Lyric and Lingerie (Fort Worth Wranglers 1)

Heath stepped back as he waited for the TSA to burst into the bathroom in full SWAT gear. He noticed that the other women were doing the same thing. There were some things you just didn’t say in an airport … or anywhere else, for that matter.

When nothing happened, he inclined his head respectfully and settled for a simple, “Yes, ma’am, I bet you would.” Then he crossed back to Lyric’s stall and knocked on the door. “Lyric, here you go. Nail-polish remover.”

She opened the door a crack and reached out.

He pushed lightly on the door. No way was she leaving him out here with terrorist granny. “Let me help. You have some hard-to-reach places, and I’m good with hard-to-reach places.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lyric said with a grin as she cracked the door open just enough to let him in.

He couldn’t resist a smile as he looked at her. Bare-assed and sticky—if she’d been covered in hot fudge, the wet dream would have been complete.

* * *

Chapter 7

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Lyric stood outside of the airport and stared in a mix of horror and utter disbelief at the block-long, red, low-rider, 1980s-era Cadillac Eldorado. She peered closer. Were those curb feelers? And spinning rims?

Wanting to bend over to get a better look but conscious of the fact that all she was wearing was Heath’s T-shirt and a pair of boxers he’d scared up in a gift shop that had “Don’t Mess with TexAss” on the butt, she opted for a slight lean. “Is pimp-mobile a special upgrade at Avis?”

SETI only paid for the sub-sub-tennis-shoe-sized compact, so she didn’t know. Maybe rental companies didn’t offer new Cadillacs.

“I know. It’s pretty awful, but by the time we got you dressed, all the other cars were gone. I tried everyone from Alamo to Thrifty—nothing. I bought this off a baggage handler. He called it his “Sweet Cherry Cherry.”

He clicked a button to unlock the door and neon-blue chaser lights ran around the under carriage. “Oops, wrong one.”

He clicked another button and hydraulics hummed. The back half of the car lowered while the front half bounced up and down like it was hopping on one foot.

Lyric took a step back. “Keep clicking, maybe it’ll explode.” She was pretty sure walking to San Angelo barefoot in TexAss boxers would be better than riding in that thing. Thank God her tetanus shot was up to date.

“It’s alive.” He clicked again. The chaser lights blinked green and purple. “Damn, it’s a ride at Six Flags Over Studio 54.”

Heath clicked the last button on the key fob and the doors finally unlocked. He stepped forward, opened the passenger-side door for her. “Your chariot awaits.”

The unmistakable scent of marijuana wafted up in waves. She held her nose. “Christ, we’re going to be stoned from the contact high.”

He walked around to the driver’s side and slid in. “Damn, you’re right. Roll down the windows.” Thunder boomed, and then lightning blazed across the sky. “Okay, roll ’um up. No wonder he sold it to me cheap—he needed to support his drug habit.”

With a shudder, Heath plugged the key into the ignition and turned it. As the engine roared to life, so did the radio. The words “Baby loves me” blasted through the speakers at top volume.

“What the hell is that?” Lyric clapped her hands over her ears.

“I think its Neil Diamond.” He reached over to turn off the radio. The button wouldn’t budge.

“Here, let me.” She shoved his hand out of the way. “I’m good with mechanical things.”

She pressed down on the button a couple times, but nothing happened. Finally, figuring there were more ways than one to handle the situation, she turned the volume knob all the way to the left. The sound level didn’t change appreciably, so she tried again. Still nothing. Beside her, Heath was laughing his ass off as the chorus came on.

“No wonder he called it Cherry Cherry.” He wiped the tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks.

Eyes narrowed, she hit the eject button. She designed satellites for a living. She could damn well conquer this radio. The stereo whined as it ejected the disc, and blessed silence finally filled the car.

She sighed in relief. “Thank God. I hate that song.”

At that exact moment, the car hiccupped, coughed, and then—with a particularly violent shimmy—the engine died.

“What happened?” Lyric demanded.