Torn (2 page)

Saturday - Early August

I pulled over to the side of Pacifica Way
only minutes after leaving my new home and took a swig from my water bottle.
Wow, I’d thought that San Francisco in August was hot, but Boulder City took it
to a whole new level. From what Pops had told me, the only months that compared
to my hometown were November through February. Otherwise, Nevada just eclipsed
the heat that I was used to. I was in hell right now, in more ways than one. I
undid the lower buttons of my red and white checkered shirt, used the material
to clean my smeared sunglasses, then put them back on and tied my shirt at my
waist, exposing my midriff. Even wearing just this, teamed with my cut-off
denim shorts and a pair of red sneakers, I was still sweltering. I found a hair
elastic in the back pocket of my shorts and used it to pull my long hair back
into a ponytail, anything to allow more of the gentle breeze to try and cool my
exposed skin. I set off again, checking my watch as I timed my ride from our
new house out on Woodacre Drive to Nevada Way, the main street of Boulder City.
I needed to work out if it was feasible for me to bike in and out so I could
get the bus to Nevada State College, known as NSC, when I started in a few
weeks.

After a good ride, I slowed down, looking
left and right as I hit the main drag of downtown. The wide street was littered
with eateries and quaint shops. It had an old-fashioned charm about it. I could
even imagine a Western being set here. It wasn’t exactly cosmopolitan, like San
Francisco had been, but then what had I expected? I’d moved from one of the
largest cities in California, with a population of over 800,000, to one in
Nevada with just over 15,000. At least Vegas was a hop, skip, and a jump away.
I couldn’t wait to go there and see if it lived up to all of the hype. One of
my favorite TV shows had been
CSI: Las Vegas
and I felt like I already
knew the place.

“God damn it,” I cursed, when I
realized that one of my tires had a flat. Typical, I wasn’t carrying a repair
kit, as I had no idea where Pops had hidden it in all of the garage boxes we’d
yet to unpack since moving in a few days ago.

I got off and checked it to find
a rusty nail sticking out of it. I wiped the back of my hand across my damp brow
and looked around. Even a city this size must have a repair shop, right? I
spotted a sign down the street for JT’s Auto Repair Shop and headed to the
nearest intersection, wheeling my bike at my side. Once I made it across, I
approached the garage. It had two massive double doorways, one of which had the
metal shutters down, so I propped my sunglasses up on top of my head and stepped
through the open doorway, the smell of grease and gasoline hitting me
immediately. I’d never really noticed how much I liked the earthy, pungent smell
until I stood there looking around, trying to find any signs of life. The inside
of the large open workshop just had bare gray concrete block walls, with the
odd tin sign for different car manufacturers, such as Cadillac, Buick, and
Mustang. There were also a few posters of scantily clad women in various sexy
poses on the hoods of muscle and sports cars, which made me roll my eyes. Men!
One-track minds.

The back wall was interspersed
with racks of tires and the odd window made up of solid glass bricks that did
nothing to add to the dim natural lighting. There were two cars up on raised
ramps and another two lined up on the concrete floor, one of which was a Chevy
Impala that had its hood open, a dirty rag discarded on the pristine-looking engine.
In general, I had no knowledge of cars at all. As long as they were shiny and
comfortable and got me from A to B, that was all I needed to know. But as a
massive fan of
Supernatural
, I recognized Dean Winchester’s iconic car
without a second glance. This one looked just as well cared for. The black
paintwork was spotless and gleaming, and the chrome detailing was almost mirror
like. Someone sure loved that car.

“Hey, is anyone here?” I hollered.
When I got no reply, I leaned my bike up against the edge of the doorframe and moved
a little closer inside, the cool and shaded interior a blessing from the dry
heat outside. I spotted a pair of scuffed-up black leather boots sticking out
from under the Impala, so I bent over and called “Hey” again. Whoever was working
under there must be deaf, as I still got no response. Not wanting to get my
hands dirty, I gently kicked the end of the boot.

“Fuck!” came an exclamation from
a gravelly male voice from underneath the car, right as I heard the sound of
something hitting metal.

I grimaced and stepped back. I’d
obviously scared him to death and he’d gone to sit up, forgetting he was under
the car.
Don’t expect a Dean Winchester look-a-like, Sky
, I warned
myself. Knowing my luck, it would be some old, lecherous, sweaty bald dude.
When the sound of wheels rolling across the floor unveiled the mechanic, I was
so not expecting the vision that shot out from under the Impala. Dressed only
in a pair of oil and grease-stained gray coveralls, the top section of which
was hanging loose down to his waist, was a totally ripped, tattooed, and gorgeous-looking
guy. No wonder he hadn’t heard me. He had a white cable stretching from his
coveralls pocket over his ridiculously buff torso, the buds of the earphones
hidden by his scruffy mop of dark brown hair. I quickly averted my eyes when I
spotted what I thought was a silver nipple piercing, trying to catch my breath
and prevent my cheeks from coloring up, but it was too late. I could feel them
flaming. Sweet baby Jesus, I’d never seen anyone in real life with such a hot
body or face.

“Hey there, beautiful, I think
you just gave me a concussion,” he chuckled. It was a low rumble from deep in
his defined chest, and it reverberated through my body.

“I’m so sorry,” I replied, swallowing
hard and trying to contain myself as I looked back down at him. Oh God, I’d
maimed him. He had blood trickling from a cut on his temple, right above the
most gorgeous deep green eyes I’d ever had the pleasure of looking at. I lost
the ability to speak for a moment as I just stared at him, then my heart
fluttered as I realized he’d just called me beautiful. My heart quickly sank
when I deduced that it must be a term of endearment he used for all women, he’d
barely had time to look at me when he appeared. Besides, I couldn’t be any less
beautiful right now. I had no makeup on, my hair was scraped back, and I had a
sheen of perspiration on my skin from my ride in the ridiculous heat. “You’re
bleeding,” I finally advised, lifting my fingers up to touch my temple to
mirror where he’d been cut.

