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She grimaces and flips me off.
“You would bring that up. I drove it for miles and I was almost home when I took that last turn too fast.”
“You were warned not to touch it,” I growl. As if her little accident was only yesterday.
As if I’m still the same man ready to come charging to her rescue, without this ball-bruising interest in Marty’s kid sister and her hot grown-up physique.
She flips the cover back a little more and takes a good look under it before she asks, “So, will it be at the show?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?” She turns around, startled.
“Because you’ll be there, and I’d be an idiot to risk seeing you take it for a joy ride again.”
“Shut up.” She rolls her eyes. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m a grown woman, West. I was lucky enough to put my hands on Model Ts and Sopwith Camels with the Smithsonian. I’ve survived D.C. traffic for years.”
Grown woman? Oh, I’ve noticed all right.
“Bet they didn’t let you start ’em up, and city driving can’t hold a candle to these dark winding country roads at night. You’re still the same Shel to me—annoying as hell,” I grind out, harsher than I intend.
She drops the cover back down over the motorcycle with a pout.
“You know, I want to think the Army made you such a jackass, but somehow, I doubt it. You always had a jerk streak. Looks like it’s only gotten worse.”
“And you were always a spoiled brat.” I walk over and lift the hood on an orange-and-black Mach 1 Mustang to put the battery in it.
I never leave the batteries in the cars. If one explodes from volatile North Dakota temperature changes or leaks, it could cause corrosion that could ruin the car.
“So how was it, anyway? Marty says you never talk much about it.”
“What?” I grab the Mustang’s battery off the shelf.
“The Army? Afghanistan? Everything you dreamed it would be? Everything worth leaving town so suddenly?”
Leaving me. Leaving behind your promise to write. That’s what she’s not saying.
I hear it crystal clear in her tone.
Not about to face that shit head-on, I carry the battery over and set it in the compartment with a bored shrug.
“What’s to say? I came, I saw, I served. I was lucky to get home without dying,” I tell her. Goddamn, I hate how even the blandest summary I can come up with still makes me pinch my teeth.
“What? You’re not going to answer?” she asks.
“Why should I? Damn, you’ve gotten nosier than I remember.”
“Because I care, Weston,” she throws back, and then adds quietly, “at least, I used to...”
Ignoring the sudden rawness in my throat, I stomp over and swipe a wrench out of my toolbox.
“Because maybe I don’t want you caring, Shelly. You wasted half your teen years worrying too much about me. I had Marty and my parents for moral support or what the fuck ever. Didn’t need a third wheel.” I cast her a quick, steely-eyed look.
I’m not trying to be a raging dick.
I just want her to stop scratching at the past and that lame-ass crush she clung to till the day I left.
Our lives are too different, then and now.
