NICK
Lift with your knees isn’t just a goddamned expression. Somewhere between growling out a macho, “I’ve got this, Stella, I’ve got this,” and walking the compressor forward one wheel at a time over the shag carpet, my lower back said, You’re such an asshole. So now, as I slung my leg over my bike, a muscle on my left flank puckered and shivered, like a rubber band about to snap. From the inside of the house, Mr. Bozeman yelled, “Thanks, son!” He waved through the picture window. “Appreciate it!”
“Anytime,” I answered as I stuck my key in the ignition. Provided I’m out of traction by then.
Stella picked up Priscilla, and they kissed cheeks like two European women saying goodbye after having an espresso. She shut the front door carefully, making sure the latch caught. She smoothed her shirt and her hair; her tee was so thin, I could see the lacy texture of her bra. Somehow, I managed to swallow my groan. She headed down the gravel walkway and reached into her purse for her keys. But before she got to her car, I told her, “Hop on,” and handed her my helmet, keeping my abs super tight when I leaned forward. I was gonna need some of that Advil she’d offered me earlier, and I was gonna need it fast.
Her eyes widened, and her pretty pink lips parted. “No way.”
“Unless you want to get delivery,” I told her, sticking my hands into my leather gloves. “Because I’d totally be down with that.”
She clutched my helmet to her chest. It made her boobs spill out of her shirt enough to make me forget everything I was going to say. “You don’t waste any time.”
“Nope,” I said, and kicked her into gear, revving the engine. “So let’s go.”
Still, though, she held on to the helmet. I hadn’t seen her be tentative or unsure when she stole the ring or when I tracked her down. Now there was a shimmer of fear in those deep blue beauties. I killed the engine, and everything went quiet. “Don’t tell me you’re a motorcycle virgin.”
She nibbled the inside of her cheek and smiled at the ground. She seemed embarrassed, and I liked that too—putting her on her back foot. Knocking her off her guard. “Possibly.”
“Put the helmet on,” I told her. “Get on, and hang on to me with everything you’ve got. Think you can do that?”
She took a few hesitant steps toward me, eyeing my Ducati like it was some wild animal. Then her eyes fell to the ground and she wiggled her toes, making her sneakers lift off the gravel. “Shouldn’t I have boots?”
Her. In motorcycle boots. Goddamn it. “Last time I checked, the Crown Prince of India was four blocks away, and I swear to Jesus I won’t let you get hurt.”
She put the helmet over her head, and I flipped up the visor for her. The helmet was too big on her, but it’d have to do. Plus, she looked utterly cute as fuck. “Promise?” she said into the mouthpiece.
I straightened it on her head so she could see better. “Promise.”
Carefully she placed a hand on my shoulder. It was sweet and gentle, like she didn’t know what to do with me yet. But I sure as hell knew what I wanted to do with her, and gentle was not part of the plan. I clapped my hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “Hang on. Tight.”
“’K.” Her knees took their place on either side of my hips.
“Tighter.”
The helmet pressed against my back, and her arms came around in front of me, crisscrossing my chest. “Like that?” she asked, her voice muffled by the helmet.
Not even close. I moved her hands farther on either side of my chest so she was really hanging on to me, and gripped the sides of her thighs. I forced her legs against me so that her knees dug into me. “Like that. Pretend we’re one person. Got it?”
That was when her legs really scissored tight around me, a vise grip that made me ache for her.
The ache. Fuck almighty, it had been such a long time since I’d felt the ache.
The owner of the Crown Prince of India was a pudgy guy in a yellow polyester shirt who dabbed constantly at his sweaty forehead with a damp tissue. Normally I came in here for the lunch buffet—all you could eat tikka masala, rice pudding, and whatever that potato and cauliflower thing was for six bucks? That was my jam—but at dinner it was more upscale. No buffet, no endless vats of tapioca. Instead they had menus, tablecloths, and napkins folded like swans. Or ducks. Or something. Stella and I followed the owner to the back of the restaurant, to a two-top underneath an old-school lantern straight out of Aladdin. Unfortunately, it had an LED light inside. Progress was a pain in the ass. Nobody looked good under all those lumens.
Except she did. While everybody else in the place seemed sunken and pale, she radiated warmth and beauty. She was all big smiles and thank you so much as she sat down and put her napkin on her lap. I followed her lead, and underneath the table I felt her leg press against mine. She moved it away, like she was startled, so I made up the difference and leaned mine against hers. That time she didn’t move hers away, and she spun the silver ring she wore on her thumb, made from the handle of what looked like an antique spoon, with her eyes twinkling.
God yeah.
“And what can I get for you and your wife to drink?” the owner said to me, dabbing now at his shiny mustache.
