Rough Edge (Tannen Boys 2)

“I looked up rat rods.” He’s telling me a lot with that simple statement, and I hear everything he’s not saying . . .

An admission to a lack of knowledge on something I know all about, which is surprisingly difficult for some men to say.

An acknowledgement that cars are important to me, and he respects that.

And ultimately, that I mean something to him. I mean enough that he saw fit to educate himself on something solely because of me.

Brody might not say much, but damn if he isn’t saying a lot.

“What’d you think?” I peek over my shoulder, still stirring eggs.

His shrug is casual. His reaction is not, his eyes watching my every move, measuring and assessing. “Seemed cool. I can see how you’d make the jump from the garage to racing pretty fast. No pun intended.”

I’m quiet, not filling in the blanks he’s not asking about, and the moment stretches uncomfortably.

From the corner of my eye, I see Brody set his coffee cup down and interlace his fingers on the table. “Can I ask one question?”

Ah, here we go. I knew this was coming, have been waiting on it, in fact. The judgement, the ‘why don’t you just—’, the condescending mansplaining about safety, the talk.

I turn, my back against the counter, and cross my arms, spoon still in hand. “What?”

Brody chuckles. “No need to threaten me with a spoon this time, Lil Bit. It ain’t that serious. I just wondered why the secrecy? I was happy to come getcha, but I bet Emily” —his voice tightens— “or Reed would’ve too.” He shakes off whatever jealous bullshit he’s feeling to finish. “Just wanted to see what I’ve stepped into here.”

I sag, confused beyond measure because that is not at all what I thought he was going to say.

“I . . . uh, I wasn’t expecting that,” I tell him honestly. I go back to stirring the eggs because they’re in danger of burning and I promised him a better-than-pancakes breakfast. I toss in some shredded cheese to make up for the bacon it’s too late to fry up now.

“It’s kind of a long story, but the shorthand version is that once upon a time, my dad ran the garage and did racing engines on the side. I spent many a night at races with too-big earmuffs covering my ears from the racket. When I was about sixteen, Dad had a friend who died in a crash. It wasn’t even at a race, but he was showboating his hot rod—the one he built with Dad. It damn near killed my dad too, even though he wasn’t there. It just hurt him.” I absently rub at my chest, remembering Big John, Dad’s friend who had been larger than life until the tree he wrapped his car around had taken his. “Anyway, Dad went totally strict after that. He wanted everyone to live in this safe little bubble, for our own protection, you know? From then on, Cole Automotive only did maintenance and repairs for regular cars. Dad never even touched a racecar after that. Won’t so much as watch NASCAR these days.”

Brody puts some puzzle pieces together. “And if you called Emily or Reed to bail you out on excessive speed charges, they’d tell your dad and he’d be pissed that you stepped out of the bubble of safety. So you’re trying to protect him while doing whatever the fuck you want?”

I nod, plating our breakfast. He understands. The only question now is if he’ll understand.

He chews thoughtfully. “This is good. Not as good as my pancakes, but damn good.”

I growl at the topic change, and he smirks that grin that kills me. Or makes me want to kill him. Maybe both.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?” I demand.

“Okay, I won’t say anything. I just want to make sure I’m not getting in the middle of something major, like you’re the getaway driver for your family’s bank robbing side hustle or something. You drive fast? Okay.”

“Stop saying okay.” I shake my head, not sure I heard him right.

That shrug again, the one that’s driving me crazy with its casualness when I’m letting him in on something huge to me. But he’s just . . . accepting it?

“I keep stuff from my family too, for their protection. My dad . . . we grew up good, but after Mom died, he didn’t . . . well, I guess you could say he didn’t handle it well. I bailed him out of the drunk tank a few times, kept my brothers and sister from the worst of it, and took the brunt of it. It was better that way.”

I tease all that apart, the information between the words he actually said. Maybe he does understand me and what I’m doing. A tenuous thread weaves its way between us, something more than sex and flirting, dangerously closer to friendship. Or maybe even more.