Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1) (8 page)

He glanced back at the dress. Another two rungs down, one more to go. Sitting back on his heels, he ripped through the last layer. As the fluorescent light hit the newly exposed creamy white skin of Lyric’s thighs, he noticed a black outline on her inner thigh. “You have a tattoo?”

It looked like a necktie … Dilbert’s necktie, actually. Why would she have a tattoo of Dilbert’s necktie on her inner thigh?

“YES.” Lyric pointed to the door. “GET. OUT. OF. HERE. NOW.”

Grabbing onto the toilet paper holder for support, he hefted himself up and slipped out the door.

She barely took the time to fumble the door closed behind him before liquid hit water. He laughed to himself, then shrugged out of his shirt. Lyric might not have realized it yet, but there was no way in hell she could walk through the airport in that dress with a slit that revealed pretty much everything. And no way he would let her.

Hanging his shirt over the top of the stall door, he said, “You’re going to need this.”

She didn’t say a word, just kept on doing what she was doing.

Figuring he’d wash his hands while he waited, Heath turned around to find four smiling women of various ages—ranging from seventeenish to eighty—staring at his bare chest. He shot them the smile that his publicist’s focus group research had found appealed most to adult women, children under the age of two, and men who’d served in the military. Then, just to give them a thrill, he ran his hand down his abs. They were particularly washboardy at the moment, owing to the extra core and punishing upper-body workouts he’d added to combat the stress and boredom of convalescence.

“Wow.” The octogenarian’s somewhat milky-blue eyes went wide. She opened her cavernous black purse and pulled out a Sharpie. “Sign me, Deuce.”

He took the pen. Good God, he was about to sign breasts that had been around since before World War II. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

She undid the top three buttons of her white polyester blouse and was working on the fourth when he stepped closer. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got plenty of room.”

She opened her blouse, and the top of a saggy, white cotton bra peeked out above the polyester. She arched her back and stuck out her chest. “I’m ready.”

He aimed high on the décolletage, going for more collarbone than chest. With a flourish, he signed his name.

The other women lined up. When he came to the teenager, he capped the pen and shook his head. “Sorry, I only sign legal breasts. I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”

“I don’t have one.”

He shrugged “Then I’m sorry, honey. You’ll have to catch me in a couple of years.” Provided he was still around and his signature was still something to get worked up about.

The latch to the stall behind him finally clicked, and the door swung open. Lyric leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. His shirt still hung on the door. Chunks of ripped duct tape dotted her thighs, while strips of her dress sagged at odd angles. She looked like she’d just gone three rounds with a rabid beaver—and lost. “Wow, Heath. Thanks for that. It was better than my first white dwarf.”

The three women turned to him as one, eyes wide.

“She’s into little people,” he said with a shrug and an I-don’t-get-it lift of his brows. “I don’t judge.” Then he grabbed his T-shirt and handed it to Lyric. “Put this on.”

“Good idea.” Lyric took the shirt and once again disappeared into the stall. “I tried to get some of this tape off, but it’s too sticky. Especially the parts you got wet,” she called over the closed door.

“I told you to hold still.”

“You’re right, you did. Did you get it all out of your mouth? I read that ingestion of even small amounts of polyethylene causes impotence.”

The words had barely sunk in before he was running to the nearest trash can and spitting for all he was worth. Then, with the speed and efficiency of a man guarding his manhood, he gulped handfuls of water, swished, and spit some more. He repeated several times.

“Just kidding,” Lyric called from the stall.

He paused to glare at the stall door, water dribbling down his chin. That was so
not
funny. She was going to pay for it too. Maybe not now … but someday.

Of the three ladies, Grandma recovered from his burst of impotence-induced fear first. “Here.” Reaching into her voluminous purse a second time, she pulled out a travel bottle of Tuck’s Hemorrhoid Pads and handed it to him. “Use this.”

“Um … I don’t think that’s her problem.”

She leaned into him and in a loud whisper said, “It’s fingernail-polish remover.”

“Really?” He took the bottle. “How’d you get that through security?”

“I’m a victim of racial profiling. Just because I’m an old white lady, they don’t think I’m a terrorist.” She patted her purse. “I could have an Uzi in here and no one would care.”

