My C*cky Mechanic (C*ck Sure Book 2) Read online

  My C*cky Mechanic

  Lily Vixen

  Copyright © 2018 Lily Vixen

  Digital Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  “With foxes we must play the fox.”

  Dr. Thomas Fuller

  Contents

  In the mood for something dirty?

  Double Jack-Ass

  Fourteen-Hundred-Fifty

  His Lucky Night

  Watersports

  Dirty Deal

  Taking Elle

  Ten Minutes

  Thank You

  About the Author

  In the mood for something dirty?

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  Double Jack-Ass

  Elle tapped the side of her glass with her nail. There was almost nothing left, how she’d been chewing at it, but she’d taken the time this morning to file it down and varnish it. She’d made sure it matched her outfit — or, at least, the pink blouse she wore as part of her outfit. Her suit was a neutral tan — her high heels matching perfectly.

  Sam hated this suit. He also hated the blouse — had told her it was too frilly and girly for her.

  He also hated it when she wore heels, because then he’d had to look at her.

  He hated a lot of things. One of which, she was pretty damn sure, was her.

  Her hand trembled slightly when she lifted the wine glass to her lips. He was late. Probably not on purpose — traffic here had been terrible. She’d had to take a taxi — her car was still in the shop — and the taxi driver had been just as irritated as her when they’d come to a screeching halt a few blocks from the restaurant. She’d decided to get out and walk; she hadn’t wanted to be late.

  Hadn’t wanted Sam to come in, see she wasn’t here, and leave.

  Because he’d do that.

  And she wouldn’t be able to do this again. To gather what little courage she could and—

  “Can I bring you another, ma’am?”

  Elle jerked, turning wide eyes to the waiter standing beside her.

  Her wine glass was empty. When had that happened? She managed a shake of her head, which somehow turned into a nod, and the man disappeared as effortlessly as he’d managed.

  Elle shifted in her seat, glancing around through her lashes. She’d only been to this restaurant twice before — it was one of the one’s Sam swore never to return to after a bad experience with some sole — but she’d quite liked the lobster bisque, even if they could have gone a little easier on the saffron.

  Dammit, what the hell was she doing, thinking about lobster damn bisque?

  She straightened her spine, let out a long, slow breath, and mentally ran through her script. Again.

  Look, Sam, I know about her, okay? There’s no use trying to deny it. I know. And you know what? I don’t care. I did, obviously, at first. But I don’t anymore. Because I realized something, Sam. I realized that, even if I hadn’t found out, that—

  “Ma’am?”

  She glared up at the waiter. Couldn’t they put a damn bell on the guy, or something? He didn’t seem to notice — or care — about her irritation. Setting the glass down and taking away her empty, he paused.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Elle said, her voice tight with indignation. As if she’d come to a restaurant alone! What kind of—

  “Will your partner be joining you shortly?”

  “He was already—” she cut off what she’d been going to say, let out another unsteady breath, and said, “—yes. Shortly.”

  The waiter nodded, his eyes fluttering just enough to tell her that he’d seen enough desperate causes to know she was one of them. No doubt, ten minutes from now, he’d be telling her that they were fully booked, and if she wasn’t planning on eating, then she’d have to move to the bar area.

  Like a floozie.

  Elle realized she was tapping the side of the glass again, and made herself stop.

  I know, all right Sam? There’s no denying it. But it’s fine. Well, no, it’s not fine, but I understand.

  Dammit, that wasn’t what she was going to say.

  I’m not here to fight. I came here to tell you that it’s over, okay? It’s over Sam. And it probably has been for a long time. I just didn’t realize it. Maybe you didn’t either. Either way, we’re through. So now all we have to figure out is—

  “You’re early.” Sam’s voice snapped her from her thoughts like a whip to her rump.

  She tried forcing her shoulders to relax, but could only watch the man from the corner of her eyes as he came around the table and seated himself opposite her.

  He still wore his work suit — all charcoal and pinstripes and oozing money. For a moment, he stared at her with narrowed eyes, as if she was a puzzle he was trying to decide to figure out, or pay someone to dissemble for him. Then he smiled; warmly, disarmingly, widely.

  “You eat yet, babe?”

  “What? No, of course not. I mean—” She cut herself off by taking a deep swig of her wine.

  Sam lifted his chin toward the wine glass. “How many of those have you had?”

  Elle blinked at him, managed a blustering, “I’m not drunk—”

  And was again interrupted by the waiter materializing at her side.

  “Evening, sir. What can I—”

  “Double Jack. On the rocks.” Sam delivered this without taking his eyes off Elle.

