Page 18 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
I don’t miss the way James’s eyes cut to me now and then as we bounce down the track.
I’m not sure what possesses me, sheer curiosity, perhaps—but, foolishly, I drop my arms and let the girls flop around and carefully but subtly watch his reaction.
Good thing we’re driving slowly through a grassy field, because he glances to the side, and forgets to look away from the show. His eyes widen, and he coughs as if to cover an involuntary reaction.
He finally drags his eyes back to the road, discovers he’d driven off the track, and abruptly corrects. Another few feet, and his eyes cut over to mine, and I arch an eyebrow.
“Something wrong, James?”
“I…ah…no.” He wipes his face with a palm. “Sorry.”
I smirk. “Sorry? For what?”
He wriggles in the seat uncomfortably. “Um. Nothing.” He tugs his Oakleys down over his face. “Never mind.”
I laugh outright, now, and cross my arms over my breasts again. “I’m just messing with you, James.”
He frowns. “Hysterical.”
I laugh again. “I mean…it kind of was.”
He twists his head to glare at me through his sunglasses. “Trolling me, huh?”
I shrug. “A little.”
He shakes his head and lapses into silence as we pull to a stop on the wide concrete pad in front of his barn. It’s an enormous pole barn, with green metal walls, a white roof, and huge white sliding doors. There’s a basketball hoop on the wall above the doors, the red square faded to nearly nothing, the net fraying at the ends.
He parks at an angle, shuts off the engine, and hops down out of the cab. I slide out as well and follow him to the doors of the pole barn. He yanks one door aside and then the other, shedding daylight into the interior. Heading inside, he flicks on a trio of switches, and a double row of fluorescent tubes flickers on in three different areas.
The inside is a well-organized hodgepodge of masculinity; nearest the door along the right-hand wall is a weightlifter’s paradise. There’s a three-section Rogue power rack bolted to the concrete floor, with four Olympic bars in a rifle-style holder on the wall to one side and an elaborate storage rack holding thousands of dollars’ worth of color-coded bumper plates in varying sizes on the other, along with a rack of dumbbells and kettlebells. There is a pair of thick ropes attached to an upright of the rack, several pull-up stations, a hex trap bar, a sled on a strip of artificial turf…god, he has everything, even a rowing machine and an air bike. On the left side nearest the door is a long, sleek bass boat, and beside it a smaller tin outboard boat. Farther down the left wall is a workbench built into the wall, scattered with tools of all kinds, and beyond that a set of tool racks. Opposite the mechanic area is a tarp-covered motorcycle, and the truck in question.
And holy shit, the truck is…a lot.
Ruby red, a full-size four-door cab, thick, knobby tires, a lift kit, big black wheels, a thick chrome bull bar covering the chrome grill, an LED light rack across the roof, and a soft black tonneau cover over the bed instead of the back rack and toolbox I’d have expected.
James walks over to the truck, running his fingers along the side. “It doesn’t actually have a very big lift, or crazy big tires, because I drive a lot of miles and tow a lot of trailers. Not sure how much you know about this stuff—”
“Nothing at all,” I fill in.
He nods. “Well, you lift it too much and you’ll need a fuckin’ ladder to get into the box, and a special hitch to tow anything, and then you’re straining your front-end suspension and end up going through parts faster. What I did was put the knobbiest, thickest-wall tires on fancy rims, and then lifted it a couple inches just for wheel well clearance. So it looks cool, but it’s still useable as a work truck.”
I eye the door. “I think I’ll still need a damn ladder to get into the thing.”
He grins at me, resting a foot on the chrome step under the driver’s side door. “Nah. You’ll have no trouble.”
I arch an eyebrow. “It’s an already big truck lifted several inches higher.”
He nods, kicks the step. “These are custom steps, babe.” He hesitates, and when he continues, his voice is low, quiet, and subdued. “I built this with Renée in mind. You wouldn’t think it considering Renée was barely five-six. Tiny thing with short little legs. My truck before this one had stock tube steps, and she hated getting into and out of it. So when I pimped out this one, I put custom steps on it that were low enough for her to get into and out of easily.” He opens the door, shows me the handle on the inside—it looks like it’s carbon fiber, built into the rim just inside the door. “Give it a try.”
