Fighting for Flight (3 page)

He clears his throat, making me lift my gaze to his
face while continuing my appraisal. He’s wearing a black baseball
hat backwards with dark, almost black hair peeking out around his
ears. His strong, square jaw frames the fullest, most sensual pair
of lips I’ve ever seen on a man.

“Ray, this is Jonah Slade.”

Yeah, no kidding.

My head tilts to the side at Guy’s voice, but I’m
physically incapable of taking my eyes off the man, no, the god, in
front of me. I’ve seen him on posters and billboards all over town,
but they don’t compare to the breath-robbing, live version.

“He has an old Chevy he needs help fixing up. I told
him you’d be up for the job.”

I hear the smile in Guy’s voice, but still can’t
move my eyes to look at him. Car. He said something about fixing up
a car.

Pushing through my shock, I reach for my sanity.
“What kind of—” My words break on a squeak. This is embarrassing. I
clear my throat. “Car? What kind?” That sounds slightly better. I
can—
Oh my gosh!

Jonah Slade is smiling.

Framing his perfect straight teeth and his luscious
full lips are two
freakin’
dimples. Sanity gone, fan-girl
lust-buckets owning and operating my mind, I bite back an audible
swoon.

He crosses his muscular arms across his broad chest,
still smiling. “Ray? You’re, Ray?”

He said my name. My cheeks heat.

“Raven. My name is Raven. Guy calls me Ray.” My
voice sounds weak and irritatingly pathetic. I try to sound more
confident. “I guess it makes him feel better about having a girl
working in his garage if he gives her a man’s name.” I study my
feet and kick a pebble that isn’t there.

“Raven. Great name.” The compliment is said under
his breath, almost to himself. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He’s continues to smile. If he doesn’t stop that
soon, I’m never going to be able to concentrate on not making a
fool out of myself.
More than I already have.

His arm extends to shake my hand. I look at it like
it’s a live scorpion. Guy nudges me with his shoulder and motions
for me to shake. I wipe my palm on my coveralls, hoping he thinks
it’s grease I’m removing, rather than my nervous sweat.

His large hand swallows mine in a firm handshake,
the simplest gesture communicating strength and reliability. My
shoulders relax, and I fall into the safety of the feeling. Static
electricity buzzes between us. His thumb moves over my skin in the
tiniest caress.
Or did I imagine that?

I’m captivated. I’m unable to see his eyes behind
his dark glasses, but I feel them boring into mine.

Without warning, his smile falls, and his eyebrows
lower behind his shades. Oh, no. A simple handshake has now turned
into holding hands. He thinks I’m weird. I pull back from his
grip.

“You, um, have some grease on your . . .” He motions
to his own forehead. “Here, I’ll . . .” His hand moves toward my
face. I lean back, but keep my feet firmly planted as he swipes his
thumb across my forehead: once, twice, three times, leaving a trail
of fire in its wake.

“Oh, yeah. I shivered earlier and . . .” I wipe my
head, deciding not to disclose the fact that his voice made me
feverish.

I peek at Guy from the corner of my eye and watch
the corners of his mouth twitch. Glad someone thinks my
embarrassment is funny.

“Your car . . . er . . . what—”

“Jonah here is restoring a ’61 Impala.” Guy shows me
mercy and saves me from making things more awkward.

“That’s great. Old Chevys are my specialty.” I could
dance with joy at my ability to speak in full sentences. “You want
to bring it by?”

“Actually, I . . .” His voice cracks. With a fist,
he taps his chest and clears his throat. “Sorry, what I mean is I
was hoping you might be able to work on it at my house.”

My eyebrows hit my hairline, my jaw loose and
swaying in the breeze.

“I have a decent garage that has all the tools you
should need.” He must’ve read confusion on my face rather than the
earth-shattering shock I’m feeling.

Guy nods with a Cheshire-cat smile.

“The thing is it isn’t in running condition yet, and
Guy said you get pretty busy around here. I don’t live far. Come by
and check it out tomorrow. I could really use your trained eye to
tell me what parts I need.”

My mouth hangs open.

Guy coughs away a laugh. “Sure, she can do that.” He
looks back and forth between Jonah and me, his lips rolled between
his teeth.
What is so freakin’ funny?

“Okay. What time?”

He gives me the address to his house, and we agree
to start at nine-thirty tomorrow morning.

