Page 2 of Fast and Dirty

Putting on some good ol’ nineties alternative on the radio, I let out a relaxing breath as I think of the possible payday I’m about to roll up on. This is going to be breezier than the early summer zephyr passing by my window. While my abilities are limited with that caliber of car, I have my ways of having parts sent in and doing my research.

I sit,stiff and rigid in my seat, staring straight ahead at the scene before me as I chew on the inside of my cheek. My arms are stretched out and locked in front of me as I nervously drum my fingers on the steering wheel.

Yep, that’s a Rolls, alright. I just wasn’t expecting the driver that would be coming with it. I was picturing some rich yutz in his Sunday suit, out for a drive in the country. Not even close. Even with her back to me, sitting on the hood of the priceless vintage car, that is clearly a bride, looking like she’s making the most of her predicament by taking in the glow of the afternoon sun. Like this is the most minor ofinconveniences.

So yeah… I’m going to have to get out of the truck to assess the situation… eventually. I just… need a minute.

The breeze picks up and ruffles the fluffy white material of her dress, and it sends a pang through my already stiff-as-a-rod dick. I wince. And as if she heard my dick spring in my pants, the girl turns, a cascade of chestnut hair floating around her head. For fuck’s sake, this is straight out of a designer perfume commercial.

Dammit, I’m a fucking professional, and I’ve kept this customer waiting long enough. I scold my biological compass to face south and adjust my jeans as I yank the truck door open.

My work boots crunch on the loose gravel as I make my way along the side of the slightly dirty, but otherwise beautiful ivory-colored car. I hold my breath as I come around the front and find the bride sitting cross-legged and barefoot under her puffy white skirts, displaying tanned and toned calves. Her expensive-looking shoes sit discarded beside her on some of the gown’s skirt.

I come to a stop, trying to think of a professional greeting but find myself tongue-tied and just take in the vehicle, my clipboard hanging at my side. What do you say to a bride that’s broken down on the side of the road sans groom? And what’s really torturing me - besides her starch white ball gown - is that she’s not saying anything either.

Thankful for my shades, I chance a look at her, letting my eyes dart away from the car to try and take her temperature. Looking for any signs that would guide me on how to proceed here. But she doesn’t look stressed, pissed, frantic, panicky, heartbroken—none of it. She simply raises an eyebrow at me.

I guess that would be my cue. “Afternoon,” I greet, and she tips her chin at me. “Are you okay?”

She tilts her head to the side and screws her features into a thoughtful expression. “I’m broken down on the side of the road in a wedding dress.”

I immediately stiffen, thinking I’ve already clipped the wrong wire, and she’s seconds away from detonating. “I see that,” I retort, feeling like a moron but trying to play it cool. “Anything I can do - besides tow your car to a safe place, that is?”

She sighs and starts scooting herself to the edge of the hood. I gesture to our surroundings as she starts slipping a shoe onto each foot.

“This isn’t exactly an Uber hot spot, but I’m sure we can find a way to get you to your wedding?—”

“No,” she cuts me off, albeit quietly, as she slides the rest of the way off the hood and gathers the side of her skirt up in one hand. “No, I’m not going. I… ran away,” she shakes her head, followed by a quick shimmy of her bare shoulders as if trying to shake the thought right off herself.

“Okay!” I say, my voice just a little too high and abrupt. I d hold my clipboard out to her. “If you can just sign here, authorizing me to tow your vehicle to my shop”—she takes it and clicks the pen—“I’ll pop your hood and take a look underneath.” I immediately wish some fairy that keeps people in check would flutter out of nowhere and kick me in the balls. I’m not usually this fucking awkward with ladies, in fact, under normal circumstances I’d welcome the chance to bend her over that hood. What needs to happen is the girl needs to not be in a fucking ballgown and I need to not have a raging hard on. In fact, if she could give me that clipboard back right now, that’d be great.

“So what happened?” I ask as she finishes her signature with a sharp scribble and hands everything back to me. Hopefully, getting down to business will help my balls deflate a little.

“I don’t know,” she blows out on a breath as she reaches up to wrestle with the veil at the back of her hair. “It just started sputtering, and then the car started slowing down. Nothing would happen when I hit the gas, and I just let it slow to a stop.” She gets the veil free. “Then it just died. The engine wouldn’t turnback over.”

“Got it,” I reply, having an idea or two of what could be wrong. “That helps me with where to start. Let’s get you and the car to my shop. I’ll have a look, and we’ll go from there.”

Awesome, the car talk is helping.

“Where is that?” She asks as I walk back to the tow truck so I can prep it to rig up her Rolls.

“Coyote Creek.” I toss my clipboard on the seat and climbing behind the wheel.

Kira

Hot.Damn.

Is that what an actual man looks like?

I mean, I snuck around with a bad boy or two in high school, knowing it would be my only chance as my fate as a tycoons daughter was to stay in high society and marry the son of some well-to-do business man or hedge fund yahoo he needed to make a deal with.,

but this man, currently hooking a tow cable under the front of the getaway Rolls Royce (whose is this, anyway?) is rugged as fuck.

The thing is, when I met Preston, I actually found him attractive. And nice, at least at first. It even had me thinking the whole arranged marriage thing might not be so bad. Both our fathers are in real estate development, and it wasa prosperous match, as they put it.

But the more time went on in ourcourtship, the more egotistical and self-important he got as his old man groomed him to join the family business. It made his ‘refined’ characteristics less tolerable by the day. But the worst part? The vanilla sex he kept insisting we have. He would only havepropersex with his wife-to-be, and it drove me out of my fucking mind. Boringand lackluster are nice ways of putting it. So imagine my ire when I see him pounding the shit out of Autumn Mayfair’s Penus fly trap while he pulled her hair and called her his magical little pussy pixie. Yeah, I was a little steamed, hence why I’m here.

But this man, whose name I haven’t caught yet, is all defined muscles straining against his dark blue mechanic shirt without being overly beefy. And damn, he is wearing the shit out of those jeans. Worn and faded in some areas, and just plain ripped in others. Pair it with his messy hair and the stubble along his sharp jawline? It all gives him a devil-may-care look that’s got me throbbing between my legs.

---