Priest (A Standalone Bad Boy Romance Love Story) (36 page)

“Hey,” he says, “you’ve
got to check this out.” He points at the small screen, saying, “The one on the
left, the blonde, she just got back from doing CIA wet work, only she’s telling
her husband she was on a business trip to Rome to talk about importing-” he
interrupts himself with his own laughter.

“If you’re too involved
with the show,” I tell him, “I can come back later.”

“Oh,” he says, sitting up
straight and hitting the power button on the remote control with the same move.
“I didn’t know you were in here to talk to me. What’s up?”

Now that I have his full
attention, this whole thing starts to feel awkward.

“I was wondering,” I
start. “I mean, Eli suggested if you, you know, have some free time or
something…” I hate asking for favors from relative strangers.

“Go on,” he says. “You’re
doing great. Tell me your words.”

The more I’m around Mick,
the more I understand why Eli gives him such a hard time.

“I don’t know if Eli’s
told you or not, but he’s been teaching me the fundamentals of racing,” I start
again. “While I’m waiting for him to get off of work, I was wondering—he
suggested that you might be willing to give me a few pointers, yourself. He
says you know all that there is to know about it.”

If that last part doesn’t
get him, nothing will.

“Sure,” he says. “What
kind of car are we taking?”

“It’s not exactly what
you’d call a racecar,” I tell him.

“Most of the cars I race
weren’t racers until someone turned them into one,” he says. “What do you
have?”

“It’s an automatic Honda
Accord,” I tell him.

“An automatic?” he asks.

I nod.

“That’s going to be a
problem,” he says. “Eli told me you’re still learning to change gears
properly?”

“Of course, he’d tell you
that,” I groan.

“It’s fine,” he says. “We
all start somewhere. When I first started racing, I was in my parents’ Jeep,
and the only way I even won my first race was because the other guy was
laughing too hard at my gear changes. You’re in good company.”

Well, at least he’s
diplomatic.

“What do you want to do
then?” I ask.

“We’ll take mine,” he
says. “It’s got a lot more horses than what you’ll have under the hood, but the
clutch is forgiving. It might just be what helps you break through.”

He seems excited about
this. That’s got to be a good thing.

I agree and he leads me
out of the front of the office.

“Go on and head over to
the GT86,” Mick says. “I forgot the keys inside.”

He heads back inside and
now I get to pretend like I know what GT86 means. I am reasonably certain it’s
a car, but none of the ones parked in front of the office look like anything a
mechanic would want to work on, much less drive.

I walk around the back of
the vehicles, looking for the letters GT, as I can’t remember what other
nonsense Mick tacked onto the end of the name.

I’m still squinting at
car badges when Mick comes back out of the office.

“I’m parked behind the
building,” he says, “probably should have mentioned that.”

He leads me around the
shop and we wave at Eli as we pass the open bay doors. Once we’re behind the
shop, I start feeling a bit better.

“This is your car?” I
ask.

He nods, saying, “It gets
me around.”

“I thought you and Eli
were really into the old cars or classic cars—whatever,” I respond as I very
literally begin to salivate. I manage to stop short of drooling, but not by a
wide margin.

“That’s what we both like
to race,” Mick says, “but when it comes to an everyday, get-around-town car, I
like something that’s going to be a little bit more comfortable. That, and
after watching Rans drop thousands and thousands into his heap only for the
dumb thing to break down again and again, you come to appreciate the wonders of
the modern automobile.”

“It’s beautiful,” I tell
him. “It’s not over the top, but it has smooth lines.”

“Look at you,” he says.
“Making up crap like you’ve been talking cars all your life.”

I ask, “Did you want to
drive or did you want me to?”

He tosses me the keys and
gets in the passenger’s side.

I get in the driver’s
seat as Mick’s saying, “It’s not a very expensive car.”

“I like it,” I tell him.

He’s leaning back in his
seat, saying, “It’s really just something to get me around. It’s not something
I’d really race all that often.”

“Okay,” I respond,
wrinkling my brow.

“I have done some work on
it though,” he says. “You’ll feel that when you turn it on.”

Mick’s a little weird.

“All right, it’s clutch
on the left, brake in the middle, and gas on the right, right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “You
really are pretty new to this, huh? Don’t worry. I’m here to help you.”

I put the key in the
ignition and buckle my belt, just trying to ignore the possibility that Eli’s
best friend is actually trying to hit on me right now.

