Authors: Erin McCarthy

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #General

Slow Ride (4 page)

BOOK: Slow Ride

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“Yes, we were,” Diesel said, but his words were ground out through clenched teeth. “I’ll catch you later, I’m going to hit the head.”

“Sure. Good seeing you, man.”

“You, too.” It was sheer willpower that allowed Diesel to walk across the room to the exit with only a slightly more exaggerated limp than normal. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he needed to get the hell out of there and sit down for a minute.

Fortunately, the attention of everyone in the room shifted to the dance floor as the DJ announced the father-daughter dance. All eyes swung to the bride, so Diesel managed to navigate his way around the perimeter of the room. Once in the hallway, he found a tufted bench between two potted plants and eased himself down onto it.

He’d forgotten his drink at the bar and right now he could use a swig of Coke to get rid of the hot saliva that had flooded his mouth. Resting his head on the wall, he just concentrated on relaxing his shoulders and breathing deep. It was fine.

But when Tuesday came out of the ballroom carrying two glasses of champagne, he had to admit he was tempted to take one from her, meds or not. “Is that for me?” he asked her, forcing a nonchalant smile.

“Hell to the no,” she said, bringing both glasses to her chest covetously. “These are both for me. It saves time if I just get two at once.”

Part of him wanted to laugh, but the party girl persona, that devil-may-care attitude wasn’t ringing true. There was something far too bright and shiny in her eyes, and an air of desperate bravado clung to her.

“Have a seat.” He patted the bench next to him. “I promise not to steal your bubbly.”

“Thanks.” She sat down and stretched her long, graceful legs out in front of her.

“So why aren’t you inside?” he asked.

There was a pause. “It was hot in there. How about you?”

Diesel thought about giving her the same pat response in return, but if he wanted the truth from her, he needed to give her the truth. Since he strongly suspected she needed someone to talk to, he was willing to be honest. “Some little kid ran into me and my bad knee twisted. I needed a breather.”

She winced, glancing down at his leg. “Does it hurt really bad?”

“Like a motherfucker.”

“I’m sorry. You should have one of these drinks.” She tried to hand him the glass but he shook his head.

“Pain meds, remember? Not that they’re working much at the moment.”

Tuesday set both glasses down on the floor and said, “That sucks.”

“It is what it is. I am lucky to be alive, you know.” It was true. The doctors had told him the impact he’d sustained should have killed him. So if that meant he had some aches and pains, hell, he’d take it. It was better than pushing daisies for damn sure.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she said vehemently.

Diesel wasn’t sure what to say to that, exactly, but Tuesday wasn’t finished.

“Death sucks. It really, really sucks. Do you know why I left that ballroom?”

He shook his head.

“Because they’re playing the father-daughter dance, and you know what? I’ll never get to dance with my father at my wedding, and that really bites the big one.” Her face scrunched up and the tears came. “It’s not fair.”

Oh, damn. Diesel felt his own heart squeeze at the sheer agony in her voice. She looked so miserable, so shocked, so vulnerable, and drunk. “No, it’s definitely not fair. Not even close. Come here.”

Diesel put his arm around her shoulders and drew her into his chest. She came willingly, burying her face in his dress shirt.

“I’m happy for Kendall, obviously. I mean, I’m thrilled for her.” Her voice was trembling, her words punctuated by sobs. “But it just hurts.”

“I’m sorry, Tuesday. I can’t tell you how much. But I think what you’re doing, planning a cancer benefit in your father’s honor, is awesome. I’ll be happy to make a donation.”

Stroking her back, Diesel tried to think of additional words of comfort, but he wasn’t sure what else he could say. Grief was hell and you just had to work it through it, step by step.

“As long as it isn’t coconut,” she said, her sobs settling down into sniffles.

“Hell, yeah, it’s going to be coconut. It’s going to be coconut cream pie with coconut shavings on top. Coconut cream pie for a year, that’s what it will be.” It was a stupid thing to say, but he was looking for anything to distract her.

“I’ll toss it in your face then.”

“Love to see you try.”

Tuesday pulled back and stared at him, her eyes searching his. Sniffling, her nose red, she said, “You’re a nice guy, aren’t you?”

Bemused, he told her, “We do exist. Hard to believe, I know.”

She nodded. “An endangered species. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in the wild.”

“Just so you know, I can be badass, too.” He wanted to make sure he didn’t come off as a total pansy.

Tuesday laughed, wiping her cheeks free of tears. “Well, that just proves you’re clearly all male. I give you a compliment and you want to make sure you’re not appearing too sensitive. Typical.”

Feeling slightly sheepish, he just shrugged. “Hey, I’m not perfect. Just very nice and extra manly.”

“Well, are you man enough to go back into that ballroom and dance with me?”

The thought made his nuts draw up into his body. He did not want to dance, under any circumstances. “It’s more manly not to dance. I’ll just stand on the edge of the dance floor and grunt while I watch you.”

She cocked her head like she was about to argue, but then she nodded. “Alright, I’ll take it. But you can skip the grunting.”

Tuesday stood up, but not before retrieving her champagne glasses, which she drained, one right after the other, in a move that reminded Diesel of movies about fraternity parties. Impressive.

“I’ll grunt if I want to.”

She burped, a no-holds-barred belch that seemed at complete odds with her slender body, elegant hairstyle, and bridesmaid dress. Diesel laughed.

Tuesday held her finger out to him. “And there’s more where that came from.”

“I can’t wait.” Diesel stood up.

