Rough Edge (Tannen Boys 2)

“How’d you end up all about cars?” I ask the question to Erica because she hasn’t said a word since her friendly chatter with Monica.

“Our dad,” Emily answers, not even giving Erica a chance. It doesn’t seem rude, though, more like it’s their usual MO of conversational flow. I’m betting Emily often takes the focus and responsibility off Erica, in a ‘I’ve got you, Sis’ sort of way. It’s familiar, like the way Shayanne always chatters away to make up for my selective conversational skills. “He ran the garage for thirty years, brought us up right there in the grease and grime. Reed too.” Reed nods agreeably at what seem to be pleasant memories. “They ended up grease monkeys. I got out . . . in a way. But the best salespeople sell what they know. And I know cars.”

Erica snorts at that. “You memorize the spec sheets, Em. That’s different from knowing what makes them tick.”

Emily grins at her sister’s dig, and I can see the affection between them. It’s like how I tell my brothers that I love them by swapping shots with them . . . just fewer punches and more words.

“You’re just jealous because I get employee discounts on a new car every two years. Think I’ll get a Mustang next time.” She’s teasing, dangling an invisible carrot over Erica’s head. Or maybe, invisible keys.

Erica sets her beer down, leaning forward with one elbow on the table, her chin resting on her fist. Her excitement pulls me into her orbit. “A Shelby? And so help me, if you say no, I’m gonna tell Dad you’re pussing out.”

Emily’s smile falters at the edges. “No, not a Shelby. Even with a discount, I can’t do that. Not even a 350.”

“What’s the price difference between a 350 and a 500?” Reed asks, but something tells me he already knows. Good for him if he does, because I have no fucking idea.

“Retail? A 500 starts around $73K, a 350 around $60K. Doesn’t matter, though, because Dad wouldn’t let me drive one. I’d get in too much trouble.” She looks to me, trying to involve me again in their car chatter. But unless it runs on diesel and has a John Deere logo on it, I’ve got almost no idea. “I’ve got the family lead foot and love for speed, but putting me behind the wheel with enough horsepower to go zero-to-sixty in three seconds is a death sentence. I don’t have the technical skills to control that like Rix does.”

I’m about to ask a follow-up question on that, but the jukebox roars to life, overtaking any conversation with a loud bass line and a guy screaming from what sounds like the deep, dark, demon-infested depths of his soul. Still, I store the information about Rix’s apparent driving skills and the family trait for speed.

“What is this?” Emily says, her shoulders bunching up to her ears. “Sounds like a monster screeching for mercy!”

Erica tilts her head, listening easily. “Mudvayne. Dig. 90s metal—no . . . maybe early 2000s. Good stuff.” Each bit is punctuated and sharp so we can hear the sound bites over the music.

It’s not that loud now that I’ve adjusted to it, not like the garage music volume, but it is harsh on the ears. Definitely not Johnny Cash, though Erica is tapping out the rhythm on her beer glass like it’s her jam.

Engines. Cars. Heavy rock music. Sarcasm. Biting quips. Beer. Wrenches as weapons.

An image is starting to form. But there’s more to Erica.

Freckles. Fiery sass. A sense of humor that zings with excitement. Tiny body I want to hold as I bury myself in her. Hair I want to wrap around my fist. A mouth I want to taste.

“I think I’ll see if there’s anything more . . . well, less screamy. Any requests?” Emily asks me. “Or you could just come see what speaks to you? Maybe we can find something to dance to.”

Her nod to the jukebox is an open invitation to more. But it’s one I need to close the door on quickly because I’m not interested in door number one with Emily. I’m all about getting behind a closed door with Erica.

“Don’t dance. Don’t care for rock either, so whatever.” I’m intentionally short, my tone flat as I try to let her down easy. Or at least help her see that I’m an asshole she should avoid.

But she just smirks, like I’m playing hard to get, as she gets up from the table and goes toward the jukebox.

“Hey, Reed, go tell Monica that we need to close out.” Not a question, an order. He blinks, looking at her with puppy dog eyes that tell me he wants to please her, and then to me, his blue eyes going frosty in warning. I smirk back, knowing my cockiness is needling him like a thorn in his side.