9. Tyler
NINE
TYLER
It’s late enough that it makes sense to brew a pot of coffee. I barely even drink coffee in the morning. Red Bull seems to keep me going better, but it's definitely more expensive. When I consider that it's a small price to pay for making sure I'm functional all day, I allow myself a little grace.
I'm under the hood of Becca's truck, trying to figure out a way to get her back on the road until the part comes in when I hear the creak of the shop’s old wooden door.
"Knock knock."
Couldn’t mistake that pack-a-day rasp for anyone else. I prop my hands on the rim of her hood, still holding a wrench.
Until I'm not. That thing falls right out of my hand when I catch sight of her.
I knew it was Becca, but I didn't know she'd be showing up like this. Becca's short, but her legs look a mile long in those white cutoff shorts.
In September.
Pair that with the pink crop top that shows off her toned stomach and I'm ready to see if she's got anything on under those shorts.
"What are you doing out in September with no pants on?" I ask.
"I have on pants," she says, popping her ever-present bubble gum. "They're called shorts. I believe the term is short for 'short pants.'"
My eyes travel up and down those muscled legs, trying not to let the sight of them affect me. "They're briefs with a zipper," I retort. "On a good day."
Becca touches her hands to the front of her shorts. "Aw, are they having a bad day?" She slinks my way. "Or are you, Tyler?"
She comes to stand in front of me and taps my chin with the tip of her finger. The bubble gum doesn’t cover the trace of booze on her breath, but wild horses couldn’t stop me from gazing at her glossed-up lips.
To be clear, I don’t want to look. By day, I do everything in my power not to look. But now it’s late and I’m tired and I can’t stop.
Becca Martin is a stunner.
"What are you doing here?" comes out, but what I really want to ask is why she's come to torture me. I don’t want Becca.
Becca is a trainwreck in denim and flannel, everything I hate about this town, about the life I used to lead.
I should know better. She smells like the bar, Marlboros, and bad decisions, but when she trains those bright blue eyes on me, my throat tightens.
I never admitted it to CJ, but I always thought Becca was pretty. And she's prettiest of all when she's being bad.
I don't miss much of anything about my party boy days, but not a day goes by that I don't think of some of the positions I've seen the woman in front of me tangled up in. Once the substances started to kick in, the clothes would start coming off, and Becca never turned down a good time. I’ve seen that body, or an unhealthier version of it, bent every which way.
Spit roasted. Getting drilled from the back while she buried her face in some woman's pussy. Letting multiple guys . . . anyway.
I was one of the few who never took a turn with Becca. It felt wrong. She was Dusty’s little sister, and he worried about her falling in with the wrong sorts of people.
Little did he know that inside my head, I was absolutely the wrong sort of person.
And the night I first got with CJ, it almost happened with Becca instead.
It was just before that time of night when things would get wild, and Becca and I somehow ended up alone talking in a corner.
We shared a blunt, and without trying, we got closer and closer together.
Eventually, she was fully leaning into me, her head on my chest and my arm wrapped around her back.
We smiled at each other for so long we started laughing, and it was probably just my own wishful thinking, but we had something.
“Should we go?” she’d asked, gesturing toward the tiny cabin where the mayhem usually took off.
“It’s probably not a good idea,” I said.
She’d shrugged. “What ever is?”
Her hand slipped into mine and I’ll never forget that feeling: doing something just with her.
We got into the cabin, and CJ was already deep in it.
Becca joined in quickly and beckoned me in, but as things evolved, I never got into it with Becca.
The next thing I knew, CJ was in my lap and Becca was . . . doing Becca things.
So, I made the best of the situation and immersed myself in CJ, but my eyes always found their way to Becca. I’m not proud of that fact.
Dusty used to go to those parties with me, but once his sister started going, he stopped. Understandably so. I thought he’d try to talk me out of them too, but instead he told me to go and keep an eye on her.
Not a problem, because I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
I wonder if she still has those nipple piercings.
But I started dating CJ, and even though she jokingly tried to get me to share Becca a few times, I knew it was a trap. It was just a way for CJ to start a fight, and that was a trap I avoided at all costs.
The real truth is, I couldn’t have shared Becca. I wanted her all to myself.
