Ride Me Sweetheart

“Great, now he’s gone. I’ll never get him back here for a bath,” I mutter to myself.

“No offense, but you seem to be the only one here taking a bath,” the man says, laughing.

I climb out of the tub—and I’m not graceful about it. The truth is, I’m not really graceful in general. I stand up, wiping down the big, fluffy, white bubbles that are clinging to my pants. And shirt.

“Can I help you with something?” I mumble, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

“Just stand right there and let me enjoy the show,” he literally purrs.

I look up at him, my brow furrowed with confusion until I see him leering at me—and really, that’s the only word for it. He’s leering. I look down and see my shirt has been soaked. You can see my blue bra beneath, the color visible now against the wet shirt. That would be embarrassing enough, but clearly it’s cold and my nipples don’t like it.

I refuse to cover up. Somehow, I think that would just make the man happier. So instead, I choose to ignore it—probably not my smartest move, but it is what it is.

“Yo, Einstein, eyes up here,” I snap.

“As gorgeous as your eyes are, I have to say, the view is better a little lower,” he says with a smirk, taking his sunglasses off and hooking them on his pocket.

“You seriously did not just say that to me.”

“I guess I did. What’s your name?” My body snaps tense, eyes narrowing.

“It doesn’t matter because you won’t be using it,” I huff.

“Up to you, sweetheart. I’ll just make up my own name for you.”

“I wouldn’t waste my time. Is there a reason you’re here?”

“My bike broke down on the main road and for some reason, ever since I hit this damn town, my cell signal has been as non-existent as a motherfucker.”

“Lucky me it was my place it happened at,” I grumble with a sigh.

“More like lucky me from where I’m standing, baby.”

“I’m not your baby,” I reply, not able to even believe how ridiculous he’s being.

“You could be,” he says with a smirk.

“You should shut up now before I decide not to let you use my phone,” I warn him. “Come around front and I’ll get my phone so you can call George.”

“George?”

“He owns Sweetheart Garage and Towing,” I respond, already walking toward the front of the building. I can hear the weirdo—good looking, but still weird—following behind me.

“Oh, I just need to call the Saints in Stillwater,” he says, and I frown looking over my shoulder.

“Saints? Are you with a church?” I ask, not bothering to hide the mocking tone in my voice.

“I’m not sure they’d let the likes of me in a church, sweet cheeks. It’s my club—well a chapter of my club. I’m from Kentucky.”

“You’re a biker?” I ask, pumping him for information, as we round the corner of the house.

“You got something against that?” he asks, and I roll my eyes even though he can’t see.

“The only thing I have against you is the fact that if you don’t stop calling me that obnoxious nickname, I’m going to have to kill you. I don’t really want to go to jail. I need to wash my hair tonight.”

I hear the man laughing, but I don’t bother turning around.

“I’ll be right back with my phone.”

I run inside, grabbing a jacket, putting it on before I do anything else. When I come back outside, I have my cell phone in my hand. Mr. Cocky is standing there leaning against the railing of the steps, waiting. I know the minute he laughs he’s mocking me for putting a jacket on. I ignore it.

“Here you go,” I tell him.

He reaches out to get the phone, his fingers brushing against mine. He’s got ink on his arms and his fingers. I’d like to say it’s not hot, but it is. I ignore that fact, along with the fact that his touch feels like an electrical current.

“Thanks, sweet cheeks,” he says, dialing the phone.

“Seriously, just stop,” I demand, but he’s already talking to someone on the phone.

“They’ll be here in an hour,” he says when he hangs up.

“That’s good,” I respond standing there watching him.

“Want some help washing your dog?”

“Excuse me?”

“You looked like you could use some help,” he says with a shrug. “I apparently have some time.”

“No thanks. I think I can handle it.”

“Scared, sweet cheeks?”

“Of you,” I laugh. “Not hardly. I just find you obnoxious.”

“I don’t know. It sounds like you’re scared to spend time with me.”

“Oh, please.”

“C’mon. You and I both know you’re not going to get that dog bathed without help. I’m offering. What have you got to lose?”

I scrunch my nose up, knowing I need to send the guy back to his bike and away from me.

“I don’t want—”

“Bawk, bawk, bawk,” he laughs softly, trying to imitate a chicken and doing it rather badly.