Chapter 8
Dax
Nothing today is going quite like I thought it would.
First, Lisa agreed to forego her spa day to wash thirty smelly, homeless dogs. Color me impressed.
Is it wrong that I kinda expected her to walk out the door the second she got a whiff of wet canine?
But she hung in there like a champ, putting those immaculately manicured nails to good use scrubbing flea dip into matted fur and soothing scared pups with murmured assurances that had me edging closer just to hear her voice.
It’s the first time I ever got a hard-on at the damn dog shelter.
But my plan to bring her back to my place for a steam shower and a soak in the Jacuzzi went sideways when every damn drawbridge in the city was up for an incoming Coast Guard vessel.
The Hawthorne, the Broadway, the Burnside, even the Morrison were all conspiring to keep me from getting laid.
When the bridges are up in Portland, there’s no getting from the industrial east side to the residential west side of the river.
In other words, we were trapped in the ghetto.
Luckily, I had a backup plan.
“Faster!” Lisa urges, wrapping her legs tighter around me as her claws sink into the tops of my pecs.
At least, I think that’s what she said. It’s tough to hear with the helmet muffing my ears and the scream of my motorcycle’s engine covering her voice.
I rev the throttle in response, and Lisa’s grip tightens around my chest.
“We’re almost there.” I take a turn a bit faster than normal, loving the way she laughs like this is a carnival ride.
When she told me she’d never been on a motorcycle before, I had to remedy that. Blame it on The Test, blame it on my desire to feel her body pressed against mine. Either way, it got us here on the back of my Ducati.
I pull the bike into the covered parking area in front of my workshop. Being on the wrong side of the tracks— or bridge, as it were—has an upside. This industrial part of Portland isn’t pretty, but it’s a prime spot for manufacturing the steel-walled bottles that made me stupid rich.
It also has a shower, which is why we’re here now. If we can’t make it to either of our homes, this will have to do.
I park the bike and tug off my helmet, pausing to tuck it in the locked gearbox on the back. Then I then turn to grab Lisa by the hips.
“So this is where the magic happens,” she says.
“Yep. Headquarters for CoolTanks double steel-walled reusable water bottles.”
“It’s nice,” she says, though nice is hardly the word to describe this rundown warehouse on the fringe of Portland’s inner-eastside. It’s butt-ugly, but it gets the job done.
I set Lisa on firm ground, then fumble the straps on her helmet. Tucking it under my arm, I grab her hand and start tugging her toward the shop. “Right this way.”
I sound like a fucking tour guide, or maybe like a sixteen-year-old boy who’s hoping to get laid for the first time. But since Lisa devised The Test to get no-strings sex and a glimpse of life’s seedier side, maybe that’s not the worst thing.
I unlock the rolling steel door and shove it back. The smell of metal shavings and heated plastic rushes toward us, a scent as familiar and comforting as my morning bacon.
But not to Lisa, who hesitates in the doorway and lets go of my hand. She takes a few steps forward, and I brace myself for a snide comment about the dust and dirt and disarray.
“Wow.”
I’m instantly on alert for judgment. “It ain’t the Ritz Carlton,” I mutter, determined to beat her to the punch.
She tosses an eye roll over her shoulder, then ignores me and moves toward the far corner of the room. It’s then that I realize what’s captured her attention. A funny lump clogs up my throat.
“It’s amazing.” Lisa reaches up to brush a hand over the sculpture. “Did you make this?”
“Yeah.” I nod, equal parts embarrassed and defensive. “I—uh—usually keep it covered. Sheet must have fallen off.”
“Wow,” she says again, circling the sculpture like an art critic. “I love mixed metal, and this piece is especially fantastic.”
“Thanks.” My chest swells, but I keep my pride in check as I watch her hand trace the lines of the sculpture. It’s a little abstract, but still obvious it’s a wolf. At least to me, since no one else has seen it.
“Wolves are such majestic creatures,” Lisa murmurs, answering the question I’m too chickenshit to ask. “And you’ve captured it so exquisitely. All the sharp angles and powerful curves. It’s really beautiful.”
“Thank you.” My throat is tight, and I’m not sure why it feels so strange to have Lisa here marveling over my work.
“What made you choose a wolf?”
I take my time answering, choosing my words carefully. “School mascot.”
“High school or college?”
The words spark something unpleasant in the core of my chest. “High school. Not all of us had the money or the smarts for college.”
