Chapter 4
Bunny
How is it I always get myself into bullshit?
Without trying.
Having to pee at a carnival only to nearly get kidnapped by a carny who thought I’d follow him to his van for a teddy bear?
Not trying.
Getting my bag confiscated by airport security only to find out it wasn’t my bag and the new to the job agent had tagged it by mistake?
Not trying.
Innocently fleeing from a stalker in the middle of the night who has made my life a living hell for the past three years?
Not. Trying.
You know most of the women I’ve crossed paths with in my life summon the fucked-up shit to them. They drink too much or shop too much or do too many mushrooms. They invite problems into their lives because they don’t wanna deal with something, which is way different than trying to deal with something and failing.
For instance, filing a police report only to have it get “lost”.
Filing another in a different city only to have the same thing occur.
Requesting a restraining order in a different state only to be told nothing can be done because there’s no proof that I’ve been assaulted or threatened or victimized.
I guess the photos of the mutilated cat whose corpse was used to make the words “I” and “You” out of it’s heart and blood, are just totally normal things my chick acquaintances over the years have forgotten to tell me while sharing their shittiest one nightstands and streaming network passwords.
Doodling the word “fuck” on the side of my shoe is suddenly summoned to a halt courtesy of the cutie tapping on the window to my backseat.
Ugh.
To be honest, he’s not cute.
His mannerisms and goofy boyish grin are cute.
The rest of him?
Can we say magically delicious?
Unkempt black hair, blindingly bright blue eyes, cut jaw, strong neck, the type of frame stacked enough to play something like soccer or swimming yet not so slender you could use him to pick steak from your teeth, are just a recipe for bending me over the hood of this car – that he demanded get parked in the closed garage for my protection – and showing me how good you really are with your hands.
And that shit?
That is not only the last thing I need…it’s the last shit I should be thinking about.
Craving.
Even if it’s been years since I’ve wanted to be with someone let alone actually done it.
“Hungry?” Kipp warmly questions from the other side of the glass prior to showcasing a plate in his hands. “I reheated it.”
Rather than answer, I return to darkening the freshly drawn letters my medical condition has me impulsively creating. “Where’s your keeper?”
“Went to bed early.”
“Why?”
“Said I’d do the dishes.”
“Why?”
“So that he’d go to bed early.”
His answer successfully pulls my stare up to see him smirking.
Beaming.
Effortlessly burning a hole in the barbwire, I have twisted around my heart.
Despite his irresistibly dreamy demeanor, I keep my timbre even, “Why?”
“Wanted to get a peek under that hood.”
Cocking an eyebrow is attached to salacious smile.
“The um…the…uh…” Kipp kicks his head to the side. “The car.”
“Mmm,” is the only retort he receives as I move onto writing a new word beside the last.
“Not your top.”
“You don’t wanna see under my top?”
“Well, I mean I do, but-” the curious glance he’s given simply makes him stutter more. “Th-th-that’s not – See that didn’t – And you said-”
An amused hum is accompanied by me slipping the edge of the pen top between my teeth.
“I like cars,” Kipp innocently confesses. “I like what they’re made of. The sounds they make. The difference changing the tiniest part can make. I-I-I-I like knowing what they’re capable of especially when you treat them right instead of wrong. Give them love instead of neglect.”
Wonder if the same can be said about his dating life.
Not that I’m looking to check out his profile.
Or his tow master general’s.
Or both at once which would be something totally foreign for me.
But not inconceivable.
“I live and breathe and think cars. All the time…They’re almost like…giant…jigsaw puzzles.” Now pleased with his analogy, he eagerly nods. “And I like puzzles.” His smile once more becomes rather boyish. “Of all kinds. I’m just the best at car ones. And ones that look like cars.”
I can’t stop myself from cooing, “How are you this adorably cuddly and your boss-”
“Co-Owner.”
“-that Rage Against the Machine dickish?”
“Nolan’s really not that bad. Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you.”
He does his best to hide the hurt that’s flashed in his expression yet fails. “His bark is usually worse than his actual bite.”
“Then might I suggest you invest in a shock collar?”
Kipp helplessly laughs, his head tipped slightly back, completely carefree. He’s open and vulnerable and wordlessly inviting me to join him.
To have the tiniest taste of what that’s like.
What that could be like.
And God help me because even the littlest drop of it is intoxicating.
“Nolan’s a good man,” Kipp proclaims, tone still warm and welcoming. “He jus’ doesn’t like to let people know he cares.”
“Mission. Fucking. Accomplished.”
More laughter.
Bigger smiles.
Brighter eyes.
Geez, he’s just like a little white line in the bathroom of a corporate charity event promising me a good time I know will rewrite my whole fucking existence without my permission.
“He cares in his own ways.”
“Is that the right wording for telling you to make sure you take the office keys upstairs with you so that I don’t try to steal shit?”
“It’s what I call him making meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob for dinner.”
Cluelessness immediately appears on my face.
“We were supposed to have leftover pizza.”
“Still don’t follow.”
“He suddenly decides to make a hot meal – a hot meal with enough for at least three people – instead of just stuffin’ his face with cold cardboard, and you really can’t follow the track I’ve lined with bright orange cones?”
His snark successfully drops my jaw, which seems to be what he wanted considering how wide he’s now grinning.
“When’s the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”
I don’t answer.
“When’s the last time you had more than a Kit Kat bar?”
Alluding to my earlier comment causes me to smirk against my own volition.
“Why don’t you do us both a favor and eat it while it’s still hot?” Kipp suggests with a little less room for an argument. “You don’t deserve cold food, and I don’t wanna have to haul my ass back upstairs to microwave it again.”
Ignoring the hunger pains in my stomach grows impossible when he tips the plate forward just enough to see the butter dollops sliding around the white mountain of mashed awesomeness.
I don’t even remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal that I didn’t have to make let alone one that couldn’t be made in fifteen minutes or less for fear of being watched through the cracks of the blocked windows.
And freshly mashed potatoes? Hell, I know I haven’t had those since my parents died almost four years ago. Mom would make them for Thanksgiving because they were my favorite. She would then turn around and make Dad whipped sweet potatoes because they were his. The ironic shit about all of that was the fact she herself did not eat potatoes.
Not even in chip form.
“Fork? I question at the same time I unlock the vehicle for him. “Or is that gonna cost me extra?”
Kipp opens the door and presents the plate along with the utensil. “Just your keys.”
Digging them out from my bag is an easy task as is taking the plastic wrapped dish I’m practically salivating to devour.
What can I say?
It was a long drive from the Florida Georgia border to Texas and the desperation to wrack up the most number of miles I possibly could before he theoretically caught wind of my escape was the only thing on my mind.
Not sleep.
Not food.
Not even gas, which may be all my damn car needs with my luck.
Rather than shut the door behind him, my mechanic leaves it wide open, although I’m not sure if that’s his attempt at opening a channel of communication or hearing me better or hoping I step out to join him.
Sucks if it’s the latter because that shit’s not happening.
Getting close to people isn’t really my thing.
Especially physically.
And getting to eat without having to look over my shoulder is an even rarer occasion that I am definitely about to live up.
I don’t waste another moment ripping off the wrap and shoving a forkful of potato into my mouth. Heavenly flavors of garlic and butter assault my tongue, like Bonnie and Clyde on a country wide spree, resulting in a loud moan and me quickly scooping up a second bite.
And then a third.
And then a fourth and fifth and somewhere around the sixth the man at the front of my car lowers the hood just enough to grouse, “That’s really fucking distracting, baby.”
“Baby?” I lick away the amount that’s managed to get onto my lips. “Did you just call me baby?”
“No.” He rapidly shakes his head and continues to deny the accusation in spite of his very, very red face. “I said Bunny. Because your name is Bunny.”
He did not.
But this little white lie gets a pass courtesy of this big hunk of amazingness fucking my tastebuds.
“Whatever you say, kid.” The brush off is done on a stab to the meatloaf. “Hey, why does Winnie the Douche call you Kid, anyway? How young are you?”
“How young are you?” he challenges between tinkering.
“Old enough.”
“Same.”
His tit for tat method is one I don’t mind.
He can have his secrets.
And I’ll keep mine.
“How old’s Nolan?”
“Forty.”
“Oh, his age you’ll reveal?”
Small chuckles precede his response, “I was just a kid when we met. Always thought the nickname was simply his way of showin’ he cares.”
“Do hugs not work?”
He momentarily lowers the hood again. “Does he look like a hugger to you?”
“He looks like he needs a fucking hug.”
“And you need to give this beauty some TLC,” Kipp scolds at the same time he resumes his inspection. “This shit looks like it hasn’t been maintained since it left the lot.”
“Because it hasn’t.”
“Why not?” More sounds echo throughout the garage. “Can’t afford it?”
Not the way he’s thinking.
Money isn’t the issue.
My safety is.
“Discover anything good, Vespucci?” I drop the fork near the edge of the plate to pick up the ear of corn. “Perhaps a quick and easy fix that’ll have me out of here in the next couple of hours before the sun and the big unfriendly giant are up?”
“No.” Kipp’s long pause has me preparing to playfully poke a second time when he makes his way towards the door holding an unfortunate tiny box up for me to see. “Found this under your front bumper.”
Every cell in my body freezes.
Every ounce of air vanishes.
No.
No. No. No.
I checked for that!
I swore I checked for that!
“It’s busted,” he cautiously announces, taunting object being leisurely rotated in his grip.
“Is there um…” my voice struggles to steady. “Is there uh…anyway to um…tell when it stopped working?”
Kipp shakes his head slowly. “I could ask around, though. Call some people and-”
“No!”
Concern in his expression deepens.
Hardens.
“Don’t do that.”
He knows so many people.
In so many places.
It’s what’s made it so fucking hard to stay hidden in any one place for too long.
I never know who’s watching.
Listening.
Working for him.
“Please…don’t…do…anything,” I forcefully beg. “Please, Kipp.”
The object is casually placed on the roof of the vehicle prior to him bracing one arm against it to support him as he leans his frame forward. “Bunny, is someone following you?”
Completely abandoning the will to eat and damn near the one to live is accompanied by my whispered response, “More like hunting.”