Page 38 of Heart of Stone
"I'll pick you up at five," he calls over his shoulder.
"Why? I have a car," I remind him.
"Five, Andi. Be ready to ride."
"But the car. I need it for?—"
He revs his bike, pulling out without waiting to listen.
I watch him go, torn between irritation and something warmer, more dangerous. He wants to take me for a ride. On his bike.
"You know," Duck says mildly beside me, "I've never seen him like this."
"Like what?"
"Invested."
I shake off Duck’s words, reminding myself that I don’t need another complication.
Turning back to the Vincent, I mutter, "Yeah, well, don’t get used to it."
Duck’s knowing chuckle follows me as I pop the bike's cover, ignoring Nicky’s whining explanations while I check the damage the dickhead’s inflicted this time.
Two weeks. I can handle two weeks.
Or so I tell myself.
10
ANDI
Motor oil is a bitch to get out from under your fingernails.
I scrub harder at the black crescents in Duck's tiny bathroom sink, wondering why I’m even bothering. It’s not like Hawk hasn’t seen me covered in grease earlier today. True, I’d become even more caked while wrestling with the Vincent's timing, but what’s a little more filth between friends?
With a huff, I toss the scrubber into the sink and look up at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman staring back looks tired but strong—I’m broad shoulders and work-hardened muscles wrapped in abundant curves that never quite fit society's ideal. My dark auburn hair is pulled back in its usual messy ponytail, wisps escaping to frame a face that's more striking than pretty. Years of working on engines have left their mark in the tiny scars on my hands and the chipped nails.
I'm not small or delicate or any of the things men usually want. I learned early on that I'd never be anyone's idea of dainty. But my body is strong. Capable.
I love being me. I love my body, my life, my strength.
Even if sometimes, late at night, I wonder if anyone will ever see past the grease to the woman underneath.
God, why does this feel different? It’s just a ride. Not like a... date. Right?
My phone buzzes on the sink edge. Ginger.
"You better be getting pretty," she sings when I answer.
“You know.”
“I do,” she laughs. “Now answer the question.”
"I'm washing motor oil off my hands," I say, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder. "How are the kids?"
"Perfect angels. Steel’s already promised three tea parties, and Tank’s been recruited as the dragon they need to slay."
