Leaning against the outside of the building in the alley behind the garage, I lift the red rope of licorice to my lips and suck air in through the opening I just bit off. I take an actual bite and blow out, imagining the intoxicating rush I’d be getting if this were an actual cigarette.
If only I still smoked.
My head snaps to the left when the back door of the comfort center opens, and a blaze of curly red hair comes out. The same redhead is back. The one I’ve seen passing through this alley for several days now. I always get a glimpse of her red mane through the foggy shop window where my station sits. I keep wondering where she comes from and where exactly she’s going.
Today, I have a much better vantage point. She’s dressed in plain black leggings and a loose, flowing T-shirt that has PIZZA scrawled across the front. From the drape of that top, it’s clear she’s well-endowed, and even in flip-flops, I can see the definition of those legs clear as day. Curvy and small in all the right places. She’s low-maintenance hot, not the type to primp before going to the grocery store.
The redhead is moving straight toward me but looking backward like someone’s going to come chasing out after her. I try to get the licorice out of my mouth fast enough to tell her to stop, but it’s too late. She barrels into me like a bunny against a brick wall. In the scuffle, her flip-flop gets lodged under my work boot, and with an awkward twist of her ankle, she goes crashing to the ground, her gray satchel flying five feet into the alley.
“Shit, are you okay?” I ask, reaching down to offer her my hand.
Her blue eyes fly wide. “Oh my God. My computer!”
She doesn’t even look at me as she scrambles across the hot asphalt for her laptop bag that landed a few feet from her. Crouched on her knees, she pulls the MacBook out of her bag and opens it quickly. With a sharp intake of air, the redhead finally says, “Not cracked but will it boot?”
After tapping the space bar, the screen alights with a login window. She falls off to the side on her hip and exhales with relief. “That could have been so bad,” she mumbles to herself. “Ugh, this is why I email the file to myself after every session. Rookie mistake!”
“Everything okay?” I ask, approaching her cautiously as she slides the laptop back into her bag. I feel really fucking weird about interrupting the conversation she’s having with herself, but staying silent seems ever weirder.
Her gaze turns to me, and her eyes widen as she takes in the full sight of me. As if she’s only now noticed another human standing right next to her this entire time.
Her eyes slide up my body, taking in my rough, steel-toed work boots and oil-splattered, charcoal coveralls currently protecting my denim-clad legs. I’ve slipped my arms out of the top of the coveralls, revealing the black athletic tank I always wear underneath. My arms have a decent sheen of sweat, considering it’s summer and the shop is not air-conditioned. And let’s face it, some of that perspiration is from nicotine withdrawal.
Her eyes finally reach my face, so I decide to repeat my earlier question. “Everything okay?”
Her brows draw together, and she nods, her nude lips still parted with a dazed expression on her face.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, trying to make sure she didn’t sustain a head injury in our collision because she’s acting super fucking weird.
She shakes her head, so I offer her my hand to help her up. My hot, rough hand grips her cold, soft fingers as I pull her to a standing position. She’s a good eight inches shorter than I am, but at six-foot-four, all girls are small beside me.
She clears her throat. “You…you…work here?” She closes her eyes like she’s mentally chastising herself.
I cross my arms and can’t help but notice her eyes watching my biceps flatten on top of my hands with interest. “I do. I’m a mechanic. Were you getting a service?”
She giggles. She giggles so hard that it turns into a laugh, and then she’s slapping her hand over her mouth to muffle it. Mumbling against her palm, she replies, “Yes.”
I frown and ask, “Then what brings you back here to the alley? Completed cars are parked out front. These back doors are employee entrances.”
Her eyes flash back to the door, and she begins gnawing on her lip. “Right. I, erm…was just…” She eyes the spare strand of licorice I have tucked behind my ear. “Coming out for a smoke!”
My brows lift. Smokers come in all shapes and sizes, but something tells me this luminous, ginger bombshell does not smoke.
“Great, can I bum one?” I ask, calling her bluff.
“Weren’t you just fake smoking with licorice?” she asks, pointing to the half-eaten piece that fell to the ground during the course of our collision.
My face heats. “You saw that?”
She laughs softly. “Before my triumphant fall, yes, I saw something that looked like a puff of make-believe cherry smoke floating all around you.”
I roll my eyes and jam a hand through my short, black hair. “It’s a thing I started doing when I quit smoking three months ago.”
“Does it help?”
I shrug. “Doesn’t hurt.”
“Maybe hurts the ego.” A dimple flashes in her right cheek as she fails to conceal a smirk. “How macho is it to fake smoke candy?”
Is she flirting with me? Or teasing me? I can’t tell, but I can definitely retaliate, and I must admit that her dimple is adorable. I lift my hand to grab the licorice behind my ear and flex and relax so my bicep tightens impressively. “My ego is never in danger, babe.” I pull down the candy and bite a piece off while shooting her a wink.
This makes her genuinely laugh. It’s a rich, full-bodied sound that projects all the way from her toes. “With book boyfriend arms like that, it’s no wonder.”
“Book boyfriend?” I ask curiously.
“Book boyfriend,” she repeats. “The leading male in a romance novel that readers claim ownership of because he doesn’t likely exist in the real world. Basically, the ideal man.”
“I’ve never heard this term before,” I admit, leaning back against the wall and eyeing her curiously. “I take it you’re into books or something?”
“Or something.” She smiles and runs her hand through her wild red waves. They have to be natural because no girl would touch hair that beautiful if it had been styled. “And it doesn’t surprise me you’ve never heard of it.” She leans in and whispers loudly, “You’re not my demo.”
I frown curiously, and with a parting wiggle of her eyebrows, she turns and resumes her walk down the alley toward wherever she was going. After staring at the globes of her ass for far longer than is appropriate, it dawns on me that I didn’t even get her name.
Cupping my hand to my mouth, I yell after her, “What if you’re my demo?”
She twirls on her heel to gaze at me, looking a hell of a lot more graceful than she did earlier. “We won’t know that until The End!”