  He slid his hand onto the table, lifting the end of a fork and making it dance on its tines. All the while staring at her with that same wide, stretching smile of his.

  Time for the script.

  Just breathe, Elle.

  Elle wriggled forward in the chair until she sat perched on the edge. She set her elbows down, gripped her hands together and took a deep, calming breath.

  “Hate the sole here,” Sam said. “You forget?”

  Elle dipped her head, closing her mouth. Screw it, that statement didn’t even dignify a response. Another breath, longer this time. She tightened the grip on her fingers.

  “Sam—”

  “Been very distracted lately, babe.” Sam made the fork spin, light catching on its polished surface. “So how long’s it been going on?”

  Elle’s skin flashed ice cold. Her breath became trapped somewhere in the bottom of her lungs, making her chest ache for its release. She stared across the table at Sam, her ears singing for a moment.

  What?

  “That… what’s his name?”

  “Hector?” This came out more a wheeze than a word.

  “That’s it. Makes sense: you remembering your fling’s name, but not that I can’t stand this place’s food.”

  Sam let the fork fall. It struck another fork with sharp clang that made Elle release her stagnant breath in a whoosh.

  “Look, babe, it’s been fun. But it’s obvious you’ve got commitment issues.”

  Elle made a strangled sound that was supposed to be a protest — not at the statement, despite how absurd i
t was, but at the fact that Sam had somehow wrangled this conversation out of her control.

  “Sir.” The waiter set Sam’s drink down, hesitated, and then added, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He didn’t mention whether it was for their order, or to bring them their check. He probably realized, judging from the tension in the air, that it would be the latter.

  Sam took a slug of his drink. It was the perfect moment for her to open her damn mouth and just set him straight. Belt out line after line of that script she’d been working on for the past few hours.

  Okay, for the past few weeks.

  “I’m not cheating on you,” was all that came out.

  Yes, because that had been in the script, Elle. Right under the line where you lose your cool and slap him.

  “Didn’t think you had it in you, my little Elle. Fortunately, I put precautions in place for exactly this scenario.” Sam leaned in, for all the world as if she hadn’t just refuted his ridiculous claims. “Remember that prenup?”

  “Prenup?”

  “I’ll have my lawyer send it to your hotel room later tonight.”

  “Hotel room?”

  Why the hell was she just repeating things? What damn hotel room?

  “Yeah. The one I went to the trouble of booking for you. It’s a block or two down from here, so you should find it easily enough, despite your navigational issues.”

  He was dangling a key from his finger. When in the hell he’d taken it out, lifted it, she didn’t know.

  A slow, brutal snow storm enveloped her. White noise rose and fell around her, everything other than that single, golden key blurring into obscurity.

  “Take the night, digest this, have a good cry. Whatever. Come fetch your things in the morning.”

  Sam downed the rest of his drink, grimaced, and gave her that same, easy smile as before.

  It was that smile that had made her slide into bed with him. His eyes, too. They’d been kind, back then. A lifetime ago. They weren’t anymore. And she’d watched them change — as slowly and irrevocably as a tree grew — over the years. Watched them grow hard and lifeless.

  He was still speaking, but she couldn’t hear him over the ringing in her ears. She watched her hand reach for her wine glass, grip it, bring it to her lips. She felt the cool rim touch her lips as she tipped it back. Cool, sweet-sour liquid rushed over her tongue.

  He was standing now, getting to his feet. The glitter of the key caught her eye, held it. He’d set it down beside the vase holding a single rose in the center of the table. And then he was walking away, pausing to tap the key, to murmur something unintelligible in her ear before he left.

  I know you’ve been cheating, Sam. I saw the text on your phone. I wasn’t snooping, it just popped up. You were in the shower, I think. I asked you about her, even mentioned her name. Just lies. Lies and more lies. Not the first, either, right? Because I know, Sam. I know you can have children. That you just don’t want to have them with—

  “Excuse me?” The waiter paused, in the act of placing the bill folder on the table.

  Elle stared at it, then up at him. “I didn’t ask for the bill.” The waiter glanced at the folder, began to lift it. Elle slammed her hand down on the leather, making a nearby table turn to her in surprise. “Oh no, it’s obvious you want me out of here.”

  She felt heat, pressure, building behind her eyes.

  The waiter tried to slide the bill folder out from under her hand, but she turned her hand into a fist and kept it in place.

  “Leave it.” She hardly recognized her own voice, stiff and throttled as it was.