I’m going to be fixing up a car with Jonah “The
Assassin” Slade.

What have I gotten myself into?

Raven

“Jonah freakin’ Slade? Are you shittin’ me,
Rave?”

I sip my overpriced cup of coffee to hide my smile.
I decided rather than call Eve after work yesterday I’d wait for
our coffee date this morning to tell her in person. I’m glad I did.
The look on her face reminds me of a balloon that’s inflated past
capacity. She’s about to burst.

“You and ‘The Assassin’? Working together at his
house? Like, alone?” Eve rattles off her list of questions, her
last word ending on a squeal. I keep quiet. If I know Eve, she’s
only getting started.

“The tabloids call him The Las Vegas Casanova. He’s
a total skirt chaser. Oh my gosh!” She slams both her palms on the
table, getting the attention of everyone in the small coffee shop.
“He’s totally going to hit on you. This is so exciting. I’m
seriously going to pee my pants.”

“Please don’t.” I try to keep my voice level but
lose the battle as Eve’s exuberance brings out my own.

She casually leans back in her chair while a wicked
smile cuts into her perfectly made-up face. “Rave, you may be
handing over your V-card by the end of the day.” She flips her
straight, long blond hair. “I think UFL actually stands for the
Universal Fu—”

“Eve!” My eyes dart around the room. I’m hoping no
one can hear my very loud, equally tacky friend.

She shrugs her shoulders, a smile splitting her
face. “What? I’m just saying . . .” Her eyebrows bounce beneath her
perfect bangs.

“Oh, stop it. He’s like my boss or something.”

“Or something,” she mumbles through a chuckle.

Evil butterflies churn in my chest at the thought of
being touched by Jonah again. A simple handshake had me drooling
like a dog in heat. A kiss would probably send me into a
seizure.

“It’s no big deal. He’s just a guy who needs help
with a renovation.” Now if I could just get myself to believe
that.

My mind has been in a permanent state of shock since
Jonah left the garage. I went through the rest of my day on
autopilot as I tried to come to terms with what I’d agreed to do.
I’m a bunny rabbit who’s stumbled into a bear cave.

“No big deal? No big deal!” I’m in for it now. Her
voice gets uncharacteristically serious. “You’re going to be
working side by side with Las Vegas’ most eligible bad boy. He’s
been linked with every actress, model, and showgirl in town. And
you are superduper hot, girl. ‘The Assassin’ is going to take
notice of you.”

“But like you said, he has every woman in Vegas at
his fingertips.” Jealousy flares in my gut at the thought of Jonah
with a woman. “I bet he doesn’t even notice women who aren’t
wearing miniskirts and six-inch heels.” Beautiful, glamorous women
whom any man would be proud to have on his arm. I take in my
current wardrobe: nothing beautiful or glamorous here. Working on
cars all day doesn’t exactly call for anything other than denim and
cotton.

“Just make sure he pays you.” Eve’s demand takes me
from my self-pitying thoughts. “He can certainly afford to. No more
working for free.”

“I don’t work for free.” My words are laced with the
acid of my envy.

Eve’s eyes get soft. She leans across the table.
“You know what I’m talking about. What about that guy who couldn’t
pay you to fix his alternator? Or the lady who couldn’t pay you to
rotate her tires and change her oil? Hmm?”

I roll my eyes and blow an errant hair from my face.
“They didn’t pay me money. They traded. The guy gave me my tattoo
as payment, and that lady was a single mom.” I play with the
fraying threads on my jeans. “She gave me that chair in my
apartment.”

“I swear, Rave, you’re good through and through. Not
a bit of bad in that sweet ass of yours.” She takes a sip of her
drink. “Maybe you can pull out a little naughty for ‘The Assassin.’
Work out some kind of trade for your
services
.” She waggles
her eyebrows.

I suck in a breath on reflex. I know she’s kidding,
but the joke hits too close to home. I thought moving out of my
mom’s house would distance me from her line of work, but,
apparently, geographical distance doesn’t equal emotional distance.
She reads my expression and mouths a quick
sorry
. I wave her
off and smile. It’s not her fault I’m damaged.

“So what time is ‘The Assassin’ expecting you?
Wouldn’t want to leave a hot piece like him waiting.” She moans and
rolls her eyes back in her head. “He’s so sexy.”

