CHAPTER SEVEN
CAYDEN
Colton has a point. What is up with Hunter? He never gets tired, never feels off. It simply doesn’t happen.
I’m running through it as I lead Indy to the garage down back. I pull up the roller door and switch on the light. “See?”
She walks in, pacing around our project. “Mustang. Fastback. Say, ’66 given the front end?”
I’m so shocked I don’t even have time to get hard. “You know your cars.”
She runs a hand down the fender. I’m close to creaming my pants.
“My aunty lived next to a garage. I had a crush on one of the mechanics when I was around twelve or so, and given I wasn’t a big fan of Judge Judy re-runs, I’d be over there day and night helping him out, wishing he’d dump his girlfriend for me.”
“And did he?” I question.
Her fingers dance on the fender. “He married her, though I hear she cheated on him, took his ‘70 ’Cuda. Crate motor. House of Kolor Kandy Green. It was a beautiful car.”
I lean against the wall, nodding my head at the Mustang. “This will be too if we can ever get the damn thing started.”
Indy pushes off the fender. “What’s the problem?”
I wave it off. “Engine stuff. It’s complicated.”
“Tell me.”
I shrug, walking forward to pop the hood. “Alright. I’ll play.”
She looks into the engine bay inquisitively, runs her hand down around the rocker covers. “Start her up.”
I shake my head, moving around to the driver’s door. “I’m telling you. We’ve tried everything.”
I get in and punch the key into the ignition, turning and adding gas at the same time. There’s a splutter, as always, the hint of an idle, but it dies as soon as it begins. Even Hunter, master of machines, hasn’t been able to figure it out.
“See?” I shout from the interior. “No good.”
“Again,” she shouts back.
Shaking my head, I turn the key once more—the same splutter, and then…
What the fuck?
The engine turns over, roaring into life. I feather the throttle, listen to it revving out. “Holy shit,” I whisper to myself.
I sit there and let it run. The idle’s a little lumpy, but this is a 50-year-old car. It’s not going to run like a Corolla.
“Cut it,” she calls. I switch the engine off and come out of the car, moving around to the front to find Indy gloriously bent over the grille, head deep in the engine bay and her perfect, peachy ass poking up into the air.
She gives a little grunt and rocks back onto her feet, standing with greasy hands.
I stand there fighting a hard-on. “That,” I tell her, “is the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen”.
I bring my cell out, line her up in the screen.
She cowers behind her hands, suddenly serious. “No, Cayden, please. I don’t like photos.”
“Come on. A memento of this momentous occasion.”
“Please,” she says again. “No photos, no social media, no nothing.”
Alright. I slip the cell back into my pocket. “Suit yourself.”
I toss her a rag from the bench. She catches it in one hand and begins to clean her hands.
I come forward. “What? You’re not going to tell me what you did? We’ve been trying to get this started for almost a year and you just waltz in and Dom Toretto it?”
She shrugs, looking impossibly cute. “It was a simple fix, really. I’m surprised you boys couldn’t work it out.”
I come another step closer. I can smell the grease now, the way it mixes with her natural, vanilla scent—the one that’s turning my dick to rock. “It was the distributor, wasn’t it?”
“Nope.”
“Plugs?”
She folds her arms. “Seriously?”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
She taps her nose. “My little secret.”
I’m close enough to reach out for her now, to bridge the gap between us and place my lips on hers, press my tongue between them and explore her sweet mouth.
But she pulls away, walking down the side of the car. “Why do you guys even have this thing? I saw the New Camaro and Harley out front. You guys are rich. Everyone knows that, and I just got here. You could pay the best auto shop in the state to work on this thing.”
“And what would be the fun in that?” I reply. “Sure, my brothers and I are well funded here thanks to our father. Hell, we’ve never wanted for a thing in our lives, but you know the problem with a silver spoon?”
“Can’t say I do.”
I lean against the A-frame of the Mustang. “It starts to taint the taste of your food. You start yearning for simpler things, organic pleasures.”
“Like sleeping around?”
I scoff, shaking my head at the ceiling. “You think I’m two-dimensional, don’t you? All about the fucking and football and nothing else?”
“Yeah, I kind of do.”
“You’re wrong. I’m going to prove it to you.”
A wry smile. “Is that a fact?”
“No, it’s a promise.”
She knocks the passenger door. “And the Mustang?”
