Chapter 6
Kipp
“Come on,” I push with my words while simultaneously pushing the shopping cart around The Grand Cannory. “Confessssssss.”
Bunny looks over at me with an unamused expression that only convinces me to keep talking.
Searching for any bit of actual truth I can get out of her.
Besides her age – thirty – and her real last name – Abernathy not Ripley – there isn’t much I know about her.
Pretty sure that’s exactly what she wants.
But it’s not what I want.
And despite the angry texts about inviting her over to have a slumber party, I know it’s not what Nolan wants either.
He wants her to talk.
So he can listen.
He’s always…listening.
Really. Listening.
It’s just one of those things he does best.
That I like best about him.
“Come on,” the gentle prodding proceeds. “It’s not like I’m asking you what color your underwear is.”
“You’re assuming I’m wearing underwear.”
My lips press firmly together to stop a moan from escaping.
Fuck, I was assuming she was wearing underwear.
Black.
Lacy.
Thong.
Low cut rather than high.
Now?
Now, I’ve got a new line of questioning plaguing my poor brain, that same poor brain that I get the feeling she loves to overheat.
She did it on and off all afternoon at the shop while working on her laptop.
Bunny kept claiming she had “butterfingers” with her pens – except the Mickey Mouse one she tends to keep in her hair – and that’s why they kept rolling away into “bend over in front of me” territory.
I’ve never hit my head so many times on the hood of one fucking car.
And you know, since I couldn’t let myself dream about the shit earlier – for fear of damaging a customer’s property – I think it’s time to.
What is her situation down there?
Trimmed?
Strip?
Bare?
My cock thumps eagerly against the zipper to my work pants with its hopeful answer, which honestly isn’t really needed at this point in time.
The chick determined to give me a stroke before I hit thirty flashes me what can only be described as a devilish smirk before bumping me out of the way to steer the cart. “Why do you care so much about the most expensive car I’ve ever sat in?”
“Idontknow.” I let my shoulders innocently bounce during our slow stroll around the small grocery store. “I just…I really like cars.”
“Why?”
“They’re fucking incredible.”
“What makes them so incredible?”
“Depends on the car.” Grabbing a box of Twinkies is followed by her putting in a second. “Sometimes it’s their performance as a whole like with certain Corvettes. Sometimes it’s just their top speed abilities like the Venom F5. Others it’s their acceleration like the Aston Martin Vantage or Nissan GT-R.” An impressed quirked eyebrow is shot in my direction prompting me to uncomfortably glance at the shelves I know we don’t need anything else from. “What?” Different sugary treats joining the pile briefly crosses my mind. “I told you I really like cars.”
“Didn’t realize exactly how fucking much.”
People rarely do.
And then when they do, they have a tendency to try to fuck me over with it.
Because if I know so much then that means I should never make a mistake.
Or charge that much because the shit’s so easy for me.
Never mind the fact I consider the shit to be art.
It takes hours to properly paint a restored body or calibrate the ADAS or pinpoint that tiny flaw that may save you .6 of a second in a street race which then becomes the difference between going home in the vehicle you’ve pumped so much money into or losing it to a rich prick who didn’t rush his highly underpaid mechanic assistant.
“How long have you been into cars?”
“Since before I could walk.” Pointing the direction, we need to take at the end of the aisle has her nodding in acknowledgement. “My mom got me one of those play steering wheels when I was a baby, and my ass never looked back.”
Bunny warmly giggles, wordlessly tempting me into telling her more.
Everything.
Anything.
“I used to be glued to the TV anytime cars were on, which was a lot when my mom was gone because my dad really liked car movies. Of course, your Fast and Furious shit, but classics too. The original Italian Job and Gone in Sixty Seconds for example. He tried to get me into that Disney movie Cars. Didn’t work. Hated it. However, I couldn’t get enough of Tom and Jerry’s The Fast and the Furry. I watched that shit so much I acted it out in my sleep.”
Additional laughter easily springs free, and there’s no stopping myself from leaning into it.
Into her.
Into the air she doesn’t even realize she’s infecting with her intoxicating sounds.
Fuck. Me.
No wonder Nolan’s worried about her sticking around for longer than a night.
It’s been a little less than twenty-four hours, and I’m already ready to give her my fucking kidney.
I mean…I only need one.
She can have the other if it means a piece of me will always be with a piece of her.
Bunny slyly slides a thing of tropical scented deodorant into the cart. “What about Speed Racer?”
“You mean my Halloween costume every year from nine to fourteen?”
Her giggling grows a little more out of control.
“Do you have any idea how awful wearing high water white pants, squeaky brown loafers, and a goddamn neckerchief to school is?”
The sounds multiply and shake her whole body.
“Thank fuck I always forgot the gloves at home.”
This time Bunny completely stops and leans against the nearest shelf, using it to support her during her laugh attack.
Mach 5have mercy…what do I gotta do to keep that sound in my life?
Our lives.