Lisa ignores my sharp tone, but studies me. She’s watching my face like she knows there’s more to the wolf story than I’m saying. Like she knows the reason I’m being kind of an asshole.
“You’re really talented.”
“Thank you.” I swallow back the lump in my throat and shrug. “I’m not really an artsy kinda guy. It’s just a little side project I’ve been fucking around with.”
I don’t know why I’m trying to downplay this, but the intense way Lisa’s studying my face says she’s onto me. That she knows there’s a story here.
But she doesn’t push. “Sometimes,” she says slowly, “those little deviations from the norm have a way of changing the way you look at things. At yourself.”
I nod, not sure I want to get into this. Not sure how to feel at all. Part of me is guarded, but part of me wants to hear what she means.
“It was like that for me and decorating,” she continues.
“I thought I just wanted to play with throw pillows and buy expensive furniture with other people’s money, but it turned out I had a knack for design.
For determining how things function within a certain space.
” She smiles a little sheepishly. “I guess I like when I can surprise myself that way.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” I don’t know why I feel vulnerable and edgy. I shrug and nudge the sculpture with my toe. “It’s been fun, but I’ll probably junk it when I’m done.”
“Don’t!” She says it like I’ve just threatened to toss a puppy off a bridge. “You have to keep it. It’s beautiful. Raw, but full of movement and energy.” She gives me a smile that’s almost shy. “I hope you do more of it.”
Her words leave me feeling awkward and exposed, so I grab her hand and nod toward the far corner of the space. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”
She laughs and lets me pull her toward the corner bathroom. I say a prayer the housecleaning crew has come through sometime in the last month, but even if they haven’t, I know it won’t be pretty.
I’m not wrong.
“Oh,” Lisa says. “This is—quaint.”
“Is quaint another way to say disgusting as hell?”
The space is barely larger than a coat closet, with a sink, a toilet, and a standup shower. It’s clean and fairly new, since I had everything installed six months ago when I doubled my workforce and implemented a program encouraging employees to bike to work. A shower comes in handy for that.
And for post-dog washing hookups. At least that was the hope. Now, I’m not so sure.
“It’s not disgusting,” Lisa says. “It’s just—small.”
A flicker of annoyance fares in my chest, which is stupid. It’s an employee bathroom at a metal shop, not a luxury spa.
But something about the judgment puts me on edge.
It’s a painful contrast to the hard-on throbbing in my pants at the sight of Lisa in her damp pink T-shirt.
I’m deciding which response to ignore when she turns back to me with nipples clearly visible through the thin cotton.
Lust surges through me again as she smiles.
“God, I’m dying to get out of those clothes.”
I swallow hard. “No objection from me.”
“Are we—uh—showering separately, or together?”
I love that she’s unsure. That she didn’t come here with an agenda for some elaborate shower seduction.
“Are you normally one for showering solo or with someone?”
She laughs. “I don’t like to share water. We’ve also never seen each other naked before, so—”
She trails off, and I realize she’s right. And the flush in her cheeks makes it clear she’s nervous about that.
“Hey,” I say, stepping closer and lowering my voice. “I’ll never push you to do anything sexually that you don’t want to do. Test or no Test.”
“Thank you.” She bites her lip. “I guess I do get a little prudish about nudity. I suppose if I’m being true to The Test, I should work on that?”
She won’t get any objection from me there, but I want this to be her call. I settle for nodding sagely, waiting for her to decide.
The instant she does, there’s a mischievous flicker in her eyes. Then she grabs the hem of her T-shirt and yanks it over her head.
“Guh,” I manage, to stunned to form words as I stand there gawking like a redneck at a tractor pull. I don’t know if I’m more impressed by her pink lace bra, by what’s inside it, or the fact that she had the cojones to bare it all.
Either way, there’s no way in hell I’m going to leave her standing there topless by herself. I yank off my T-shirt as well, though what I really want to do is reach for her. Or unzip my fly. My dick strains painfully at the front of my jeans, struggling to escape.
Lisa stares at my chest, eyes sweeping over my shoulders and down my abs. Her throat moves as she swallows and returns her gaze to mine. “God, you’re big.”
“Maybe it’s relative,” I tease. “It’s a pretty small bathroom.”
She smiles back and runs her palms down her thighs. “I suppose I should take off another article of clothing.”
“Totally up to you,” I say, even though everything inside me is screaming for her to just get naked already.
“Hmm… Do shoes count?”
I hesitate. “If that’s what you want to take off next.”
She looks at me from beneath her lashes and lowers her voice. “What do you want me to take off?”