She hadn’t backed up, so when he stood, they were close, his thighs brushing against her dress. From this vantage point, Diesel could see how plump and moist her lips were, how smooth her skin was, and he could smell the sweetness of her perfume. Thoughts of kissing her flooded his mind, his fingers itching to dive into her dark hair and mess up that perfect knot twisted on her head. He liked that she was tall, that she could look him in the eye without having to totally strain her neck like most women did. He liked that he could reach right out and rest his hands on her waist if he wanted to.

Those eyes were watching him now, darkening with what he hoped like hell was desire.

All he would have to do would be to lean down and drop his mouth onto hers and take a taste of those sexy red lips.

But then she jerked back, grabbing his hand. “Oh, my God! The chicken dance. You have to dance with me!”

Diesel gritted his teeth as she dragged him to the ballroom. The chicken dance didn’t excite him nearly as much as a hot make-out session did.

He who hesitates has to make an ass out of himself on the dance floor.

CHAPTER
TWO

TUESDAY
knew she should slow down given that Diesel had just said his knee was bothering him, but she needed to get back into the crowded ballroom. First she had needed to escape, then she needed to dive back in. Go figure. But she had been standing there, staring up at Diesel, and she had suddenly been overwhelmed by the urge to shove him down onto the bench and climb into his lap and ride him.

Not appropriate.

One, this was a wedding, and it might shock Kendall’s grandmother if the maid of honor was having sex in the hallway. Two, she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about down-and-dirty sex when her dad had just died.

So the chicken dance it was.

She was surprised that Diesel had actually followed her onto the dance floor. Then again, she hadn’t really given him much choice, given the death grip she had on his hand. The ballroom was getting warm from the lighting and all the bodies moving around, and Tuesday found a spot dead center on the dance floor that no one else was brave enough to claim.

As the kitschy music flowed around them and all of Kendall’s and Evan’s friends and relatives flapped their arms, Tuesday turned to Diesel. She was well aware that she was getting drunk quickly because she felt flushed, her vision a little too sharp, and she was having a hard time controlling what came out of her mouth. Which would explain why she said, “God, I just want to run my fingers through your hair.”

His eyes widened, but he just lifted one corner of his mouth. “Go for it.”

But she knew that was a bad idea. “No, no, we have to do the chicken dance before the music ends.” Jumping in, she started clapping and flapping along with all the other guests.

Diesel just stood there, his arms loosely at his sides, his blue tie a perfect match for the color of his mysterious eyes. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, if he was having fun, or if he just wanted her to go away and leave him the hell alone.

“All you have to do is clap,” she told him, yelling over the music.

“I’m good.”

“You look like a tree trunk.” A very, very cute tree trunk. Tuesday needed to stop staring at him. His cuteness was starting to hurt. It was just painful how freaking adorable he was, from that shaggy hair to that scruffy beard to that steady expression he always wore. Plus he was always free with a shoulder for her to cry on.

Cute. Hot.

She glanced down at his crotch.

Hung.

Oh, my. He had an erection.

As the music swung into the sashay section, she tried to hook her arm in his but Diesel shook his head. “It ain’t going to happen.”

She would assume that was because of his knee, not because he was morally opposed to dancing like some minister in an ’80s movie, so she just sashayed around him solo. It felt a little like she was doing a maypole dance, but she was drunk and having fun, so she was going to roll with it. Diesel seemed amused by it himself, because he was struggling to contain a smile when she rounded his front side and glanced up at him.

“You gotta go the other way now,” he told her, pointing back the way she came.

“Oh, right. That is how the dance goes.” She reversed, her heel giving her a little bit of trouble on the turn. She almost lost her footing but Diesel grabbed her arm and steadied her.

Huh. That felt kinda nice. Having someone catch her when she was going to fall. Tuesday banished that thought as quickly as it came. She was independent. A grown woman. A sports reporter and famed stock car blogger. She didn’t need someone to catch her. She wasn’t falling. Ever.

All she was doing was noticing that Diesel had quite an amazing butt in those dress pants. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, which afforded her a fabulous view. She couldn’t help it. Trailing her fingers across his back as she modified the sashay significantly, she let her hand wander a little lower than was strictly appropriate.

“I don’t think that’s in the dance,” he told her when she rounded the front.

“No? Then I just changed it.” She moved in closer to him, her hands on his chest. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to grind her body against his and forget about everything and everyone except for him and her and the pleasure she was sure they could create together.

But before she could do anything, he took a step back. “The dance is over.”

Tuesday blinked. He was right, everyone was abandoning the floor as the DJ switched over from the fast paced chicken dance to some melancholic slow song.

But why did that mean he couldn’t kiss her? He had to have seen the look she was giving him, had to have picked up on her cues. Or maybe he just didn’t want to kiss her.

Well. That was a sobering thought.

“Are you hungry? They put out some finger food. Maybe you should eat something.”

So he thought she was drunk. Well, she was drunk, what of it? That didn’t mean she didn’t know what she was doing.

“I don’t need to eat. I need to dance. And if you’re not going to dance with me, I’ll find someone who will.” A distant relative of Evan’s had been hitting on her earlier, and she saw he was eyeing her from the edge of the dance floor. “I’ll see you later, Diesel.”

She would not be stupidly hurt for no apparent reason. She would not be offended by Diesel’s lack of sexual interest in her. She would not cry—again—at this wedding.

She would dance and flirt with a man she didn’t find remotely attractive for an ego boost and a distraction.

See how mature and not drunk she was?

Take that, Diesel Lange.

BOOK: Slow Ride

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