“That was actually a
joke,” I tell him. “I know where the pedals are, I’m just still trying to get
better with my timing, especially when it comes to double-shifting. That one
doesn’t really make a lot of sense to me just yet. It takes me about four times
as long to make sure that I stop shifting before I actually reach the next gear
and release the clutch just to push it back in again…”

I’m talking a lot because
Mick is leering at me.

I don’t think I’ve ever
had anyone leer at me, at least not right in front of me like this. I don’t
like the feeling.

“But I know it’s one of
those practice things, you know, ‘practice makes perfect’ and all that,” I say
and I have nowhere else to go. “Practice makes perfect” was the tail end of my
swan song and Mick’s still leering.

“That’s funny,” he says.

“Is it?”

“I don’t know,” he
laughs. “I wasn’t really paying attention.”

He’s sitting up in his
seat now, facing me.

“I know that sounds like
I don’t listen or something, but I have to tell you, I was really distracted by
your necklace,” he says.

I’m not wearing a
necklace. He can see very well that I’m not wearing a necklace. I know he can
see that I’m not wearing a necklace because he is staring at my chest.

“You know,” I start,
unbuckling my belt, “maybe this isn’t such a-”

“Ransom’s a good guy and
everything,” Mick says, “but do you really think he’s ready to settle in for
something real?”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know,” he says.
“All I know is that he’s young.”

“You’re young, too,” I
tell him.

“Not as young as Ransom.”

“Why do you keep calling
him that? I thought you usually called him-”

Mick asks, “Did he ever
tell you about our bet?”

If this wasn’t going a
bad direction before, I have a feeling it’s about to.

One hand on the door
handle, I’m ready to get out of here.

“Hold on,” he says as I
start to open the door.

“Mick, I don’t know what
you think is going on here, but I’m with Eli,” I tell him.

“I know you didn’t just
come visit me because you thought you might catch him,” he says. “It’s okay. I
know you probably felt a little weird with the whole doctor/patient thing.”

When one thing gets
fixed, you can be pretty sure something somewhere else just broke.

“Actually, I’m not a
doctor, I’m a hospital volunteer,” I say as if it matters. “I’m sorry if I gave
you the wrong impression, but-”

Moving like the snake
he’s striving to be, Mick leans forward, nearly catching my lips with his
before pulling away. My palm stings as I make sure he knows exactly how I feel
about what he just tried.

“Okay,” he says, rubbing
his cheek. My handprint is remarkably well-defined. “Okay, I guess I was
misreading signals or something-”

I’m already out of the
car, closing the door behind me.

Chapter
Fourteen

Revenge/Armistice

Eli

“Now, what did we learn?”
I ask Mick as I shake my hand.

He’s sputtering for a
moment, his hands up in defense as he crawls away from me.

I’ve already made my
point. I don’t know why he’s so scared.

“Just calm down, man,” he
says. “I can explain.”

“What did we learn?” I
repeat, this time more slowly.

“Don’t try to make out
with your girlfriend?”

I shake my head. “No,” I
tell him. “What we should have learned is a lot more fundamental than that. If
a woman looks like she’s trying to get the hell away from you, that’s not your
cue to try to put your mouth on her. Are you stupid? What did you think was
going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” he says.
“I thought you were wrong and there actually was something between her and me.
I didn’t actually kiss her.”

“You’re an idiot,” I tell
him, tossing him a handful of paper towels. “Didn’t the fact she was trying to
get out of the car—or that she was telling you she was ‘sorry if you got the
wrong idea’—let you know pretty clearly that she wasn’t interested, dumbass?”

I kind of want to kick
him, but then he might consider filing charges so I don’t.

“I’m sorry!” he says.
“Okay, I know I messed up and I’m so-”

“I’m not the one you need
to apologize to,” I interrupt. “You’re right that you messed up, but you need
to apologize to Kate. You think about that, maybe I’ll think about taking you
to the hospital to get your nose put back in place.”

His hands are instant to
cover the lower half of his face, and his breathing just got a lot faster.

It looked like he’d been
doing really well after getting punched in the face (repeatedly,) but it seems
the idea of his nose being a little crooked overwhelms whatever fear-inspired
courage he was showing.

“Of course I’ll apologize
to her,” he says through his cupped hands. “You need to take me to the
hospital, Rans.”

“You will apologize to
her if and when she decides to allow you to apologize to her, and you sure as
hell better mean it,” I tell him. “Until then, you’re not going to go anywhere
near her. If we’re in the shop working on the President’s motorcade and the
Secret Service has their hands on their guns, telling us to hurry it up, and
Kate comes into the shop, you drop what you’re doing and you walk the other
way, you got me?”

