Chapter 12The rage sweats.
twelve
. . .
the rage sweats.
The Monday morning after, as promised, I met Miller at Kings, and he walked me through changing my air filters.
He even walked me through how it would be different on my mom’s car, which he looked up in our computer systems to make sure he was right.
On top of that, he brought me a coffee and wrapped me in his Kings coat in the cold while we worked.
And now I’m grouchy because the rest of that day was so busy, I only saw him one more fucking time. One time! Before I realized Miller is literally the perfect man, I saw his ass everywhere. He even annoyed me a few times with how often we’d bump into each other in the stock room.
It’s like when you look at a photo of yourself a few years back, and you think, god, I’d give anything to be that size again, but at the time, you thought you were a whale.
That’s me now with Miller.
I was totally unappreciative of the fact I could simply talk to him, look at him, or even touch him when I wanted.
And now, on Thursday, days later, I’d probably give up an ovary, kidney, and maybe even an eyeball to just casually drag my fingers along the carved ridge of his shoulders as I pass behind him in the shop.
But he’s busy.
And so am I.
Which leaves me where I am now: stuck behind the desk with an audiobook in my ears that I honestly can’t even fucking focus on, a burning in my loins for a guy twenty feet away from me, and a line of customers needing to explain every excruciating pin drop of noise their car is making.
Shoot me.
“Okay, I’ll make a note, but in truth, you’ll have to explain all of this to the mechanic again when you come back, so maybe it’s better we stay high level, keep the details for the experts.
I’d hate for you to repeat yourself,” I say to the middle-aged man wearing an orange construction vest, drumming his sausage fingers against the Plexi as I input his complaints.
“Fine,” he gruffs. After finishing with him, scheduling his appointment, and reminding him of said appointment as I slide him a card, he leaves. The next person in line is… a beautiful blonde.
Instantly, my senses rise up like the hair on the back of a dog rises when a threat is near.
“Welcome to Wrench Kings,” I say through the phoniest smile and clenched teeth. “Can I help you?”
She peers around for a second before discovering the long, rectangular window on the door to the shop.
Narrowing her eyes in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the guys working out back, I end her struggle by rolling my chair to my computer, my head effectively blocking her view.
Falling back on her heels, she gives me a “can’t blame me for trying” smile and clears her throat.
“I’m looking for Miller. I think he works here.” Like the man before, she drums her fingers along the Plexi, still foolishly attempting to peer around me.
“He does indeed,” I say with another smile I don’t feel at all.
“Let me see if he’s busy,” I say. A minute ago, I virtually prayed for Miller’s schedule to slow down so he would stroll through here and make small talk with me, wearing that panty-drenching lopsided grin of his.
And now that this stick figure with bolt-on tits and inhumanly long lashes is here, my prayers have done a full one hundred and eighty degrees, and I’m now hoping Miller is elbow-deep in an engine repair or a carburetor rebuild.
With one more cordial nod, I slip out back.
This raging jealousy inside me is so uncomfortable; I’m not used to feeling so out of control of my emotions. I’m used to being in control of everything–including my emotions. I’m an adult, for Christ’s sake.
But the idea of Miller’s hands on her, the thought of her getting to make firsts with him… it’s incinerating me from the inside out, I fucking swear.
Atticus glances my way without a second thought, bending down to finish tying his boot. And that’s when I see him.
Miller. Wearing his trademark adorable grin, sifting his fingers through his hair with his cap tipped up, he’s talking to Beau. The hair around his temples is damp, and I wonder what his chest looks like bare with sweat sliding down .
There’s a heartbeat in my clit just looking at him.
From the corner of his eye, he notices me and completely abandons conversation with his boss, heading my way. I can’t deny that taking his attention that way feels good, but it doesn’t do anything to squash the jealousy and fear that has my entire personality in a vise grip right now.
“Hey, Laney,” he greets, making my stomach flip a little.
“Hi,” I say, controlling my reaction because all of me wants to be a brat to him, even though he has no control over who comes to see him.
And based on what the woman at the desk said, he clearly isn’t expecting her.
Around an unexpected lump in my throat, I say, “there’s someone here to see you up front. ”
He cocks a brow and tugs his baseball cap back down. “Unhappy customer?” he questions as he feeds his arms through a sleeveless fleece vest he sometimes wears over his Kings uniform.
