We pass through his huge backyard. I see a pool in my peripheral vision. I would look directly at it, but I’m unable to drag my eyes away from our clasped hands. His hand is huge. Mine seems so small in comparison. His touch is strong and gentle at the same time. He could crush my bones with a flex of his fingers, but there’s a security in his hold that feels safe. I’m smiling like an idiot. Great.
We stop at a large building off to the side of his house.
“Here we are.” He swings open the door and leads me in.
There’s no light, but the smell has my eyes roaming the dark. He drops my hand. I pout at the loss of his touch until he flicks on the lights.
I suck air on a quick gasp. “Oh my goodness, Jonah.”
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 f**k 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—”