Driving Heat (3 page)

“What’s your name?”

Cynthia heard him. Felt his gaze. But she’d been riding in the bus for ten minutes and had regained hormonal control.
He could be talking to someone else.
He wasn’t. She knew this, but played it off anyway. Working to look preoccupied, she found a name and began tapping the keyboard.

“Okay, you’re a newbie, so I’ll give you a pass and explain how this particular Metro operates. This is Byron Carter’s bus, and there are rules. Number one: Never ignore the person who is responsible for your safety, has travel information you just might need, and because of the unfortunate events of 9/11, can put you out at any stop no questions asked and police for backup.”

The chance that she might miss the meeting immediately improved her hearing. She raised her head, glanced around, and then looked at him. “Oh, are you talking to me?”

“He sure isn’t talking to me!” The gray-haired, pleasant-faced lady sitting next to the door, an obvious regular, had been chatting nonstop since Cynthia boarded. “I’ve been riding this route for going on fifteen years. Remember this boy from when he first got the job, but he was over on Slauson then.” She leaned over and whispered, so loudly that she needn’t have bothered. “Got so close to cars you couldn’t push a toothpick between them. I never prayed so much in my life.”

Byron laughed. “That wasn’t a mistake. That was skills, Ms. Davis. Have I ever hit anything?”

“Other than football players or your girlfriend? I don’t think so.”

The other regulars joined Ms. Davis in laughter. Byron side-eyed her. “You know you’re wrong for that.” He shook his head, chuckled low and deep.

The sound—smoky, beguiling—stirred something in Cynthia’s heat as the thought of that voice whispering commands in the dark popped up unbidden. A subtle headshake dispelled the thought.
The garden. This weekend. Definitely.

“I’m just kidding, baby. That’s a good man.”

“Thank you, Ms. Davis.” At the next stop light, he again looked over at the side seats. “What is it?”

“Cynthia.”

“So you did hear me.”

“I heard the question. I didn’t know it was aimed at me.”

“Only because I can’t prove otherwise, you can stay on for a few more stops. But”—he paused to focus while he navigated a turn—“you’ve got to comply with rule number two.”

“Which is?”

“Smile. Can’t have anyone too serious riding my bus.”

Curt smile and then Cynthia returned her eyes to the cell phone screen.

“What brought you over to the south side?”

A soft sigh helped quell her premenstrual/car broke down/important meeting irritation. A good thing, because “shut the eff up” might get her literally kicked to the curb. “Why do you assume I don’t live there?”

That chuckle, more of a snicker this time, trickled from his mouth and tickled Cynthia’s earlobe. And why’d he have to offer just a glimpse of his tongue as his teeth briefly pulled on his lower lip, right side, in that sexy way only certain brothers could do.

After what seemed like an eternity—during which time she could have finished her text but was distracted by thoughts of tongues down low and sexy done right—he answered her question. “You don’t live there.”

“You’re right.” Delivered in a clipped, professional voice that meant “please leave me alone I don’t want to be bothered.”

“So why were you there, if you don’t mind my asking? And how did you end up on my bus.”

A great bus driver, maybe, but his translation skills needed work.

“I was visiting a client. My car broke down. I have an appointment for which I’m preparing, so while I don’t want to be rude—”

“You want me to shut the hell up.” A few riders who’d been watching the exchange reacted: laughter, head shakes, and a he-told-you-snort from the woman in the first forward seat, the one who’d eyed her coldly since she’d boarded the bus.

“I wouldn’t have worded it that way, but basically, yes.”

Byron laughed, gave her a wink in his rearview mirror.

Cynthia didn’t catch it, but first forward did. “Why didn’t you say so instead of acting ignorant? For people to know what you want, you have to speak your mind.”

“Tanya, stop harassing my riders.”

“Okay, baby.”

The answer to a question I hadn’t even considered. And how cute, the girlfriend keeps him company while he works.
Cynthia’s e-mail indicator pinged. It was Ivy with perfect timing. The answers to the assistant’s questions thankfully kept Cynthia occupied until they reached downtown and she got off the bus.

 

 

Byron lay stretched out on the couch. It had been a long day, yet he couldn’t relax. The ex-high school and college football standout before a knee injury ended his promising career had his eyes on the TV screen, but his mind was on the sexy woman who’d brightened his bus. He liked them chocolate, but something about all that butterscotch beauty had him ready to change flavors.

His cell phone screen flashed in the darkness. He picked it up and checked the ID. “Hey, sis.”

“Hey.”

“You don’t sound good. What happened?”

“It’s your niece, again.”