“I think she likes you.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “It’s a ‘she’?”
“All quality automobiles are females…. Except Priuses. I think they’re asexual.”
She laughs at that, a bubbly, addictive giggle that’s making my cock concrete hard.
I extend my hand. “Should we go then?”
She smiles and takes it. Her fingers are warm, sweaty.
They’re going to be a fuck-load warmer later.
She jerks her head to the front of the house. “Only if we’re taking the Harley.”
*
Indy steps off the back of the Harley still vibrating. She pulls her helmet free, shaking her hair out—much to my pleasure.
I shake my own slowly.
“What?” she smiles.
“You can’t tell me that’s your natural color.”
She runs a hand through her pearly hair, pulls it over her shoulder. “There’s nothing fake about me, I assure you.”
My eyes drop to her chest.
“Definitely not those, mister.” She looks around. “Where are we?”
I can see the concern. I’ve dragged us halfway out into the sticks here, the kind of backwater dive that would have most folks running for the hills, but I’ve done my research. This is ground zero for the best underground punk in a hundred miles. “They call it the Molly.”
She cups her ear, listening. “It’s a music venue?”
I place my helmet down, proud. “The finest punk you’ll find anywhere.”
“Punk?” she laughs. “What makes you think I like punk?”
Fuck.
I point down. “The Cons, the Ramones sticker on your folder…”
She tilts her head back, laughing to the sliver of moon above. “Oh, man.”
“You don’t like punk?”
From the expression on her face I know I’ve fucked this up royally.
“Half the world owns a pair of Converse,” she says. “And the Ramones sticker? That’s my aunty’s old folder.”
“So what do you like?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Pop and dance, chart stuff.”
Shitty McShitface.
“But,” she continues, “I appreciate the effort, which is why we’re going to go inside this…” She looks to the venue. “Possible murder factory and have a good time.”
“Alright,” I agree, extending my hand again.
She takes it, smiling and I know I’m one step closer.
I notice a black sedan parked down back as we’re walking. I’m sure it was following us here, but that doesn’t mean squat given this place is the only sign of life down this road. Still, there’s something unsettling about it, a certain déjà vu-ish pull I can’t let go.
Indy suddenly tugs me hard into her side, a pole passing down my right.
I was going to let go of her hand momentarily, let the pole pass between us. “What the hell was that?”
“You can’t split when walking around a pole,” she says, dog-dirt serious.
“Why not?” I laugh.
“Bad luck. Everyone knows that.”
This is new. “You’re superstitious?”
Her slate eyes turn electric blue as we stand under the neon sign above. “Is that going to be a problem?”
I put my hands up. I’ve dealt with far stranger. “As long as you don’t pull out the rabbit’s foot, I think we’ll be okay.”
“Actually…” She fishes in her pocket, before a wide smile breaks over her face. “I’m kidding.”
I let out a slow breath.
The bouncer sees me. “The Damage! Fuck yeah. What are you doing out here, man?”
I flick my eyes sideways to Indy.
“Oh,” he says. “My apologies.” He winks my way and stands clear of the door. “This way, your royal highnesses.”
The music gets louder as we step inside.
“You’re really famous around here, huh?” says Indy, raising her voice.
I lean down to her ear. “What can I say? I’m ‘The Damage,’ defender of the faith. Come on.”
I tug her towards the stage where a grunge-clad crowd is busy doing their best not to look too enthusiastic about the whole thing.
The band kicks into the next number and it’s… fucking terrible. I’m talking an aural torture chamber here.
Indy’s laughing beside me. “I don’t think they’re very good.”
I nod to another door. “Bar?”
She nods back and we move through into an even darker, smaller space, the ‘bar’ as big as an ironing board.
I order us two beers, which arrive unlabeled. They could be moonshine for all I know.
Indy takes hers. We clink the tops together and try to talk, but even in here it’s way too loud.
I notice an exit door and motion again. I stand, Indy trailing behind me.
We both breathe a sigh of relief as we step out into a small patch of nothing at the back of the venue. A kid in a black mesh tank top is out there smoking. “Hey,” he says, the very picture of a rebel without a cause, apathetic in the extreme. It’s the Hillbillies you have to watch for around here, though, the real banjo types.
“Hey,” I reply, trying not to lose it.
He stubs out his cigarette and moves back inside, leaving us alone save for what could either be a swamp or a chemical waste dumping ground to our left. I can’t tell.