I shake my head. “You just assumed the worst,” I say, realizing that Miller’s lack of confidence, despite the fact he knows he’s a wonderful mechanic, seems to span wider than I realized.
He shrugs. “People don’t usually come back to sing praises, just to complain.”
“Bitch,” I correct. “If you’re cursing now, you can say bitch.”
On my heels, he talks to me while we walk toward the door. “I don’t like that word.”
With my hand on the knob, I look at him over my shoulder. He’s closer than I expected, and I like seeing him this close up. It reminds me of sitting close in his apartment.
“No?” I ask, liking so much that of all words, bitch is one he doesn’t feel the need to use .
With a shake of his head, he says, “No. But it doesn’t bother me that you use it.”
I smile, wondering if he’s looking for a woman who doesn’t curse. Does the blonde ten feet away from us curse? I bet she doesn’t. I bet she’s exactly his type. He grabs the door as I pull it open, holding it for me.
“Thanks,” I say, and he steps in behind me, his groin bumping my ass.
My eyes catch the blonde, who is watching intently.
But instead of focusing on how close we’re standing, her eyes are on him.
Why wouldn’t they be? As hot as Miller looked last weekend in jeans and a flannel, the man can wear the shit out of work blues.
“Hi,” she says from way too far back, like the eager whore she is.
Okay, she’s probably not a whore. I’m just… jealous. God, being jealous is the worst. I hate this feeling. Plopping down in my chair in front of my desk, I pop in my EarPods, ready to tune into some small-town romance as a distraction.
But as soon as both are in, I’m met with the disappointing death noises of uncharged EarPods. “Fuck,” I grumble, unlocking my phone to see if even one of the EarPods is moderately charged. But no such luck. Both are dead, dead, dead.
I really don’t want to look, but as I’m reaching for my EarPod my gaze happens to stumble upon Miller and the blonde woman. His hand is resting on the small of her back as he guides her outside… for privacy.
There’s really only one reason they need privacy, and that’s to make a date.
With dead EarPods in my ears and my finger mindlessly hitting enter on my keyboard over and over, I watch as the blonde touches his forearm and laughs, exposing lots of shiny, white teeth. Does she have more teeth than normal? She’s so toothy, and… now Miller is laughing, too.
Rage and jealousy form a powerful cocktail in my veins, making me nearly blind as I attempt to keep my eyes on them.
But the edges of my vision blur, and I don’t know if my frustration is actually making me blind or if my rapidly beating heart is the cause but either way, I stare, making out what I can as sweat drips down my forehead.
The rage sweats. Fuck.
Then the world slows, and not in a good way.
Blonde woman reaches into her pocket and passes him a small piece of pink paper folded in half.
I don’t own pink paper, and here she is, passing Miller her number on what I can only assume is feminine cutesy stationery that is also probably sprayed with her department store perfume.
And instead of handing him the number, the big-tittied blonde steps into his personal space and tucks the paper into Miller’s pocket. His front pocket.
What a fucking slut! Touching a man you don’t even know just inches away from his dick? Why don’t you just drop to your knees and suck him off here, I think to myself.
The fact that I haven’t seen his cock hard uncaged yet makes my jealousy that much crazier. This pink-papered ho is going to see it before me.
I’m breathing hard when I turn around, facing a wall of accessories hanging idly on a corkboard. I stare at the car supplies, talking myself down.
This is what you signed up for–helping him so he can be with someone. And if that’s the type of someone he wants to be with, well, that’s his prerogative.
I’ve already learned how to change a driveshaft, replace cabin air filters, unlock a car when you’ve locked yourself out, and a few other things .
That was the deal. We’re living up to the exact deal, and here I am, jealous and angry, ready to stomp my foot like a spoiled brat and say, I don’t care what I agreed to! This isn’t fair! I want more!
I want more…
I get hung up on my own thoughts. Do I really want more? Not just more of his body and his firsts because, of course, I want those things. But am I getting all twisted up inside for nothing? Do I really want this man?
Atticus barges in, and the epiphany I was mere millimeters from dissipates as he growls questions at me impatiently.
“Huh?” I ask, having not tuned in until now.
“I said,” he starts, pissy attitude full fledge. He better watch the fuck out because I am not in the mood for Atticus ‘tude today; I’m really not. “Can you look up a part for me?