Stripped Down

She shrugs. “I love that house and I love my job. I can make it work.”

I understand why she wants to open her own shop. It’s just the Lonesome part that doesn’t make sense—it would be like me running cattle in downtown San Francisco. Some places are simply wrong for the job. She’s not going to have a million cowboys lining up for tats, not unless she’s inking dicks.

Fuck, but I’m screwed.

And it must be my un-birthday, because I discover fate isn’t finished with me yet. I’ve obviously pissed that bitch off big time. The truck has a flat. Punctured tires are an occupational hazard out here, but we’re not going anywhere until I change the tire. Taking the rough ranch roads on bare rim would jack the truck’s suspension and bounce Rose around like rocks in a can.

When I grab the jack out of the pickup bed, Rose pops up by my side. “You want a hand with that?”

Gotta wonder what makes her so uneasy with accepting help or letting someone else do the heavy lifting. Ignoring her, I strip off my shirt, hang my hat on the side mirror, and lower myself down, sliding under the truck to free the spare with the wrench.

Rose’s bare legs move in and out of my field of vision. She’s got the prettiest thighs, golden brown from the sun. Her ink seems to be focused on her back, shoulders and arms, but I can think of a few designs I’d draw on that smooth, bare skin. Granted, I’d be playing artist with my tongue and my teeth, but the insta-boner in my jeans is a distraction I don’t need.

She crouches down. I swear the world about stops because her crotch is right on my eye-level and there’s no way I’m not looking. Her shorts cut into the soft curve of her upper thigh, and I want to shove the denim out of the way and lick the shadowy hollow. I’ll bet she’s got on a pair of cute panties. Given how brief her shorts are, they’re gonna be real tiny panties.

“You need anything?”

Jesus. I’d be happy to give her a list.

“I’m good,” I tell her roughly, although I should be honest. I’m bad. I shouldn’t have brought her out here, and I shouldn’t be fantasizing about stripping her shorts off, spreading her in the back of my truck, and eating her until she screams. But I am. Fuck, am I ever.

The spare pops free right before I spontaneously combust and I slide it out. She stands up, moving away because she’s never been one for sitting still. Somewhere close by, thunder rumbles, and the cattle call restlessly.

“We’re going to have rain,” I say, but there’s no response. Figures. When I want her far away from me, she sticks like a burr. When I want her close at hand, she goes off. Sliding out from beneath the truck, I sit up and spot the rain sweeping down from the hill. Water’s good, but the timing sucks. We’re gonna get soaked.

The gray sheet of rain heads for us with more accuracy than the last guided missile I launched at enemy aircraft right before everything went to fucking hell in Afghanistan. It was raining then, too, and we’d been ass-planted in a valley on the Pakistan border. The Indian monsoons had dumped water on us mercilessly, and it had been a toss-up which was worse—the never-ending wet or the baking heat. For too long, the razor-sharp, hostile peaks and the sodden grass of that Afghani valley eat up my ranch, my cattle, and my girl. I’m back in that hellhole, and I want to tell that stupid ass to fall back. To get out because a whole different kind of hurt is coming from him. My voice dries up and I can’t get the words out, though. All I can do is crouch in the grass, my finger clenching on the trigger, unaware that the enemy is sneaking up on me for the last time.

And then Rose laughs, delighted, and I snap back to the ranch. Thank fucking Christ. She sounds happy, as if I’d arranged the downpour just for her.

“Look, Angel! Rain!” She fairly dances in anticipation of getting thoroughly soaked. Her face glows, and she’s so much better than the Afghani nightmare that I have to smile too.

“That’s rain, all right.” I sound like a dumbass, my head still thick and slow from the flashback, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s completely riveted by the approaching storm, leaning into it with anticipation. Ordinarily, I’d just sit back and watch her because she’s fucking beautiful and so alive it hurts, but a heavy downpour will turn the dirt road to shit if the rain is anything but brief. Getting the tire fixed quickly is paramount. “We’ve got to get on the road if we don’t want to get mired out here.”

“You’re no fun,” she snorts, dancing away from me. That’s true. Since one of us has to be practical, I drop to my knees by the bad tire, working the jack underneath the truck. Rose has her face turned toward the approaching rain. Cold and wet had nothing to recommend it, not as far as I’m concerned. I work quickly but efficiently, testing the jack to make sure I’ve got it firmly in place. I didn’t survive Afghanistan only to have my truck slip when I’m underneath it. My eyes return over and over to Rose, not ready to lose sight of her. When I look at her, I know where I am. She’s my anchor.