Indy walks around with her beer. “Very romantic, Mr. Beckett.”
I lean back against the building, placing my foot flat on the brickwork. “Hey, I tried. That buys me some brownie points, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does.” She points her beer at me. “But you’re still not getting into my pants.”
“They do look tight,” I muse.
“Very funny.”
I place my beer down on the ground and walk forward, bridging the gap a little. “I want to get to know you, Indy.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s your worst line yet.”
“It’s no line.”
“What do you want to know? My bra size? What I eat for breakfast?”
“How about why you’re here? Why did you transfer? Where are you from? We’re on our second date and it’s like I don’t know anything about you.”
She gestures to the venue. “You can say that again.”
I step forward until there’s less than a hand span between us. We’re breathing the same humid air. “So, tell me what you do like, who you are. I want to know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m trying to be serious here,” I protest. “Give me a break.”
She jabs her finger at me. “’The Damage,’” she mocks, “doesn’t have a serious bone in his body”.
There’s a great comeback for that, but I hold off.
We stand there in a stalemate, practically chest to chest. “So?” I say.
“So?” she replies.
Fuck this.
I reach forward and take her face in my hands, pulling her to my mouth. The moment our lips touch, the moment her body slackens at my touch, I know it’s the right move.
She reaches up with her own tentative hand, running it through my hair. Her fingers close around dark tufts of it, gripping me with an urgency and desperation that borders on violence.
I return it with my lips, letting my tongue press forward into the warm, wet space beyond, trying to slow time so I can remember every exacting detail.
My hands fall from her face, running down to her hips where they take hold of the hem of her shirt and lift, her bare skin exposed to the night, the kiss going on and on, not a breath to be taken between us we’re so lost in each other.
And it’s different, unique.
She grips my hair harder, pulling until we’re skirting the thin line between pain and pleasure, my tongue unable to run any deeper against her own.
I savor the taste of her mouth, the sweet fucking intoxication of it, the suggestion of beer lingering.
Restraint begins to slip. I let my hand run up the swell of her hip, gliding up her ribcage.
I feel something different, my fingers pausing on this new and unknown texture.
And that’s it.
She snaps away as though I’ve touched her with a cattle prod, literally leaping backwards in shock, pulling her shirt back into position and holding it down around her waist.
I don’t know what to do. I start forward, but she pulls back again. “Indy?”
She puts a hand out. “I can’t do this.”
“I’m confused. Did I do something wrong?”
Her hand shifts between us. “This can’t happen.”
“If you’ve got some kind of rule…”
“It’s not a rule,” she says, defensive. “Can we just go?”
“Indy…”
“Cayden, please.”
I can’t argue. It’s only going to push her away. “Alright.”
We walk solemnly back to the bike, Indy stepping quicker in front of me, her arms wrapped around herself.
I can’t work out what the fuck just happened. One moment it was perfect, what I’ve been dreaming of for days, and the next? She snapped.
Or came to her senses…
That realization sinks bitter to the back of my throat as I hand over her helmet. I try once more. “Indy…”
“Please, I just want to go.”
Even with the bark of the Harley, it’s a quiet ride back to campus. I notice she presses away from me on the back of the bike, her arms looser around my waist.
I can’t clear my head or unravel what happened. Was I moving too fast?
Probably.
She gets off the bike as soon as we arrive, pulling her helmet off and placing it on the back of the bike. She goes to walk away, but I reach out and manage to snag her wrist. “Indy, let me apologize.”
She stops but doesn’t look at me. “You’re a great guy, Cayden, and you don’t need to apologize, but I can’t… Not now.”
“Can’t what?”
She turns, her eyes wet and glassy. “You don’t understand.”
“So tell me. Let me in.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me right now. Trust me. I’ve got issues. Big issues.”
“I can help.”
“No. No, you can’t.”
She jerks out of my grip. “Just give me some space. I’ll call tomorrow.”
Usually this kind of hard-to-get routine would only make me more persistent, but Indy isn’t playing hard to get. This is more. The way she reacted when I touched her… and what was it I felt? I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure of fucking anything right now, so I nod. I nod and I watch her walk away hoping she’ll call and I can somehow piece this cluster-fuck back together.
I make sure she gets to the front of the dormitory building before kicking the bike back into gear. I take off, head full, and I swear to god that same black sedan drives on by.