He glanced into the open purse just to make sure. While there were lots of pill bottles, pairs of glasses, and some newspaper clippings, he didn’t see any sign of automatic weapons.

“I could be a terrorist.” She closed her purse and shoved it up on her shoulder. “I’d make a great terrorist.”

Heath stepped back as he waited for the TSA to burst into the bathroom in full SWAT gear. He noticed that the other women were doing the same thing. There were some things you just didn’t say in an airport … or anywhere else, for that matter.

When nothing happened, he inclined his head respectfully and settled for a simple, “Yes, ma’am, I bet you would.” Then he crossed back to Lyric’s stall and knocked on the door. “Lyric, here you go. Nail-polish remover.”

She opened the door a crack and reached out.

He pushed lightly on the door. No way was she leaving him out here with terrorist granny. “Let me help. You have some hard-to-reach places, and I’m good with hard-to-reach places.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lyric said with a grin as she cracked the door open just enough to let him in.

He couldn’t resist a smile as he looked at her. Bare-assed and sticky—if she’d been covered in hot fudge, the wet dream would have been complete.

Thirty minutes later, Lyric stood outside of the airport and stared in a mix of horror and utter disbelief at the block-long, red, low-rider, 1980s-era Cadillac Eldorado. She peered closer. Were those curb feelers? And spinning rims?

Wanting to bend over to get a better look but conscious of the fact that all she was wearing was Heath’s T-shirt and a pair of boxers he’d scared up in a gift shop that had “Don’t Mess with TexAss” on the butt, she opted for a slight lean. “Is pimp-mobile a special upgrade at Avis?”

SETI only paid for the sub-sub-tennis-shoe-sized compact, so she didn’t know. Maybe rental companies didn’t offer
new
Cadillacs.

“I know. It’s pretty awful, but by the time we got you dressed, all the other cars were gone. I tried everyone from Alamo to Thrifty—nothing. I bought this off a baggage handler. He called it his “Sweet Cherry Cherry.” He clicked a button to unlock the door and neon-blue chaser lights ran around the under carriage. “Oops, wrong one.”

He clicked another button and hydraulics hummed. The back half of the car lowered while the front half bounced up and down like it was hopping on one foot.

Lyric took a step back. “Keep clicking, maybe it’ll explode.” She was pretty sure walking to San Angelo barefoot in TexAss boxers would be better than riding in that thing. Thank God her tetanus shot was up to date.

“It’s alive.” He clicked again. The chaser lights blinked green and purple. “Damn, it’s a ride at Six Flags Over Studio 54.”

Heath clicked the last button on the key fob and the doors finally unlocked. He stepped forward, opened the passenger-side door for her. “Your chariot awaits.”

The unmistakable scent of marijuana wafted up in waves. She held her nose. “Christ, we’re going to be stoned from the contact high.”

He walked around to the driver’s side and slid in. “Damn, you’re right. Roll down the windows.” Thunder boomed, and then lightning blazed across the sky. “Okay, roll ’um up. No wonder he sold it to me cheap—he needed to support his drug habit.”

With a shudder, Heath plugged the key into the ignition and turned it. As the engine roared to life, so did the radio. The words “Baby loves me” blasted through the speakers at top volume.

“What the hell is that?” Lyric clapped her hands over her ears.

“I think its Neil Diamond.” He reached over to turn off the radio. The button wouldn’t budge.

“Here, let me.” She shoved his hand out of the way. “I’m good with mechanical things.”

She pressed down on the button a couple times, but nothing happened. Finally, figuring there were more ways than one to handle the situation, she turned the volume knob all the way to the left. The sound level didn’t change appreciably, so she tried again. Still nothing. Beside her, Heath was laughing his ass off as the chorus came on.

“No wonder he called it Cherry Cherry.” He wiped the tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks.

Eyes narrowed, she hit the eject button. She designed satellites for a living. She could damn well conquer this radio. The stereo whined as it ejected the disc, and blessed silence finally filled the car.

She sighed in relief. “Thank God. I hate that song.”

At that exact moment, the car hiccupped, coughed, and then—with a particularly violent shimmy—the engine died.

