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He pursed his lips and considered that. If he was a woman stranded along a mountain road, he might not hop on the bike of a stranger, either. At least not without confirming who he was first.
He had to admit that was smart on her part and a good excuse to give him.
She asked, “What’s the name of the shop?”
“Dutch’s Garage. Right on Main Street. West side of town.”
She pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her windbreaker and held it up. “Do you mind if I confirm that first?”
He shrugged. “Do what you gotta do.” Just get doin’ it.
She tipped her head down and her messy medium-length hair covered her face as she quickly tapped on the screen.
At least Dutch’s had a website now that Shay, Ozzy’s ol’ lady, made them one. The woman could confirm that he worked there just by looking at the large photo on the main page. All five of them had lined up out front while wearing their coveralls for Shay to take the photo. Even dick-dog Cujo had gotten in on it.
Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth when she lifted her eyes from the screen to him, dropped them back to the screen, then glanced at him once more.
He gave her his signature smirk. The one the ladies liked. “See me in that pic?”
“I do,” she murmured.
“See that garage behind where we’re all standin’?”
“Yes.”
“See that cranky old fuck all the way on the right? He’s Dutch.”
“Dutch,” she repeated softly, glancing back down. She hit the side button on her phone and tucked it back into her jacket pocket. “And you are?”
He jutted out his hand. “Whip.”
“Whip?” She placed her much more delicate one in his and shook it firmly. She did not give him one of those damn limp washrag shakes like some women did.
No, confidence oozed from her pores. In the way she stood, the way she spoke and in that handshake.
Again, could that be a sign she was a fed? The real test would be if she straddled the Yamaha behind him.
He pointed to the small oval patch on his coveralls that had his nickname on it. “Yeah, Whip.”
Her eyebrows pulled low. “Is that your real name?”
“No. And if you tell me yours, we’ll no longer be strangers.”
“That’s really not how it works,” she said with a shake of her head but amusement crinkling the corners of her mesmerizing blue eyes.
“Why? Now you know the name I go by and if I know yours, then that means we know each other.”
She barked out a husky laugh and that drew his attention to her mouth. “A simple but very imperfect premise.”
If she was wearing lipstick or any kind of makeup it was pretty fucking subtle. Unlike how the sweet butts slapped it on. Whenever the sweet butts sucked his dick, they left lipstick rings around it that were a pain in the ass to remove.
He shrugged and grinned. “Gonna need your name once we get back to the garage anyway when I write up your work order.”
“That’s certainly true.” She tipped her head to the side and considered him a moment before saying, “I’m Fallon. Nice to meet you, Whip.”
Fallon. He’d never heard that name before. “That a nickname?”
“No, it’s what’s on my birth certificate.”
“How ‘bout your last name?”
“That’s on my birth certificate, too.”
It was his turn to bark out a laugh. She had a sharp sense of humor. He liked that. Fed or not, he was quickly becoming more interested in her than he should be. Especially since she probably wouldn’t be interested in him at all.
Even though he had no idea how old she was, he had a feeling he was younger than her, too.
Not that it mattered, she would be a customer.
And again, by looking at her, she didn’t seem to be the type who wouldn’t mind spending some time in a small bed in a small room in a bunkhouse on a farm full of bikers.
He was out of her league for sure. Fuck.
If he swung that bat, he was sure as fuck going to miss. Or maybe even hit a foul ball. But a homerun? Probably not possible.
Yeah, he was in the minor leagues.
Whip reminded himself his only focus should be on getting the two of them off Copperhead Road, away from the Shirley Clan and back to the garage.
“I still want to know about the name Whip.”
“When I was little my grandfather used to call me Whippersnapper and he eventually shortened it to Whip. It stuck.”
“You like it?”
“Like that it reminds me of my pap.” And “whip” was also slang for a car, something he worked on, so it fit. He also liked it a hell of lot more than Sparky, the name Dutch always used to bust his balls and Trip forced him to keep as a prospect.
