Joy Ride

I laugh. “And does he have a name?”


“Of course. I’m going to call him Kyle the Sex Machine.”

“That’s an awful name for a car.”

He laughs. “I know. But I named it that because I want to hear Mike say it.”

“Now that you mention it, so do I.”



When I return to my apartment, I pour a Scotch and work my way around the table for a solo round of pool. As I sink the balls, I think back on this evening. I managed Sam like a pro, segueing from work to his personal life. I should be able to manage a one-night stand with the same sort of ease and insight.

Nothing ruffles me. Nothing throws me off. Not work. Not cars. Not women.

But as I roll my neck from side to side, I’m not feeling so unruffled. I’m not experiencing the cool, blasé attitude I’d like to possess after an evening of delivering multiple Os to a woman I’ve wanted.

Instead, I’m wired and wound up. I pull on basketball shorts and a T-shirt and head downstairs to the gym in my building, where I run on the treadmill for five miles, trying to shed this antsy, unsettled sensation in my gut.

The exercise wears me out, and after a hot shower, I get into bed. Stupidly, I check my phone.

That’s when it clicks—why I’m out of sorts. I drag a hand through my hair. “Dipshit,” I mutter. I’m waiting to hear from her. Like a fucking teenager. A moony, mopey teenager.

For better or worse, I’m not the kind of man to sit around and wait for a chick. I’m a man of action. I open my contacts, find her number, and send her a text.



* * *



Max: Since you still don’t like coffee, what do you like to drink?



* * *



The tension in me unwinds somewhat. I draw in a long breath, feeling it spread through my tight muscles, willing it to relax me. I close my eyes, ready to drift off, when my phone blips. I grab it from the covers in world-record time. I’ll need to let Guinness know later what I’ve accomplished in the Over Eager Dude category.



* * *



Henley: Hot chocolate is my style.



* * *



In the dark of my bedroom, with the moonlight slicing soft rays over the covers, a smile spreads on my face. A flash of images pops before my eyes. Her unicorn and rainbow shirt. Her pink sparkly sunglasses. Her affection for bubble-gum music. The take-no-prisoners, keep-up-with-the-guys, do-a-man’s-work woman has such a girlie side.

It’s fucking adorable.



* * *



Max: Yeah, that sounds just like you.



* * *



But that’s not quite enough to say to a woman you devoured on a car hours earlier.



* * *



Max: Also, your drink preferences are duly noted. And I hope your thing went well.



* * *



Henley: My thing went great. Glad to hear you’ve made the proper beverage notations. Ideally, gourmet hot chocolate.



* * *



My fingers hover over the phone, and I contemplate typing out one more text. Something witty. Something flirty. Something to let her know she’s not just on my mind; she’s the epicenter of it.

But the only thing I want to say right now is the hard truth.

I’m dying to know what your thing is. I want you to tell me what you do after work. I want to know your thing isn’t the thing we did on the car. I toss the phone to the other side of the bed. If I say that, it’ll be patently obvious I want more than one night with her.

And that would be very bad for business.





28





Henley’s To-Do List



* * *



—Sign off on the paperwork! Yay, this is going to happen.



* * *



—Finish install of crankshaft with Max.



* * *



—Resist urge to make dirty crankshaft joke.



* * *



—Double resist urge.



* * *



—Refrain from jumping Max on the hood of the Miura, even though, oh my God, how hot would car sex with him be on that gorgeous car? Only to be topped by Maclaren sex. Or maybe DeLorean sex. Or wait . . . Aston Martin sex.



* * *



—Fan self at image of Aston Martin sex.





29





My lunch meeting with a new client runs late. The banker with the Hermes tie and tailored suit wants to discuss upgrades to his Bugatti. He already has a top-of-the-line model. I’m not sure what else he could want on it but a diamond-encrusted wheel. Nor do I find out with any sort of speed, since he takes a call after his steak arrives and barks orders at someone on the phone for fifteen minutes. I’m about ready to walk on account of the guy acting like a douchebag, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could be having a shitty day.

During the fifteenth minute, I text Henley. I tell her I’m running late and to start without me on the final crankshaft work. When the guy stabs a meaty finger on the end button, his cuff rides up, revealing a Casio watch rather than a Rolex. For a guy who likes to show off his bling, the wrist adornment choice surprises me. But I bet he managed some sort of transaction involving that company. He’s probably meeting them next. He signals the waiter and orders another porterhouse. His has gone cold.

When the waiter leaves, he returns his focus to the car conversation. “Where were we?” he asks as I take a drink of my iced tea.

“You wanted diamonds on the steering wheel?” I joke.

He laughs and runs a hand down his pink silk tie. “No, but tell me what else we can do to make it even better.”

Nothing. Fucking nothing. You already have the best.

Some people have a bottomless appetite though, so I try to come up with some options he might enjoy when he takes the car for a spin outside Manhattan. He tells me he’ll think about it. When the check comes, I pay, and when the lunch ends, he doesn’t say thank you. As he stalks off into the afternoon crowds, braying into his phone once again, I mouth, “You’re welcome, dickhead. Feel free to never call me again.”

What a waste of two hours. I pick up the pace as I make my way back to my shop, hoping to catch Henley for a few minutes. I find a message from her.



* * *



Henley: I already finished. Do I get a gold star for punctuality?



* * *



Max: Sounds like you earned one for speed.



* * *



Henley: Yes, I can be quite fast. You may have noticed.



* * *



The memory of her coming hard in less than two minutes flashes before me. Not like it’s ever far away, but now it’s front and center, and I’m fucking aroused as I walk to the shop. My mind is an old film reel, snapping over the same frame again.

Henley on the yellow Challenger, her legs spread, crying out my name.

As surreptitiously as I can, I adjust my jeans. The movie camera operator toys with me, switching to the scene with her bent over the hood, one lovely cheek exposed.

She was so willing, so ready, so damn turned on, too.