“It does feel a bit tender,” he
nodded, reaching up to touch the wrong side as he sat up on his skateboard-looking
thing. He was insanely toned, muscular perfection. Not bulging with ugly
popping veins, just …
perfect
.

“Wrong side, but please don’t
touch the other. Your hands are filthy and you’ll likely get an infection. Do
you have a first-aid kit? I’ll clean the cut and patch it up for you.”

“Yeah,” he replied with another
nod, his gritty and sexy voice sending a shiver down my spine. “Up there on the
wall, right next to the switch to lower the shutters, but I’ll be fine.”

“Please let me, I’m feeling kinda
guilty that you hit your head because of me.”

“Sure, ok then,” he relented,
offering me a one-dimpled smile. Damn, he sure was fine!

I smiled shyly, feeling my usual
geeky self as I stood in front of this sex God, then quickly broke our gaze
when I realized he wasn’t going to by looking behind me. I spotted the box
hanging from a hook on the wall and reached up to take it down. I felt giddy at
the thought of being able to get close to him, let alone touch him. I wanted to
check out all of that body art he had on his biceps, shoulders, and ribs. I’d
never really found tattooed guys attractive before, but I was prepared to make
an exception for him. He wore tattoos like they’d been invented especially for
his body. When I turned around, the box slipped from my fingers and clattered to
the floor as I saw he was standing up, leaning back against the Impala watching
me, using a grubby white cloth to wipe his hands. His muscles were rippling,
streaks of grime on his lightly bronzed skin not lessening his appeal in the
slightest. Jesus, my mouth felt like it was full of cotton and my hands were
virtually shaking. What was he doing to me?

“Sorry,” I mumbled, crouching
down to pick it up. “It’s the heat, I’m not used to being so hot.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he
retorted, casting a lazy and what appeared to be appreciative eye over my body,
lingering where the swell of my breasts was just visible in the gap in my
shirt. I did a wonderful impression of a goldfish as my mouth opened and
closed, nothing coming out, while I tried to think of something to say,
something that wouldn’t make me look like more of an idiot. “So, you’re from
out of town?”

“Sort of,” I nodded, finally
finding my voice. “I just moved here from San Francisco, on Wednesday actually.
I was taking my first trip to explore and got a flat. You were the closest
repair shop I could see, but I have no idea if you do bikes.” I headed over to
set the first-aid kit on the engine.

“Not on this one,” he uttered,
looking horrified quickly snatching it out of my hands. “She’s my prize
possession. Follow me.” He flicked his head toward a bright red rolling toolbox
and set the kit on top, while I gulped as I saw a magnificent tattoo of a black
and gray buzzard on his upper back. It stretched from one of his taut shoulder
blades to the other and looked like it was carrying something … a ball, maybe?

“Why a buzzard?” I asked,
thankful there was some excuse for me to talk to him.

“What?” He gave me a curious look
over his shoulder, letting me see the sharp angles of his jawline and
cheekbones. A Dean Winchester look-a-like he wasn’t, he was even better. And
that was a sentence I never thought I’d say, even if it was silently to myself.

“The tattoo on your back,” I
advised with a tip of my chin toward it.

“It’s not a buzzard, it’s an
eagle.”

“Still pretty,” I replied, as I
went to stand next to him and opened up the first-aid kit.

“Pretty?” He let out that
insanely sexy chuckle and shook his head. “Christ, first you almost knock me
out, then you nearly touch the engine of my car, which no one does but me, now
you’re calling my tattoo, which you’re supposed to find a combination of
masculine, intimidating, and sexy,
pretty
?”

“Well, it
is
pretty sexy,”
I agreed, then gasped a little, shocked at my boldness, and he laughed again.

“Like you then, beautiful. So,
are you patching me up or what? You’ve interrupted my break and some very
important work on my car,” he advised. I felt my stomach flutter at his declaration
that he thought I was pretty, beautiful, and sexy, not to mention I’d found not
only a scorching hot guy, but one who drove his own Impala. I was beginning to
wonder if I’d woken up this morning or if I was actually still in bed dreaming.
Encounters like this didn’t usually happen to me. He didn’t look much older
than me, but I couldn’t resist quickly flitting my eyes down to check out his
ring finger, and smiled to myself to see he wasn’t wearing one. Neither was
there any sign of a tan line. Not that I was brave enough to do anything about
that, anywhere but the dreams I’d likely be having of him later.

“Stand still then, this may hurt,”
I warned, as I opened a tub of alcohol wipes and cleaned my hands with one,
then tugged out another. He gave me another of his sexy, lopsided smiles as I
reached up, held one side of his face, and gently ran the wipe over the cut on
his brow. My heart was beating hard in my chest. It was like I was in the stands
of my old high school, listening to the bass drum banging out the beat for the
cheerleaders before the start of a game.

“I’m used to pain. Trust me,
that’s nothing.” His voice had an edge to it, like he wasn’t just talking about
his head, and I frowned, wondering what he meant. Then again, getting tattoos
must be painful enough, let alone that bar of metal with the round balls on
each end sticking through his nipple. The thought of having that piercing made
me wince. I discarded the wipe that had his blood on it and cleaned my hands
again before applying some antiseptic cream to his cut, then a nude fabric Band-Aid,
which covered it nicely. I was standing so close to him, I could feel the warmth
of his breath on my lips and hear us breathing in unison, which was unexpected,
as my chest was heaving with the excitement of standing next to such a gorgeous
and half-naked specimen of male.