Stella snickered into her menu, and her big blue eyes darted up at him. Then to me. She hadn’t said a word, but I knew exactly what she was thinking. We’d known each other all of a few hours, and we’d been mistaken for a couple not just once but twice.
In the mirrors that lined one side of the Crown Prince—crackly, gold-backed, vintage 1960s—I saw it again. Same as we did in the jewelry store, we made sense together. We didn’t look like we were on a first date at all; there was no awkwardness, no discomfort. Not from me, and not from her. But I knew we’d have looked a shitload better with my hand on her thigh. So I carpe diemed that idea and gave her a squeeze.
Stella’s eyes flashed at me. Not a warning, not at all. More like, What took you so long?
“Let me ask you something,” I said to the owner. Using my thumb, I gently traced the inside curve of her calf.
“Anything, sir, anything! Mango lassi? Beer? Perhaps some wine! Very cheap, very good!”
“Beer!” Stella said, and coughed like she hadn’t meant to bark it out quite so loud.
“Two beers,” I added. “But here’s the question. How do you know we’re husband and wife?” As I said those words, husband and wife, I gave her two pinches, and she inhaled to keep her laugh silent. Her hand shot down under the table too, to stop me from tickling her, maybe. I took the chance and knitted my hand into hers. And then both of us turned to him and waited for the answer.
He paused with his tissue almost touching his forehead. The corner of it fluttered in the air-conditioning from above. “Oh, sir.” He chuckled to himself. “There are many uncertain things. Business, life, the age-old question of why some people are afraid to order lamb at a fine dining establishment such as this one.” He dabbed again. “Whether or not you and this lovely young woman here are a couple”—he lifted his shoulders and smiled at the ceiling—“such things are a given. Now let me get your beers, and perhaps . . .” He cocked his head at Stella, while glancing at me. “Papadams to share?”
“Mmmmm!” Stella said. “Yes, please!”
The owner pressed his hands together and bowed, beaming. “Papadams, on the way.” As he shuffled off toward the kitchen, Stella smoothed her napkin and straightened out her silverware. “That’s twice in one day.” She rubbed her lips together, carefully aligning her fork and knife. “Funny, right? I’ve never been mistaken for a couple, and now it’s like a running gag.”
Funny was one word for it. Awesome was another. I eased back into the booth, and my lower back reminded me the oxygen compressor was still exacting its revenge. I wanted to focus on her, on that beautiful face and those sexy lips and that mischief in her eyes. The last thing I wanted to be thinking about was my goddamned back. And yeah, maybe she was the flame and I was the moth. But just because I flew around her for a while didn’t mean I had to get burned. I wasn’t getting down on one knee to propose. It was just a date, and it was a date I wanted to focus on completely. “What are the chances you’ve got a couple of Advil in your bag for your husband?”
She giggled as she reached for her purse. “What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t?”
I didn’t do small talk. I’d never in my entire life said something like, How about this heat? Or, How about those Broncos? Or, What do you do for fun? Or any of that shit. But before we’d even gotten our entrées I’d asked her where she was from, what she did for fun, and what she did for a living—in that order—and the answers were Colorado, making personalized rhinestone jewel cases that she sold online, and dog sitting. But I wasn’t buying that last one at all. Though I was curious as fuck about how she got into jewel theft, or what a nice girl like her was doing committing felonies at all, I decided to table that. For now.
But she was so easy to talk to, I found myself damn close to blurting out that I was fresh out of jail for moving stolen diamonds for an art dealer on Canyon Road in Santa Fe. The more we talked, the more she laughed, and the happier I felt, the more I wanted to spill it. All of it.
It was weird. And it was also really . . .
Nice?
Nice. Yeah. Really nice. Part of me wanted to ask her about the ring, sure. But a much bigger part of me . . . I watched her close her eyes with pleasure as she took a big bite of a steaming papadam . . . didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It would’ve complicated everything. Too fucking much, and too fucking soon. Having a common interest in jewel theft wasn’t like sharing a passion for mountain biking or curry or some shit. If she ever told me, it’d take time. And trust.
“What do you do, besides zooming around on your motorcycle?” she asked. She had a little glop of one of the chutneys on her lip, and I pointed to the same spot on my mouth, trying not to be too obvious about it. She grabbed her napkin and wiped off the wrong side.
“Other left,” I said. All this smiling was making my goddamned cheeks burn.
Finally, she got it and straightened out her napkin on her lap. Her dark hair was in a long, gorgeous tangle over her shoulder. A thin line from a bikini top made a tantalizing stripe over her collarbone.
