I didn’t have time to think about possible promotional activities for the new band I would be managing, I was too busy trying to figure out why on God’s green earth the club would pay for my car repairs. I wouldn’t find any answers in my head.
“Why on earth would the club take care of my car? I hardly know them,” I repeated my sentiments to the unfamiliar voice.
There was a pause. “Look, lady, don’t know the specifics, I just do what Bull tells me,” he said, sounding like he’d had enough of explaining this.
“Bull?” I repeated, more to myself than him.
“Shit,” he muttered into the phone. This also sounded like it was meant to be to himself and not to me.
“Thanks,” I said into the phone.
“Yeah,” he near groaned.
I had a feeling whoever that was wasn’t meant to disclose the fact that Zane was my car’s benefactor.
I didn’t not what to think about this. I knew what to feel. In the time since the night of the cocktails, I had snuck over to Zane’s almost every other night. It was the same. Mind blowing, intense, brutal sex, sometimes more than once. Most of the time more than once, then an undetermined amount of silence in his arms, then I left. He would always touch my lips lightly, tenderly, right before I left, something working behind his eyes. I never got it, whatever it was. Never had time to inspect it before they shuttered again. I definitely didn’t have time to talk to him. We didn’t do that. Talk. So I had no idea how to process the information I just got. What emotion to clutch onto. Anger was the first thing that popped into my head. So I rolled with that.
With Lexie and her band happily jamming out in my garage, I decided to text her, as not to interrupt her “flow.”
Me: Running an errand, doll. Try not to bring the roof down with the power of rock n roll.
My anger only seemed to increase as I drove like a slight maniac to the garage. After knocking for a good five minutes at Zane’s door, I had gone to the only other place I knew he frequented. I didn’t like my chances of finding him there late on a Saturday afternoon, but anger did not make way for much practical thinking.
I pulled up to the garage with a purpose. If Zane wasn’t there I’d go into the little building off the bays marked office. I would not go anywhere near the building to the side which multiple bikes were parked in front of. My anger might dim my intelligence slightly, it didn’t make me stupid.
As I got out of the car, I squinted at a figure bent over the hood of a car. I could only see his back, but I knew it was him. His coveralls were tied at the waist, so his black wife beater showed off his arms. His arms, which were corded and sinewy and beautiful with the vibrant artwork decorating it. I failed to let myself stumble on the fact he looked drool worthy, my purpose was not to perv. I lifted my shoulders and strengthened my resolve, pointing myself in his direction. I quickly scanned the other bays; they seemed deserted. My heels clicking on the concrete made him straighten, shifting his focus from the car. Surprise registered on his usually blank face, his eyes moving to my bare legs. Desire flared instantly in those dark eyes.
I ignored that too. Or tried to.
“Here,” I thrust my envelope at his chest, as he had risen to meet me.
His grease-stained hands grasped the white envelope on reflex.
“What’s this?” he grunted—yes, grunted at me.
“It’s a check,” I snapped at him. “For my car.”
I had done some Googling on how much the repairs on my car would be. I didn’t exactly know what they did to it, considering I kind of glazed over when Lucky explained it. It was a lot of guesswork. After inwardly flinching at my results, I bit the bullet and wrote the check. It would be a hit, but Lexie would still get her superfood crap and I would have to kiss designer shoes goodbye for a long time. Even second hand.
Zane’s face darkened. He held the envelope back to me. “Not fuckin’ takin’ this, Mia,” he bit out.
I crossed my arms and stepped back. “Um, I think you fuckin’ are, Zane,” I shot back, mimicking his tone. “This,” I gestured between us, “does not constitute payment for a car,” I hissed.
Zane’s figure went solid and he regarded me darkly. Silence descended and I swallowed at the tension in the air. “You did not just say what I think you said,” he said quietly, dangerously.
I refused to back down. “I am not a whore, Zane. Regardless of how things are between us, outside the bedroom you do not treat me like one,” I told him, trying not to yell. And also maybe trying not to cry.
I was mighty glad that no one was around to witness this, but I still felt exposed standing in the garage in view of the parking lot, not just physically, but emotionally.
Then everything passed in a blur. Zane grabbed me, dragging me deeper inside the bay, past the car to a tool bench, pressing my belly to it.