“Stop calling him ‘The Assassin.’ It’s Jonah or Mr.
Slade to you,” I tease, kind of, and then slurp down the rest of my
coffee. “I better get going. I told him I’d be there at
nine-thirty.” My stomach flips as my own words sink in.

“You better call me as soon as you’re done.” She
flashes an evil grin and a wink. “And I want details.”

~*~

Jonah

“You heard me, Blake. I’m not saying it again.” I
pinch the bridge of my nose, praying for patience.

“So, let me get this straight. You’re cleaning your
kitchen because a girl is coming over. Like a real one, over to
your
house. Is that correct?” His Perry Mason tone has me
grinding my teeth.

“Yeah, bitch. Except it’s not
a girl.
It’s a
mechanic who happens to be female.” Why I’m even wasting my time to
explain is beyond me. I remind myself to never answer phone calls
from Blake again.

“Potato fucking poe-tah-toe. God, you’re testy. Are
you on the rag? I tell you what, grab a Midol and a brownie and
call me in five to seven days.” He’s laughing at his own joke.

“Moron.” I shut the dishwasher door and hit
start.

“I’m just stating the facts. You never have chicks
over. It’s weird.”

“News flash, pickle dick. The person who decorated
my house was a girl. My cleaning
lady
, also a girl. This is
no different.”

“Then why are you cleaning your kitchen?”

Because this is different.
And the reason why
it’s different kept me up all night. Every time I closed my eyes
all I could see was her face. I would have brushed it off as a
simple case of the I-wanna-screw-yous, but if that were true, I’d
be picturing some other part of her anatomy. Not her face. Or the
aquamarine color of her eyes, so unique, I had to fight from
getting lost in them. Not the way she chewed on her bottom lip when
she was thinking. And certainly not the way her cheeks turned pink
when I touched her.

“I’m cleaning my kitchen because it’s dirty.” I wipe
down the counters for the second time.

“Did my knee to the head do this to you? You got
some kind of brain damage that turns you into a pussy?”

“You’re hilarious, you know that?” Sarcasm laces my
voice.

“I’m glad you think so.”

I shake my head. “I’ve got to go. See you at
training.”

“All right. Let me know how your date goes.”

“You never quit.”

“That’s what she said.” His laughter sounds through
the earpiece and I end the call.

I shove my phone in my back pocket and head to the
living room for a last once-over.

This is ridiculous. I haven’t gotten all stirred up
over a girl since Samantha Salazar in the fourth grade. I did
everything to get that girl to like me. Even changed the way I
dressed, only to find out later that she was looking for someone to
do her math homework. And I did for an entire school year before I
figured it out.

That’s the thing about women. They know what they
want, and they use their pretty faces and hourglass figures to get
men googlie-eyed and panting. Then they shred them of their pride,
time, and bank accounts. I’ve seen it happen a million times, and
I’ll be damned if I allow that to happen to me.

Raven’s probably no different. She practically
radiates innocence and vulnerability. It’s an act, I’m sure. A girl
who looks like her can’t be all that innocent. Just because she
acts like no girl I’ve ever known before doesn’t mean that she’s
not the worst of them.

Shit.
Why did I invite her to my house? That
certainly wasn’t the plan when I went to the garage. I thought I’d
have the Impala towed there and it would sit until Guy got around
to it.

Then I saw her: The way she walked out of the garage
all rolling hips and sex. Her coveralls tied at her waist, and
tight tank top that hugged her delicious curves. I had to cross my
arms over my chest to keep from reaching out to trace the dip of
her collarbone. A groan rumbles in my chest at the memory. She
makes being a car mechanic sexy. Hell, she’d make collecting
garbage sexy.

Her silky, dark hair was pulled up to expose her
gracefully long neck. Every time she turned to look at Guy, I could
see the hint of a black tattoo where her neck flared into her
shoulder. The urge to run my tongue along the gentle slope of her
throat, to feel her fluttering pulse beneath my lips and taste her
olive skin overwhelmed me.

Yeah, this girl’s trouble.

I need to work her out of my system, just like all
the other girls I’ve been with. After sex, I’m done. I totally lose
interest. I may have to find a new mechanic, but at least I won’t
lie in bed every night having fantasies about getting to know her
better.
Wait, what? Getting to know her better?
I don’t
think I’ve ever fantasized about a woman completely clothed
before.