“Should we grab you some girly soap?” I casually point to the space beside her. “Maybe the pink and white one? What is that? Cupcake?”
Her gaze doesn’t even bother to drift in that direction. “Nah, I only use travel size things.” She suddenly straightens herself back out. Pulls down her thin strap black tank top to further collect her composure. “Things that are easy to dispose of and don’t weigh a lot.”
Why is right there…right on the tip of my tongue…however, I swallow it whole.
Resume the previous conversation in hopes of keeping her doors open.
Engine warm.
“I actually got the LEGO Speed Racer set for Christmas the year the movie came out. Usually, I always got a Hot Wheels set – because Hot Wheels were my thing – but not that year. That year I got the set and the Blu-ray of the movie and old anime show.”
“Blu-ray?!” the woman beside me dramatically clutches her chest. “You know what life before streaming was like?”
“Barely,” comes out in a good-natured chuckle.
Bunny giggles again and I take it as a sign to keep talking.
Chatting.
Showing her some of me so hopefully she shows me some of her.
“My mom used to bring me home Hot Wheels from all over when she was alive.” I grab the extra soft TP from the top shelf to my right. “Although…the one time she went to London, I got a double decker bus instead.” Stacking the item neatly inside the cart, I add, “Not the most fun to race, damn sure not against an actual Hot Wheel, but it was still pretty fucking cool. The mechanics that are put into making that shit work are fucking wild. Like how they went from horsedrawn double-deckers to V-8 diesel engines. Is. In. Sane.”
Bunny hums and chugs us along in the fairly empty local store. “How old were you when she died?”
“Nine.” My hands find their way back to my pockets. “Couple days away from ten.”
“How’d she die?”
“Car crash.”
Her attention immediately snaps over to me.
“Yeah, irony not lost upon me.” Rather than watch sadness spread in her stare, I divert mine to my overworked tennis shoes I’m too lazy to replace. “It turned my old man into a raging drunk dickhead devoted to fixing the damn things so that no one ever had to feel what he felt, and it turned me into an obsessive, compulsive car aficionado that more often than not prefers Porsches to pussy.” I let my eyes find hers once more. “Bet you didn’t think I knew a word like that, huh?”
“Pussy?” She teases prior to parking us in the nearby dairy section. “I just assumed you did.” Her backwards movement is accompanied by an eyebrow wiggle. “Kinda like you and my underwear.”
This time a low groan successfully slips into the air only to receive another wicked smirk.
How is she this fucking mesmerizing?
How is it she constantly has my dick doing zero to sixty in record timing?
There’s gotta be a Guinness Book of World Records for this shit, and I think I just broke it.
Watching her collect cream cheese and cheddar cheese leads my thoughts away from how shapely her ass looks in those damn workout shorts to recalling her dinner plans to show gratitude for being able to crash on our ancient fucking futon. “What exactly are you planning to make again?”
“Sausage balls.”
The tiny thrum in mine is expected.
Annoying.
But expected.
Especially considering how her mouth can’t crack open too far without me wanting to bust a nut right on her tongue, covering that little piece of metal in so much cum that she damn near chokes.
Has to let some dribble out past the corners of her mouth until I take two fingers and shove it back inside.
Or let Nolan do that part.
I wouldn’t mind.
I wonder would he.
“They’re messy,” Bunny explains not helping the thoughts that are currently swelling my cock, “and delicious and fun and something that my previous living arrangement didn’t exactly allow me to make.”
“And what exactly was your previous living arrangement?”
The woman who has somehow managed to already put a license plate on my heart carefully places the items in the basket at the same time she announces, “A Lamborghini.”
“You lived in a fucking Lambo?!”
She immediately flashes me a sarcastic expression.
It takes a couple breaths for the realization to knock me upside the head and roll out of my mouth. “Ohhhhhh! You mean that’s the most expensive car you’ve ever been in!”
“Yeah.” My mouth twitches in preparation to ask for the nitty gritty details she can remember down to the type of custom leather I’m sure it had yet is stopped by her adding, “It’s also the most expensive car I almost died in.”
The proclamation furrows my brow.
Tightens my jaw.
Curls my fists in spite of the fact I’ve got nowhere to swing them.
Just because I’m not a fan of fucking fighting doesn’t mean I don’t know how or can’t or won’t.
You can bet your ass I always will when it comes to protecting someone who for some unknown reason struggles to protect themselves.
I’m sure that’s what Bunny’s convinced herself she’s doing by being on the run.
Hiding.
Trying not to be found.
Problem with running away from your past is sooner or later that shit always catches up.
Real question is what are you prepared to do when it does?
It’s impossible to ignore the sudden shakiness of her hands that are moving to grip the handle. “You hear Lamborghini and think of its top speeds-”
“Two twenty-one mph. Zero to sixty in under three seconds.”
“I hear Lamborghini and think about how I was screaming at the top of my lungs that I loved the person who was threatening to drive us into the cement wall of a parking garage.”
All the air in my chest is suddenly knocked out of me as if an airbag exploded.
