Page 70 of Until Tomorrow
I stared at him because what thehellwas I supposed to say to that? Holy crap. Who did that to themselves? On instinct, my gaze slipped down to the front of his jeans as if I could magically tell.
“My face is up here, spark plug.” He chuckled, and I looked away. “And to answer your next question, yes.”
He had what?
“Why?” I demanded.
“Always ribbed for her pleasure,” he replied with a smirk. I had questions, and none of them were remotely appropriate for two people who barely knew each other.
“Well, we’re just going to tell him he gets props for being average and block,” I told him. “Where are you from? Your accent doesn’t say Boston.”
At the very least we could add some normal topics to our dick discussions.
“Nashville.” He sat back and faced me, leaving my phone unattended. “Mostly Nashville. Mom moved us around a lot—smaller towns in Tennessee and shit—to find work.”
“When did you come to Boston?”
“Aimee… my late wife… was a tattoo artist and a piercer.”And that explained that.“She had a few friends that she met online, who opened a shop here. She had nothing tying her to Tennessee, and I wanted the fuck out of there, so we moved when I was turned eighteen.”
“Did you ever think about going back? Or do you like it better here?”
“I wouldn’t say I like it better here,” Rhett said. “I think I could make do just about anywhere. What about you? Because you aren’t from Boston either, spark plug.”
Eventually, I probably should’ve given him my name. I knew his full name, and all he knew me as was spark plug. But I kind of liked it. That, and he’d never asked.
“I’m from a small town in central Illinois where they think they’re from the deep south and forget that they’re barely central Illinois,” I told him. “Cornfields. It was all cornfields. I don’t even like corn.”
That quiet laugh of his was my reward. I liked that sound—more than I probably should for a guy I was just hanging out with in a bar. Spending time with Rhett was better than trying to deal with meeting people on an app.
Chapter 38
Rhett
Iwastedtime.Iasked questions. I did whatever the hell it took to keep spark plug around for a couple more minutes.What I didn’t do was ask her name.Though, spark plug suited her.
Dick conversations didn’t last long and that dating app of hers vanished as we started talking about ourselves. She loved music and used to sing. I would’ve given anything to hear her, but she shut down the minute we got a little too deep into that conversation. That poised expression of hers fractured, showing me a glimpse of the broken girl underneath. I retreated real fucking fast. I wasn’t about to push that button.
When I found out she used to do charcoal drawings, I stole every napkin I could find and a few pens. We doodled as we talked. Flower after flower decorated her napkins, but at some point, she grew bolder. Flowers turned into hands and eyes with greater detail. The woman was talented, and I had a feeling she didn’t know just how much so. Her modesty and damn near indifference toward it broke my heart. That shit only happened when others knocked down creatives. No one deserved that, especially someone with her kind of natural, God-given talent.
I saved those napkins. Stowed them away in my jacket pocket for safekeeping. Her art deserved to be adored, even if only by me.
I talked about Aimee—told her stories of growing up, our hopes and dreams, and so many of the little things in between. When was the last time I talked about my late wife without feeling judged for being stuck?A long fucking time.Spark plug wasn’t at all fazed by anything. She shared stories of her husband to relate and listened when I needed her to. Words came easily around her, even when the emotions were high.
By the time we walked out of the bar hours later, I didn’t want our time together to end. She wasn’t the kind of woman I wanted to take back to any of my places.Not that I didn’t want to kiss her. I would’ve killed for the chance to do so.No, I just wanted whatever shred of time she was willing to give me.
My motorcycle was parked just down the street. I stopped in front of it as I considered inviting her to join me. Would a woman like that even get on a motorcycle?
Fuck it. I’d never know if I didn’t ask.
“Hey, spark plug,” I called after her. She paused on the sidewalk, doing this cute little twirl thing to face me. “Want to go for a ride with me? I know this spot up the coast that’s gorgeous at night. It’s a little under an hour away.”
At least she was in pants this time—even if they were dress pants. Did the woman own anything casual? Maybe that was something I could find out about her over time.I could hope that, whatever this was, it lasted long enough to find out.
“As in… on your motorcycle?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said with a chuckle. She wandered closer, staring hard at my bike. “Promise I won’t let you fall off.”
“Okay,well,” she began a little dramatically, “I wasn’t thinkingthatuntil you said it. Will you keep me safe?”
