ALESSIO #2
Waiting. The mountains stretch endlessly around me. For once, nobody needs anything. No meetings. No soldiers. No accountants. No politicians. No bodies. No problems besides a dead car. The wind moves through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, water rushes over rocks. Peaceful.
Annoying. But peaceful.
I check my watch. Three minutes have passed.
Fantastic. Only eighty-seven more to go.
The eagle banks sharply overhead. I watch it disappear toward the western horizon.
Lucky bastard. It can go wherever it wants.
It doesn't need to wait for some overweight hick in a tow truck, smelling of sweat and grease.
For a brief moment, I envy the bird. Then I remember I'd probably shoot somebody within a week if I didn't have work to do, and the feeling passes.
I pull out my phone and check the signal again.
Still one bar. Still Idaho. Still stranded.
A lesser man might see this as a sign from the universe to slow down.
I don't believe in signs. Or the universe.
Or fate. I believe in people making stupid decisions and then expecting me to fix them.
The phone buzzes. A text from Gabe.
Needs Anger Management:
Still alive?
I stare at the message, still debating whether to tell him to send the chopper, then I type back.
Me:
Debatable.
Needs Anger Management:
What's going on?
Me:
Car died.
Needs Anger Management:
told you to ditch that piece of shit. I'll send a helicopter.
I glance at the mountains. The trees. The dead Shelby. The endless stretch of highway. The helicopter suddenly sounds like a very good idea. My gaze drifts back to the car.
Me:
I got it, man. I'll be back tonight. Tow truck's coming.
Needs Anger Management:
Since when are you patient?
Me:
Since I reappropriated a car worth six figures.
Needs Anger Management:
Fair.
I smirk, close the conversation, and pull up a poker app. If I'm going to die of boredom, I might as well do it comfortably.
By the time I hear the rumble of a diesel engine, I'm up a hundred grand.
Not bad for an afternoon that started with vehicular betrayal.
I finish the hand, collect my winnings, and glance up from my phone.
The tow truck that comes lumbering around the bend looks like it should be the one getting towed.
Rust freckles the faded blue paint. One headlight is slightly crooked.
The bumper is held together by what appears to be faith, zip ties, and yep, you guessed it, good old duct tape.
I stare at it. The truck stares back. A match made in hell.
The diesel engine rattles like a smoker climbing stairs and finally grinds to a stop beside the Shelby.
I shove my phone into my pocket. At least the mechanic showed up.
That's something. The driver's door opens.
I expect a sixty-year-old man named Earl.
Or Bubba. Or whatever they name mechanics in Idaho.
Instead, a long leg appears. My brain takes a second to process it. A very long leg. Wrapped in black leggings. Then another. Then the rest of her unfolds from the cab. Well. Fuck.
Dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail that swings between her shoulder blades. Strong cheekbones. Full mouth. Dark eyes that immediately narrow at the sight of me. Grease streaks one cheek—at least I had that part right—but on her, it just makes her fucking hotter. Life is unfair.
The fitted black crop top reveals a strip of toned stomach every time she moves.
The steel-toe work boots should look ridiculous.
They don't. They look criminal. A breeze drifts down from the mountains, carrying the faint scent of magnolias.
I have absolutely no idea where magnolias come from in the middle of nowhere Idaho.
I don't particularly care. Because all my attention is currently occupied by the woman walking toward me.
Her gaze sweeps over the Shelby. Then me. Then back to the Shelby. Clearly ranking us by usefulness. I lose.
"You're the tow truck driver?"
One dark eyebrow lifts. "You're the stranded motorist?"
Fair. She reaches the car and completely ignores me. I watch her circle the Shelby. Professional. Efficient. Focused. My favorite kind of woman. "You gonna keep staring at me?"
"Probably."
That earns me another look. This one significantly less friendly. In my mind, I rub my hands. I like a challenge. She pops the hood and peers inside. "What happened?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't have called you."
A snort escapes her. "I see."
Something about those two words tells me she's already formed an opinion. An unflattering one. Rich asshole. Spoiled. Probably incapable of changing a tire.
Unfortunately for me, she's right. I lean against the Shelby. "You always this friendly?"
"You always this helpless?"
I grin. She doesn't. Fine. Challenge fucking accepted.
She bends over the hood of the Shelby, ass up, back arched like she's daring the universe to test me.
My attention locks on like a heat-seeking missile.
Against my better judgment. Against every shred of common sense.
Against the cold, calculated control I've spent years forging in blood and shadows.
The woman is built like every filthy teenage fantasy I ever stroked myself raw to, and a dozen darker ones I haven't even named yet.
Dark hair cascades over one shoulder as she reaches deeper into the engine compartment.
Sunlight licks across the smooth curve of her neck, the delicate line of her throat, grease streaking one high cheekbone like war paint.
Another smudge runs down her toned forearm, across muscles that flex enticingly as she works.
My gaze drags lower. The fitted black crop top clings to her like a second skin, stretched tight over full, heavy tits that sway with every movement.
No bra. Not even a suggestion of one. Her nipples are already tight little peaks pressing against the thin fabric, begging for attention.
Jesus fucking Christ. I'm instantly hard.
She points toward something buried in the motor. "See that?"
I don't see shit. I'm too busy devouring the way her shirt rides up, exposing a tantalizing strip of smooth, sun-warmed skin above the low waistband of her leggings.
The material hugs her ass like it was painted on, the curve of her hips flares out in a way that makes my palms itch to grip them hard enough to bruise.
I can picture it too clearly, bending her over this hood for real, pinning her down with my weight, one hand fisted in that dark hair while I yank those pants down just enough. I'd have her panting in no time.
My cock twitches, thickening against my zipper.
I shift my stance and keep my jaw clenched, trying to ease the sudden pressure.
It doesn't help. It only makes me painfully aware of just how hard I am for a woman whose name I still don't know.
A mechanic who probably hates men like me.
Rich, entitled assholes with blood on their hands and too much money in their pockets. Too fucking bad.
My world isn't kind to the people who catch my attention.
It's ruthless. Dangerous. Vicious. People who cross me rarely survive, and people close to me inevitably get dragged into the storm.
She has no idea what she's stepping into.
No idea that the moment she argued with me and looked at me like I was nothing more than another spoiled bastard, she became the most interesting person I've met in years.