Byron sighed as he returned his head to the comfy couch pillow. Unlike the ex who tried to beg, borrow, and steal her way through life, his sister, Ava, was an excellent mother: hardworking and involved. After her marriage ended, she’d sacrificed her own dreams and desires to give her two children everything they’d need for a successful future. The bullet that reached her twenty-year-old son didn’t know this, took the life of a promising college freshman during a fun-loving weekend out with friends. Ava had been devastated, but the real emotional carnage was endured by Leah, the younger sister by four years, who’d not been the same since his death.

“What’d she do this time?”

“Disappeared again; hasn’t called since Friday. She missed a court-appointed meeting with the counselor today.”

“Aw, man, Ava. She knows better. That girl acts like she wants to go to jail.”

“All she wants is to run behind Redman.”

Byron sat up. “Redman? Are you serious?”

“Yes, that’s who she was seen with yesterday. She swears nothing has happened between them, but forgets that I was once seventeen.”

“He was what, two or three years older than Lance? And messing with a minor? I’m getting ready to go have a talk with him.”

“Don’t, Byron. That’ll just make it worse. He’s filling the void left by Lance’s death.”

“You know Redman’s a dog, Ava. His brother taught him everything he knows, and you know Gavin is rotten to the core.”

“I tried to tell her. But he’s not my biggest worry right now. Leah’s appointment has been rescheduled for tomorrow. She can’t miss it. If she does, they might revoke her parole. She could be placed in juvenile detention or, since she’s seventeen, county jail. I’m trying to keep my baby out of the system.”

“Isn’t she already in there?”

“Technically, yes, but her counselor says if she completes these sessions, gets on the right track, and doesn’t have any more legal problems, her juvenile record can be expunged so she can still be eligible for scholarships to get into college, and not have that on her record when she looks for a job.”

“So do you need me to go look for her?”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that. Maybe, for now, a call will do. She looks up to you. When seeing your number, she might answer her phone. Maybe you can talk sense into her, get her to understand that she can’t miss this appointment. She doesn’t listen to me anymore, but you know she loves her Uncle Byron.”

“Hold on. I’ll do it right now.”

He placed Ava on hold and tapped Leah’s name. The call immediately went to voice mail. “Leah, this is Uncle Byron. Unless you want the brothers out looking for you, and you know how we do, you need to call me as soon as you get this. And then you need to call Ava. I know why you’re acting out. We’re all still hurting. But worrying your mother isn’t cool. So call me. No matter the time. You’ve got an appointment that I’m going to make sure you don’t miss, even if I have to find you and take you myself.”

Cynthia sat in her office with the door closed, venting to the friend she couldn’t reach last night.

“You should have seen her at the meeting yesterday, Dynah, giving me a fake smile while listing all the reasons she’d make the perfect director. Well, back in Boston,” Cynthia mimicked, nailing her accent to a tee. “I did similar work for the Hughes Foundation.”

“How did you respond?”

“By just as sweetly reminding the board that what she’d done in Boston is what I’ve done here for two years, with less money and more cases. And then I casually mentioned my recent appointment to the board of a major donor’s foundation.”

“Ha!”

“Oh, Miss Margo thinks her friendship with Tracy, the current director, has all but sealed the director deal. I’ll admit that Tracy’s opinion matters. But so do facts and money.”

Cynthia’s intercom buzzed. “Hang on, please.” She clicked over. “Yes, Ivy?”

“Your ten o’clock is here.”

“Give me five minutes. Thanks.” Back over to Dynah. “Duty calls, girl. Thanks for listening. We’ll finish up on Sunday.”

“Okay. Keep calm, and act like a director.”

“Thanks, girl.”

Cynthia closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. She hoped that her client would be cordial and cooperative. Still bothered by Margo’s antics, this was not the day for attitude. Cynthia’s singular goal with each of these kids was to put them on the right track for a viable future. This meant keeping their names out of the criminal system, and their person out of jail. But given Cynthia’s tense disposition, if little miss came in sulking and pouting, giving shrugged shoulders instead of answers or the teenaged universal “I don’t know,” this young adult might be headed for lockup.

After checking her makeup and replacing the compact, Cynthia pushed the intercom button. “All right, Ivy, send her and Ms. Thompson in.”

She cut off the intercom, belatedly realizing Ivy was saying something else. Instead of buzzing her, Cynthia decided to just go out there. She stood. The door opened. A greeting was swallowed with a quick intake of air, expertly covering surprise with a soft cough.

The bus driver.

The one whose image had kept sleep at bay.

The man she thought she’d never again see in life.

Oh. My. Goodness.
With one quick sweep of her lashes she’d taken him in: about five-foot-nine or ten she guessed, freshly shaved, wearing black slacks with a tan and black striped shirt—tail out—that complemented his complexion and hid the slightly flabby tummy so clearly visible yesterday. He’d cleaned up nicely. Too nicely, considering the work Cynthia had to put in to look nonchalant.
It’s that cologne, darn it! And those eyes . . . and lips.