The betrayal part of the
whole thing bothers me, sure; but it’s the fact that she said she wasn’t
interested and he kept going that makes me feel pretty good about his
now-crooked nose. A kiss is a kiss, but someone doesn’t want a kiss, you do not
try to give them a kiss.

It’s pretty damn simple.

“All right,” he says. “I
got it. When she’s ready for-”

“
If
,” I correct. “If she never wants to see or hear from you
again—and I think that’d be justified—you make sure she never does.”

“Fine,” he says. “
If
she decides she’s ready for me to
apologize to her, I’ll apologize to her. If not, I’ll stay away. Now, will you
please take me to the hospital? I can’t drive like this.”

“Fine, but we’re taking
your car,” I tell him. “I don’t want you getting blood on my seats.”

“Oh, come on,” he
protests. “Your Galaxie’s seats are cracked and filthy. The GT’s only a year—”

“Either I can drive you
in your car or you can drive yourself…in your car,” I tell him. “Blood’s harder
to get out than motor oil and my car’s not going to pay for your mistake.”

I’m almost expecting him
to point out that there are multiple oil stains over most of the interior of
the Galaxie, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods.

I have no way of knowing,
but I like to think he’s being so cooperative because he’s trying to figure out
how I would know that blood stains worse than oil. The truth is that I have no
idea which is worse. I just wanted to see that fear in his eyes one more time
before I take him to get all patched up and feeling better.

All right, that part of
it is just for me.

“Fine,” he says.

He goes to reach in his
pocket, but I stop him, saying, “Whoa, hold on there a second.”

Mick looks down at his
hands.

“You’ll want to wash
those,” I tell him. “
Making
you bleed
is one thing. I’m not touching your blood.”

He washes his hands
thoroughly—twice—and, after drying them, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out
his keys and hands them to me.

“Can we go now?” he asks
as he grabs a couple more paper towels for his face.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “We
can go now.”

Just to be on the safe
side, Mick and I are going to Gianelli Teaching Hospital on the edge of town.
I’ve only ever been to St. Mary’s of Egypt, but I’d rather not give Kate’s mom
any more reason not to like me.

I’d imagine bringing in
the guy who needed medical treatment because I just beat him up wouldn’t
exactly change her mind about me.

We pull into the lot and
find a spot to park.

Getting out of the car,
Mick’s still holding paper towels against his nose, although it looks like he’s
stopped bleeding. Part of me does feel kind of bad for hitting him, but he
did
have it coming.

It wasn’t all that long
ago that Mick was the only person I would ever think of calling my friend.

We get into the emergency
room and get Mick checked in.

When the nurse doing the
intake asks how he hurt his face, I don’t expect it, but Mick covers for me.
It’s funny, I never asked him to lie about what happened. As long as he’s not
pressing charges, I don’t care who knows I beat the crap out of him.

Still, I don’t bother
correcting him. I may not be ashamed of introducing my friend to my fists, but
I’m not looking to brag about it, either.

I honestly think it hurt me
just about as much as it hurt him. Seriously, I think I’ve got a knuckle out of
place or something. My hand is throbbing.

We’re waiting a while
before a doctor calls Mick’s name.

“You want me to go with
you or stay here?” I ask.

“Go with,” he says.

The way he was asking to
be brought here, I almost forgot he’s just as likely to come out of here more
injured as he is healed.

I don’t make a big deal
about it, though. No reason to get his blood pressure any higher than it is
already.

This is already going to
be the second half of his punishment. I don’t need to do anything more to make
it unpleasant for him.

We head to the back so
they can take his vitals. I don’t know if it’s because I’m feeling guilty or
what, but I can’t stop thinking about the first time Mick and I met.

I was living in the
Galaxie at the time, even though I was too young to legally drive it. I had
parked it behind an old building, now a Dairy Queen.

Living on the street that
young, I was a bit surprised more people didn’t try to rob me. Of course, if
I’d kept having that kind of good luck, I probably never would have met Mick.

I was sleeping in the
backseat when the car started to move. At first, I was too scared to do
anything. After all, I was only fifteen.

It’s not like the Galaxie
was that hard to steal. My dad had already messed with the ignition so he could
start it without a key. I guess he got tired of spending all his time looking
for them when he’d rather be drinking and driving. It’s only a guess. Apart
from that, it was summer, and so I was sleeping with a couple of windows
cracked.