  “Ma’m, if there was—”

  “Leave it!” Elle tossed back the rest of her wine. “Your food is terrible, anyway. I wouldn’t eat here if my life depended on it.”

  Her stomach grew tight. It was a horrible statement to make, but if she didn’t lash out at something — anything — that pressure building inside her felt liable to rupture her organs. She dug in her handbag and slapped her credit card on the bill folder.

  The waiter retreated, returning a few seconds later with a card machine. Elle tapped against the credit card, trying to urge the furious blush warming her cheeks to subside. She failed. The man hesitated, fingers hovering over the card until Elle withdrew her hand.

  “Pin.”

  Elle punched it in. Her fingers trembled hard enough to make the card machine waver over the table. She brought it down, watching the incongruous messages of something connecting to something else as a new wave of tears began pricking for release.

  He thought she was cheating on him? With their twenty-six year old neighbor? She’d maybe waved at him like once. Twice, maybe.

  The waiter took the machine from her as it began to spill out a slip of paper. He tore it off, slid it over the bill folder, and tapped at a word.

  “Declined, ma’am. Can I try again?”

  Elle blinked at that word, inhaled a stifling breath, and nodded.

  A minute later, another slip of paper joined the first.

  “Do you have another card, ma’am?”

  “There’s—this one should—”

  What was the point of arguing? She slid another card out. Handed it over. Watched the waiter’s face grow stony and unreadable. A third slip joined the others.

  “Uh… do you want to come through the office? My manager—”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my credit cards.” Elle shoved a third one in the kid’s direction. “Here.”

  “Ma’am—” the waiter shifted from foot to foot.

  Elle dipped her head and glanced around from under her lashes. A few of the closest patrons were openly staring at her. One woman had a wine glass frozen against her lips, eyes wide as she watched this spectacle unfurl.

  “Yes, okay.” Elle got to her feet. The carpet felt too soft and springy under her heels. She had a death-grip on the strap of her handbag as the waiter led her across the restaurant toward a distant, dark doorway.

  The waiter exchanged murmured words with a suit-and-tie while Elle did her best not to burst into flame from humiliation. The waiter held out an arm, and then disappeared as soon as Elle stepped inside the room.

  Elle blinked rapidly. The manager held all three her credit cards in his fingers, tapping them against the desk behind him as he bit the corner of his lip.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have to cut these up — they’ve been canceled.”

  She watched him for a few seconds, waiting for him to add something that would turn his words into something that made sense. But he didn’t. He just watched her. Tapping those cards.

  Swallowing hard, Elle leaned her weight onto her back foot. “I don’t understand. I used that one — the black one — less than an hour ago.”

  The manager shrugged as he turned around and slid open a drawer. Elle’s spine stiffened when he drew out a pair of scissors.

  “Hey!” She reached for the cards, but the manager knocked her arm aside with his elbow.

  “Ma’am, please. It’s regulation—”

  “You can’t do that!” She heard her own voice rebounding from the walls of the small office and took a small, unsteady step back. “You can’t… do that.”

  But he did.

  Then he told her she owed him fifty-eight dollars for the drinks.

  So she laughed at him. Dragged her purse from her handbag. Stared at the notes neatly arranged inside. She’d drawn exactly fifteen hundred from the ATM; she didn’t like carrying cash around with her. She took out a fifty and shook it in his face.

  “There. Take your Goddamn money.”

  He did, seeming reluctant. “It’s fifty—”

  But she didn’t stay to hear the rest.

  Elle stormed out of the restaurant, wobbling on her heels over the thick carpeting all the while suppressing a sob so hard that her diaphragm convulsed with the effort.

  Fourteen-Hundred-Fifty

  It was the shout that drew Blake from his office. It wouldn’t have taken much f
or him to abandon the slew of paperback he had to hack through every Friday, but that shout did a damn fine job of it. It was high-pitched, feminine, and as entitled as fuck.

  He charged down the metal stairs leading into his workshop, his heavy boots making them rattle and clang in a cacophony of noise that almost drowned out the woman’s next yell.

  “I never authorized this! Who gave you permission to—”

  “Is there a problem here?” Blake asked.

  The woman — blond hair twisted into a knot that had begun to unravel slightly — spun to face him, blue eyes blazing. She stood beside a Mercedes Benz S-Class that had come in for a full service less than a week ago. She looked about to let loose on him, but then she pushed back her shoulders, drew a deep breath that did impressive things to her breasts, and slowly let out a long exhale.

  “Are you the manager?” Her voice shook with the effort of civility.

  “No.” