3. Grant
Grant
The Fixation
They say men with fancy cars, or lifted trucks in the South, are makin’ up for what they don’t have.
Money could buy them things, but it’d never give them a huge cock and a personality.
That was a problem I didn’t have. Anyone who knew me, or at least knew of me, knew I wasn’t compensatin’ for shit.
My lifted Chevy and I were comparable. The dark tinted windows with clusters of stickers along the back, not allowin’ anyone to see inside, mirrored my tattoos and how I didn’t like going past skin-deep.
With one look, you could tell that anyone who got too close…
well, they were fixin’ to wish they hadn’t.
We were one in the same, my truck and me.
Except she was a girl I’d named Betsy, and Betsy was my ride-or-die, save for Carver Roland and Hayes Stratford—the only two people I did let in besides Tallulah.
When I dragged my sister to this town with me years ago, we didn’t know a soul in these parts.
She thought I was crazy for making her pack her shit up in the middle of the night, telling her we were finally getting out.
I drove and drove until the tank in my beater at the time ran on E for too long.
I rolled off the highway and ended up at a gas station in Alliston Springs, and that was that.
Not a week later, I bought a rundown building with everything I’d saved from any blue-collar job I could find, cleaned it up, and turned it into a tattoo shop. One I could call my own.
My first client was Hayes, and a few days later Carver strolled in. They were the only two I’d met who were maybe just as fucked as I was, though none of us voiced how much that was true. I wasn’t sure it was even needed at this point.
As I kicked up dirt and bits of gravel rolling up the drive to Carver’s house, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the red Ferrari parked just off to the side that clearly had no business bein’ in these parts.
How someone could even fit in one of those, let alone drive it, forced me to cringe as I parked.
I leaned back, narrowing my eyes briefly as I looked over the slick exterior.
Whoever drove it was definitely overcompensating.
If the owner was someone new joinin’ game night, it might be time to try to beat Carver, for once.
Draining the pockets of a jackass driving that sounded kinda fun.
It had been awhile since we had an outsider that wasn’t a woman come and sit at the poker table.
Matter of fact, the last guy who did ended up runnin’ back to his car, trying to say he couldn’t pay up.
That was a bad night for him. Great night for me and the boys, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the dried blood still on my bat was from that idiot.
Carver walked up to my truck, barefoot and in nothin’ but jeans, holding a box with the black cord of my tattoo gun sticking out from the top.
I pulled the Skoals from my glovebox and shoved it into my back pocket, noting the state of distress written all over my best friend's face. His dark hair looked raked through, blue eyes untamed and hungry for vengeance. He had called yesterday, hours before I scared the shit out of Tate and Bo, and told me to be here tonight. I knew he’d been having problems with his ex-roommate and business partner, Jamie, so I figured it was somethin’ along those lines.
Bein’ there for my friends was important to me, and anythin’ they needed, I was down to help.
I fit my black Stetson on and hopped out of my truck, ready to get the lowdown.
“You guys square in there now or am I fixin’ to leave with my box and skip the whole pj time?
” I asked. The last time I’d been here, it was to fix up a few of Carver’s faded tattoos, most notably, the Atala butterfly he got for his high school sweetheart and now wife, Lyra.
Some phone call had gone wrong that day, and…
well, long story short, I ran out of there without packing up my equipment.
Carver walked up to my passenger side door and opened it, using his elbow rather aggressively to push it wider.
“Ly’s friend is here.” Friend? I glanced at the car, then at him.
Carver continued on, not seeming to notice my confusion.
Assuming the friend was of the female variety, my brain was short-circuiting on what she could possibly be compensating for in that car.
“We’re good. So don’t start your usual woman-eating shit. ”
I ran a hand down my throat, trying to catch movement through his living room window, and whistled real low. “My usual shit? Pretty sure that was all you, my guy.” I at least called a few of the women I slept with for repeats, and I usually remembered their names—something Carver never cared to do.
“I should have called Hayes.” Carver glared at me for a beat, completely ignoring the way I was still eyeing that car.
Fuck, how much more obvious could I make it without voicing it?
I knew the guy focused more on his plants and animals, and more recently, his wife, Lyra, so having that kind of car outside his house probably didn’t phase him any.
He also grew up having food on his plate from parents that loved him, and tried their best to give him the world, even leaving him a fortune.
But I didn’t have any of that, and rich people shit phased me.
But something was currently phasing me much more. There was a woman inside who called that hothead of a wife a friend and drove a car worth more than I was. Carver warning me about my woman-eating could only mean one thing—he knew I’d be interested.
“I’m your better friend,” I quickly replied.
“Right.” Carver pulled out his phone and started typing. I didn’t have to ask who—Hayes.
“You just asked him to come to this thing too?”
“The more, the merrier.” I followed his gaze, looking toward the bed of my truck where my sister was more prone to riding with her arms outstretched—a wild child at heart. When he saw it was empty, his brow arched, asking the question without words—where’s Tallulah?
“I didn’t get Tallulah to come. Said she had to practice for the race coming up.”
“That right?” Carver stared down at his phone while I tried my hardest to catch a glimpse of anything through his front-porch windows. A line of liquor bottles in the kitchen was the only thing different. In the years I’d known Carver, he wasn’t much of a drinker.
“What’s the party for? Birthday? Wedding finally needed a reception?”
“There’s someone we need to pay a visit to.”
Alright. Me comin’ was makin’ more sense than not hooking up with his wife’s friend.
If the three of us were needed all together, it was usually one of three things; bettin’, wing manin’, or fightin’.
Lyra eliminated the second one for Carver, and if we were paying someone a visit, that eliminated bettin’.
I rolled my head back and forth between my shoulders. “Who is it now?”
“I’ll explain when Hayes gets here.”
“Great.” I cracked my knuckles and grinned.
“Brought a new toy I’d like to test out.
” I reached into the bed of my truck and pulled out my gun case.
Carver was the only one of us with enough land to shoot freely, and if I had to not do my woman-eating shit, then I’d need a distraction. “Any of those girls shoot?”
Carver’s bare shoulders lifted as he smirked a little. “Feel free to ask.” He turned back toward his house, gesturing for me to follow with his hand.
“So…that car…”
“I don’t know a thing about her, and I don’t really care. Ly is happy, so don’t fuck that up.”
I put my hands up. “Easy, big fella. Wouldn’t want her messin’ up Betsy, too.”
“Thought you liked ’em a little nuts.”
“So she’s nuts and hot? Thought you didn’t know a thing about her.”
Carver glared at me over his shoulder, his hand on the door handle as he said, “Just stop thinkin’ with your dick for a day. Can you do that?”
I grinned. “No.”
“Hayes was definitely the one I shoulda called.”
“Why? Think he wouldn’t want her?”
“I don’t think so,” Carver answered immediately.
I shoved my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “Look, not everyone can be like Hayes. My hand doesn’t cut it for too long.”
“Don’t you have someone you can call for that?”
“Ha. Well, ’bout that. There’s a line of crazy I don’t touch with a ten-foot pole, and well, she found that line.” Truthfully, she started on that line, and I never should’a tried to touch it to begin with.
Carver eyed me wearily. “Well, find someone, or something, else.” His knuckles tightened on the handle, his voice lowering. “If my wife finds out you fucked her friend, or even tried to, she’ll castrate you and me both. So don’t. Got it?”
I shrugged and said, “Sure.” But that warning only made me more intrigued.
I stepped through, and my focus immediately landed on a blonde, long hair curving down her back, ending below her shoulders.
I immediately pictured how messy I could make it, how gorgeous she’d be after a sleepless night in my sheets.
Bet those lips of hers tasted just as sinful as the rest of her would.
Alright, maybe I do think with my dick too much.
“Grant,” I offered as I stepped closer, eating up her flushed cheeks and singular dimple that popped as I took her hand in mine.
“Sophia,” she replied, batting her dark lashes.
I pressed my lips to the back of her hand like the Southern gentleman I knew I wasn’t and smirked up at her. “Beautiful.”
More like devourable. A flash of her cleavage—a tight line I wanted to explore with my tongue—as I stood back up sent my thoughts exactly where my friend said they’d go. Again.
I could almost hear Carver in that patronizing tone he took on when we’d go out and pussy wasn’t on the menu.
Not with your dick, Grant.
Whatever he had planned for the night had better be fucking worth it, goddamnit.