The nurses take us back
to a small, private room and Mick gets up on the bed…willingly. I’m not sure if
it’s because the last time he was in the hospital, he had Kate to check in on
him or if he’s finally starting to get used to doctors, but when they put the
heart rate monitor on him, his pulse is still in the double digits.

“The doctor has a couple
other patients ahead of you, but he should be in shortly,” the nurse says
before leaving the room.

Mick and I don’t talk.

That day, being the
unwilling backseat passenger in my own car, I thought I was going to be lucky
to get out of there with my life. The car would likely be the price I would pay
for whoever was behind the wheel to consider letting me go.

I hadn’t been on the
street all that long, but it was more than long enough to start hearing the
stories.

There are two worlds in
this country, probably everywhere else, too. If you’ve got a place to live, a
decent job, or a family to go home to, the apparent world feels almost like it
was built just for you. Sure, it’s because everyone is trying to sell you
something, but it can still feel pretty good if that’s the way you’re looking
at it.

If you’re on the street,
without a home, without a family that you can—or want to—go back to, you’re an
intruder in hostile territory.

Instead of trying to get
you to come in and buy something, people working their nine-to-five jobs spray
hoses and call the police if you try to get anywhere near the entrance. When I
first escaped my home, I never tried to go into a business if I didn’t have the
money to pay for whatever they were selling.

After a while of being
kicked and pushed and told to get the hell away, though, I didn’t feel so bad
about learning to steal. The way normal, “respectable” people were treating me
and everyone else like me, it seemed only fair to take something in
compensation.

It was never easy,
though. People tend to watch teenagers who look like they haven’t had a decent
meal in a while.

The funny thing is that
nothing scared me more than being ripped off myself. If I’d gotten arrested and
taken to jail, at least I’d know I’d have three meals and a nearly decent place
to sleep.

After about ten minutes
of waiting for the doctor, the nurse pops her head back in, asking, “How are we
doing in here?”

“How long’s he going to
be?” Mick asks.

He’s been holding up well
so far, but now he’s starting to sweat. His eyes are spreading a little further
open, and I can almost feel the growing tension in him.

“Don’t worry,” the nurse
answers. “Dr. Chavez shouldn’t be much longer.”

Dr. Chavez.

“Isn’t that Kate’s-” Mick
starts.

“Yeah,” I interrupt.
“That’ll be her dad.”

Kate’s dad is a doctor,
too, and she
did
tell me he worked at
a different hospital than she and her mom. This is the only other hospital in
town, but I’d never really thought about it.

Having not met the guy, I
haven’t developed the same drive to avoid him at all costs the way I have with
Kate’s mom. That said, just because I haven’t met him yet doesn’t mean he’s
going to be on my side.

The nurse leaves and now
Mick’s looking at
me
with the raised
eyebrows and slightly cocked head that’s usually reserved for patients in a
place like this.
He’s
looking at
me
with pity.

“You gonna be all right,
man?” he asks. “Do you have to go?”

“I have no idea,” I tell
him.

For now, I just decide to
stick around. The guy hasn’t met me, so I doubt he’ll recognize me so long as I
keep my mouth shut.

Still, I’m kind of hoping
the nurse comes back again so I can ask her for a sedative.

In an attempt to take my
mind off of the looming disaster that meeting Kate’s dad is sure to be, I take
my inner monologue and make it external.

“Do you remember when we
met?” I ask.

“You mean, do I remember
the first time I saved your ass?”

He’s not wrong, but I’m
still angry enough at him that I’m not going to bother mentioning that fact.

“I was riding around in
that backseat for I don’t even know how long,” I tell him. “When he stopped off
for gas, I thought maybe that would be my shot, but he paid at the pump. I
still don’t know how he didn’t see me back there under that crappy blanket.”

“I still don’t know why
you didn’t just get out of the back and get in the driver’s seat,” Mick says.
It seems he’s glad to have the distraction, himself. “What was he really going
to do? Throw you out right there at the gas station?”

“I was fifteen and the
guy was freaking huge,” I tell him.

“Whatever,” he says.
“It’s a good thing I happened by, is all I’m saying.”

That’s true enough.

While the guy’s receipt
was printing, I told myself I was going to let him know I was back there, but I
was frozen in place. For a minute, I considered just getting out of the car and
running. I didn’t know if the guy was armed or what he would do to me when he
found me.

The only thing that kept
me under that old, dirty blanket was the possibility that I could avoid being
found until he parked the car somewhere and got far enough away I could just
hop back in the front seat and get out of there. It didn’t quite happen that
way.