She cocked her head and smiled, and I remembered she’d asked me a question. What the hell was the question? Christ almighty. An evening with her and I couldn’t even think in straight lines.
“So . . . what do you do?” she said, as if she hadn’t pretty much said that same damn thing two seconds ago. She ended with a big smile and pinned her tongue between her teeth.
I was on it this time, and I ran through what I wanted to say. I couldn’t tell her everything, for Chrissake. I didn’t want to spook her. But I didn’t want to flat-out bullshit her, either. So I decided to cherry-pick the truth. Give her the highlights and leave the lowlights for some other day. Or maybe never.
“I used to be a mechanic,” at a chop shop in the South Valley, where I also learned to fence just about everything, from used stereos to weed to weapons, which I fucking hated. “I decided to go into business up in Santa Fe,” where I began specializing in fencing jewels, “until I made a bad investment,” and got caught red-handed by an undercover cop at an exchange just outside a town called—wait for it—Truth or Consequences. “Actually, I just moved back to Albuquerque,” after seven months in the can. And now I’m trying hard not to screw up again, and that’s why, “I’m bartending at a place downtown.”
And now how the fuck was I going to explain that career change? At least it’s legal. It keeps me out of trouble. And it’s 100 percent parole officer–approved.
Most eligible bachelor in Albuquerque right here.
But she spared me from my impending epic overshare, swooping in with, “Bartending is harrrrrrd. I was a waitress for exactly eleven days. I’ve never worked so hard in my life or been so bad at anything. I had to”—here she lifted her fingers in air quotes—“resign . . . before I got fired! Like Nixon! But bartenders!” She looked up at the ceiling. “There’s a special place in heaven for bartenders . . .”
She was sexy, had expert moves, helped out old guys in need, and hadn’t said some condescending BS when she heard the word bartending. There was no way she was actually this great.
“. . . where people remember how to calculate twenty percent and never ask what beers are on tap when they’re standing in front of the taps!”
When the tikka masala came, she tore off a big triangle of naan from the piece in the basket between us, scooped up some chicken and sauce, and jammed it in her mouth. She was chatty without being awkward, interested without being nosy. She also always managed to end up talking with her mouth full, which was pretty fucking cute. She told me about her friends, who she worked with, and about Mr. Bozeman, who she looked after whenever she could. And for about one second, listening to her talk and watching her chase down a piece of chicken in her tikka masala—for the first second in ages—I felt like a normal dude, on a normal date. Didn’t matter what I’d seen before; this felt good. This felt right. And I didn’t want this to end. Not yet. Just as she scooped up some more tikka, I asked, “What are you doing after this?”
A little bit of the red sauce splatted down onto her plate, and she froze with her naan between her fingers. “I . . . Actually, I was . . .” she stammered.
Aww fuck. It was too much too soon. Probably for the best, anyway. The new me probably shouldn’t be spending the whole night with a woman who just stole $10K worth of diamonds, no matter how fucking bad I wanted to. “Nah, never mind. I’ve got shit to do myself.” Like drinking OJ straight from the carton while I sit around in my boxers. Getting straight was a lot of things, including boring as shit.
“No, no!” she said, reaching out and touching my forearm. “Actually, it’s pretty silly. I was going to go have a movie night in my pajamas, if you really want to know,” she said, smiling so hard her nose wrinkled up. “Going out with you sounds much more exciting.”
Her eyes brought me back to that Mexican lagoon again. Diving from the cliffs there was risky as hell but too tempting to resist—exactly the same feeling I got from being near Stella. I shouldn’t, but I will. Being the new me could wait; for tonight, I was going to dive right the fuck in with her. So I watched her for a few beats, letting her feel my eyes on her. Letting her know that I wanted my hands on her so bad, but I was also going to be a gentleman about it. There was a time and a place for hot and heavy, and a booth at the Crown Prince of India wasn’t it. “There’s an outdoor theater down the street. Movie starts at sundown.”
“Ooh!” she said, with her mouth half-full. “I’ve always wanted to see a movie there!”
I slid my hand back under the table and put it on her knee, an inch farther up her leg than last time. It was the best slippery slope there was. When I tightened my grip, I could have sworn that goose bumps prickled up her arms. “Full disclosure: I don’t even know what they’re showing. I just want to spend some more time with you.”
Stella swallowed, and her eyes glimmered. “You do?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, cracking a lentil cracker in half. “I do.”
“Me too,” she said, pausing with a piece of chicken halfway to her mouth.
The relief was intense. It brought me back to the first time I’d ever asked a girl out—that high, that rush. Two seconds of utter invincibility. “I picked dinner,” I said, and gave her thigh a squeeze under the table. “You pick dessert.”