nose.”
Owen’s laughter answers Blake’s question.
I cross my arms at my chest. “I don’t want a house full of your knob polishers.”
“Hey, a player needs lovin’ too.”
“No more than two, Blake. I’m serious,” I warn.
“Yeah, I got it.” He dismisses me with a wave of his hand.
He doesn’t get it.
I tilt my head, feeling the side of my lip curl into a smile. “Say it, Blake. Say, ‘I promise, Jonah, I won’t bring more than two chicks to your barbeque’.”
Blake’s eyes narrow. “Are you fucking serious? I said I got it.”
“Say it.”
“Shit. Fine. I won’t bring more than two chicks to your barbeque.” Blake’s jaw is so tight I’m surprised he doesn’t bust a tooth. This guy is so easy to mess with.
“You forgot, ‘I promise, Jonah’.”
Umpf!
My breath is knocked from my lungs as Blake tries to take me down to the mat . . . unsuccessfully.