A slight smirk graced said luscious lips, and though he undoubtedly was just as surprised as she, it didn’t show on his face.

Hers either, and she silently thanked her mother who drummed poise at all times into her head. Composure firmly in place, Cynthia held out her hand. “Hello, Leah.”

“Hi.”

Shifting her attention to Leah’s chaperone, she smiled with hand outstretched. “Hello, I’m—”

“Cynthia.” He grasped her hand. “I remember.”

Leah looked from her uncle to Cynthia. “Y’all know each other?”

Cynthia was thankful for Leah’s unbridled response of surprise. It gave her a chance to recover from the feel of Byron’s rough, meaty hand caressing her skin. Rough, unlike the hands of the men in her circle who’d not done hard labor.
The way this man affects me makes no sense whatsoever. He’s nowhere near my type!
If only she could get this message through to her pulsating pearl.

Subtly pulling back her hand, instead of snatching it as if away from a hot stovetop like she wanted to do, Cynthia turned to respond to Leah.

But he answered first. “Cynthia rode my bus yesterday.”

Leah’s face showed even more surprise. “You rode a bus to the hood? Why?”

Byron smiled at Cynthia, his eyes twinkling. She knew what he was thinking.
Yesterday’s question gets answered after all.

“When I drove over to deliver the notice, my car stopped. But that’s all handled and as of five o’clock today, my car will be fine.” Her attention returned to Byron. A slightly raised eyebrow and the merest of smiles were the only signs that Cynthia had guessed Byron’s message and formed a reply.
Not so fast, Mr. Bus Driver. This is my office, so we’ll go by my rules.

“We didn’t meet formally. I am Cynthia Hall.”

“Byron Carter.”

They shook hands. Cynthia braced herself before looking into the seductive eyes that were boring into hers.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Carter. Are you related to my client?”

Leah answered the question directed to Byron. “He’s my uncle.”

“I see. Is Ms. Thompson all right?”

“She’s okay, but asked for my assistance in bringing in Leah.”

“I wish this had been communicated when she and I spoke yesterday.”

“Why, is there a problem?”

“Not exactly, but along with discussing a general strategy, this session is where the procedures for those who come here by way of the legal system are explained to the parent so that they, along with the client, can be fully aware of what’s required to fulfill the diversion program. For that reason, I’d prefer that Ms. Thompson were present. However, you can sit in for her and I’ll make sure she gets a copy of all that’s discussed. Please”—Cynthia motioned toward the two chairs in front of her desk as she walked behind it—“have a seat.”

Once they were settled, Cynthia got right to the heart of the matter. “Leah, why were you a no-show for yesterday’s meeting?”

Eyes fixed on fingernails. Silence. Shrug.

Uh-oh.

Her face was once again a mask of professional composure, but behind it, Cynthia was steaming. The people around her obviously cared more about her future than did Leah herself. That she was with young men who were stopped by police, men who had known criminal records was a bad thing. That one of them had given her a gun and a sizable amount of drugs to hide in her purse, which was subsequently searched by the police, was worse. At seventeen, she could be convicted as an adult for drug possession or the charge the officer preferred, possession with intent to sell. She could get five years for spending time with these friends. Instead, with the diversion program, she’d get probation and hopefully no lasting record.

Thoughts that were processed in seconds as Cynthia casually tapped her pen on the desk’s edge a couple times before turning to her computer.
I have no patience for this dogged insolence. Maybe jail time will teach her the lessons she needs to learn. End this session. Call the court. Law enforcement can take it from here.

The words were on the tip of her tongue, about to spew out. And then . . .

“Leah.” One word; spoken with such authority, conviction, and implied intent that it changed the room’s atmosphere.

Leah’s posture changed. “Yes, Uncle Byron?”

Cynthia sat back.
Well, now.

“You were asked a question.” He looked at Cynthia. “I’m sorry for interfering with your meeting, but—”

Cynthia held up her hands as if to say, “Go right ahead.”

Byron cut his eyes back at Leah. “Remember our discussion, and my promise.”

Leah cleared her throat. “I’m sorry for not showing up yesterday. There is”—quick glance at her uncle—“no excuse.”

“Apology accepted, Leah. Now”—Cynthia reached for two stapled documents, handing one each to Byron and Leah—“let’s discuss your future.”

During the next thirty minutes, Cynthia went over the legal requirements of the program, and briefly explained the plan she’d designed to facilitate Leah’s successful transition into life as a responsible adult. The plan included Leah’s taking summer courses to successfully graduate high school on schedule and, since it was too late for the universities, hopefully getting into a community college. By the time the meeting ended, the disinterested countenance on Leah’s face had been replaced by one showing cautious optimism. Cynthia’s impression of Byron-the-bus-driver had changed as well.

The three stood near Cynthia’s now-open office door. “Leah, would you mind waiting in the reception area while I have a word with your uncle?”