What…what am I supposed to say?
What can I say?
Sorry?
Sorry for trying to make fucking conversation and get to know you better?
Sorry for not knowing something I thought was innocent was really just me yanking around wires that I had no business touching in the first place?
What remains of our trek over to the counter occurs in stark, uncomfortable silence; however, the second we arrive, Mrs. Suzie Cotterell, the store owner, darts her round, light honey face up and away from whatever it was that she was reading on her phone. “Afternoon, Kipp!”
“Afternoon, Suzie,” I warmly greet in return and prepare to place objects on the counter. “How’s the store this afternoon?”
“Slow.” She flashes us both a friendly grin. “But you know how things go around this place. It’ll pick up in a few when everyone gets back to town and comes to grab their beer and wine and whatever they need to feel fine.”
Most people who live in this small town don’t actually work here.
That special hell combination is reserved for just a few of us.
“Date?” Suzie asks, chocolate glare inspecting Bunny from head to toe. “Tourist, maybe?”
“Friend,” I declare despite that being a debatable truth.
I guess I could say friend in the making but that would raise more questions.
And we need less.
When it comes to dealing with the biggest town gossip – we’re talking so big the next city over even knows our dirty laundry – you want her distracted.
Not opening an investigation.
Especially when the woman she would be looking into desperately doesn’t wanna be found.
“How are you doin’?” My speaking quickly receives her full attention once more. “How’s Norm recovering from his bunion treatment? Those shots gonna be enough or is he gonna need surgery?”
“They better be enough. He can’t do surgery,” she theatrically sighs. “You know how much I hate staying overnight in Crystal Waters.” Her head shaking gets me grinning. “Big cities like that are killing this country. No one town should have that many places to get coffee from.”
“They really should just brew it at home, huh?”
“Exactly!”
Grateful to have her focus away from the woman hoping to blend into the background by hiding slightly behind me, I do my best to keep her rambling versus giving her a window to resume her questioning. “Anything new going on with you? Norm? Kirsten?”
“Oh! I was actually just readingsomething new Kirsten sent me! I could have her send it to you if you like…” Misplaced hope hops onto her expression about the same time I gently tap Bunny’s hand to stop it from helping unload the cart. “Maybe you two could finally go out? Grab a slice of pie from The Dig Site? You know Wendy Jo has a new pecan recipe she’s been bragging all over kingdom come about.”
I didn’t wanna date her daughter last month when she suggested it.
Or the month before that.
Or the month before that.
Or any of the months before that.
Kirsten isn’t my type of model – not that I have a specific one – but more importantly, I’m not hers.
Duck hunting, deer hunting, and beer chugging are nowhere to be found on my lists of shit I give a fuck about.
Neither is getting her pregnant and demanding she stay home to take care of us.
And, hey, that shit’s fine if it’s what you’re all into, like people who refuse to stop driving Pintos, but that’s not what I’m into.
I’d rather be behind the wheel of something for function and fun.
Gorgeous brown paint job would be a bonus.
“Why don’t you just tell me about what she sent?” Another polite swatting to my guest is executed. “Did it have to do with animals?”
“Yessirree. It sure did! And let me be first to say, I. Am. Floored.”
After lightly slapping Bunny’s hand away a third time, I ask, “Why?”
“Well,” she begins with a dramatic palm toss, “because it wasn’t anything like my normal little daily rounds online. You know how much I love a cute basset hound story here. Sweet squirrel story there. Ocean cuteness everywhere…”
You know I always thought it was weird our residential animal expert runs the local grocery store instead of a veterinary clinic. Nolan swears it’s because she’s easily distracted and that’s not ideal for the medical field. But me? I think it’s just because she would rather deal with a creature that can talk back in a language she understands, rather than having to try to decipher what barks, meows, and moos mean.
“However, this report? This report was about a bunny.”
Nodding to indicate I’m listening is done as opposed to retorting.
“Some crazy person out there killed a bunny! Mutilated it! Just chopped and butchered it and left it outside the women’s bathroom at one of the truck stops along the highway!”
Without missing a beat, I continue to empty our cart. “Why exactly is that newsworthy?”
“Because they used the damn thing’s blood to spell out the word bunny on the bathroom door! Like some sort of creepy, crawly Criminal Minds message! And you know how obsessed Kirsten is with that show. Can you believe she got me and Norm to start watching it? Thank God they rarely ever harm animals like that on it. Just people.”
All of a sudden, the cart knocks into the counter causing me to cut off my response and shift my gaze over to Bunny.
Or at least where she should be yet no longer is.
Spotting her ass hightailing it out of the shop has me abruptly insisting I’ll be right back and following suit.
Where the hell is she going?
And why?
Sure, the story’s a bit ride in the back of a hearse for fun, dark but that’s not a fucking reason to just bolt.
That shit doesn’t have anything to do with her.
Or her situation.
Or the prick from the Lambo.
Or…is there a mile marker chance in hell…that it does?