“What happened?” Lyric demanded.

“I don’t know.” Heath turned the keys in the ignition, trying to get the engine to turn over, but nothing was happening. He pumped the gas pedal a couple of times and turned the key again. Nothing. “Personally, I think the more appropriate question is what did you do?”

She was getting damn tired of that question being leveled at her. Especially since Heath channeling Tre was a scary sight. “I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who bought a lemon.”

“She’s a cherry, not a lemon.”

“Seriously?” Lyric rolled her eyes at him. “Pop the hood. There must be a loose wire or something.”

“I will, as soon as I find the damn doohicky. It’s not where it’s supposed to be.” He felt around under the dash.

As he angled his body down to feel under the seat, his elbow brushed against the CD that was still resting at the mouth of the CD player. It slid back in, and as “Cherry Cherry” started to play from the beginning, the car roared to life.

They froze and looked at each other. “You don’t think …”

“Of course not. You’ve obviously been reading too much Stephen King. This is not Christine’s younger, sluttier, disco sister.” Lyric cocked her head to one side and shot him a look.

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Indignant now, she jabbed a finger at the eject button. Once again, the CD slid out. Seconds later, the car gave an angry groan, and with a very loud backfire, it died once again. She tapped the CD and it floated back into the player. The beginning of “Cherry Cherry” started again, and the engine roared to life. She ejected it and the car died. Okay. Demon possession—especially of inanimate objects—was impossible. Then again, most people believed that humans were the only intelligent beings in the universe … she rolled her eyes. On the whole,
Homo sapiens
wasn’t afflicted with broadmindedness. Gingerly, she touched the dash. Was this car the unholy vessel of some crazed Neil Diamond fan?

Oh my God. She sat back. She was obviously losing her mind.

“Okay, that’s it,” Heath exclaimed, pushing the CD in one more time. “If you want to get to San Angelo this year, forget God. Neil Diamond is our copilot.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Lyric peeled her legs from the seat and tucked them under her. Still, he had a point. If it meant getting to her daddy, she could handle four hours of “Cherry Cherry.” Maybe. As long as she didn’t spend too much time wondering about what it was that made these seats so damn sticky.

Heath rolled down the windows as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. They were between storm clouds. “No wonder the guy smoked so much pot. He had to be stoned to put up with this much Neil Diamond.”

Was it her imagination, or did the volume go up?

“Sorry.” Heath glanced around like he was looking for the spirit of Cherry Cherry. “Nothing personal.”

The car hiccupped, but the volume went back down. “Thanks, Cherry,” he said as he pulled out onto Highway 71.

“You’re not actually talking to the car, are you?” Lyric demanded. “It can’t hear you, you know.”

“You sure about that?” Heath asked with a raised brow. “Because I’m not.”

“You’re being absurd. There’s obviously a loose wire somewhere under the dash.” The car wasn’t possessed … okay, it might have a small crush on Neil Diamond.

“Hush,” Heath told her as the dome light flickered above their heads. “She didn’t mean it, Cherry.”

Lyric sighed disgustedly and started to formulate a snappy comeback, but she was distracted by the ringing of her phone. Knowing very well who it was, she glanced at the caller ID anyway. Saw Harmony’s name. And declined the call before her conscience could get the better of her.

Did she want to know what was going on with her father? Absolutely. Especially when the not knowing was a burning ache deep inside of her. But at the same time, what if Harmony was calling to tell her he hadn’t made it? That her daddy—their daddy—was dead? She wasn’t ready for that yet.

If she was too late—just the thought had her hands shaking—then she would find that out when she walked in the door. And if she wasn’t—please, God, don’t let her be too late—she would deal with it then, and not one second before.

As Heath pointed the car toward San Angelo, she tried to relax, but the music made it difficult. As did the way he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She knew he wanted her to look at him, but she refused to. After all, this was the man she had spent the last twelve years despising. The man who had cracked her heart wide open with a few careless words. She needed to remember that, remember what it felt like to be broken like that. Otherwise she was going to have another whole host of problems—problems that began and ended with the fact that even after everything that had passed between them, Heath Montgomery still made her heart go pitter-pat.