And now she’s in front of me in my auto shop, late at night, without CJ in my life, and without Dusty here to stop me. I’ve gone years without action, and I’m only human.
I don’t see how anyone could resist her, but I’m going to do my best.
Becca leans a hip against her truck, and I admire the muscle running down the side of her thigh. "I saw your light on as I was leaving line dancing night at the Legion."
I stand straight and cross my arms, letting one foot cross over the other so if my dick decides to misbehave, I’ve got a shot at her not seeing it. It’s been doing that a lot lately, acting like I’m twelve and have infinite libido.
It always seems to happen when Becca’s around or on my mind. Which is also more often than normal.
“And that gave you the right to barge in on me?"
She smirks. "No. But I did it anyway." She puts her wrists together and gives me pathetic doe eyes. "You gonna lock me up for trespassing?"
I roll my eyes and look away. "You never change."
"It's called being reliable. People like that about me." She peers over at the car in the other bay, but doesn’t say anything. It’s the Chrysler LeBaron that is my perpetual project.
I had it in high school and a while thereafter, then sold it when I wanted my truck.
But after CJ left, I was in a really low spot, and all I wanted was to go back to a time before things got complicated.
So even though it was the last thing I should have been spending money on, I tracked down the LeBaron and bought it back.
I told myself if I got done with Becca's truck before eleven, I could treat myself to some work on the LeBaron. I have early mornings with Ellie, but sleep and I have never been well-acquainted. I basically have to work until I can’t think anymore.
Otherwise, my brain will just keep working the second I lie flat.
It's almost midnight. I missed my window.
“What’s got you burning the midnight oil?" she asks, looking at where I work under the hood of her truck.
"Trying to get you back on the road. I told Dusty you had your car in my shop and he freaked out about how you’re getting around.”
“Hmm,” she sniffs, pulling her phone out of her pocket to look at it. “Guess that’s why he’s called me fifty times tonight.”
“How were you about to get home?"
"Didn't I tell you about T-Bone? She's just—“
I grind my teeth and scowl at her. “Rebecca."
“Fine,” she huffs. “I still engage in the ancient art form of bike riding."
If I had a blood pressure cuff on, the measurement would break the damn needle.
"On these roads? At night?" I search her hands like they'll give me the answer. "Where is your helmet?"
She tips her head to the side, shaking out her hair. "I like the wind in my hair."
"Oh my god," I breathe.
"Still didn't answer why you're up working so late. Usually Dusty can’t talk you into anything. Stubborn as a mule.”
I level her with a look. “Takes one to know one.”
She sticks her tongue out. “Answer the question.”
“Just got a lot on my plate," I say.
She scoffs. “Your dad doesn’t seem bothered. He was at the bar.”
“Yeah, Dad’s not bothered by much in the work department.”
Becca cocks a brow at me. “What do you mean?”
I chew my lip and rub my fingers on a rag, keeping my gaze there. “Dad slowed down a lot. I need to hire somebody else, but I can’t really afford to pay somebody else right now.”
I hear rather than see the soft pop of Becca’s bubble gum, something she does when she’s thinking.
I could flash through hundreds of frames in my mind where I’ve caught her doing that: listening to music in her room, plucking flowers out of the grass around her mamaw’s trailer, and years later, arranging flowers at the farmer’s market and checking her work, head tilted to the side while a pink bubble appeared between her lips. “Could you get a loan?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve tried. Never enough collateral.”
She hums. “For me, it’s always bad credit.”
“You got that farm for free. What do you need money for?” This is a big admission, proof that I actually listen to what Dusty says about Becca.
“Silly boy,” she says. “I have to actually get the farm to make money. Which, as you likely know, doesn’t grow on trees. I need to get people out using the farm and buying the things I grow. And it all comes back to that dumb phrase, ‘You have to spend money to make money.’”
“Don’t I know it,” I agree. “I could get my parts so much cheaper if I could order in bulk. But again, not enough collateral.”
“And shit credit,” she says, pointing to herself. “Makes the interest rate ridiculous.”
“Right? I’d be out in a month with those kinds of rates.” Sadly, this is feeling like the best conversation I’ve had in months. I don’t talk to a lot of other small business owners, and the ones that I do have it all figured out. They make enough money and they’re content.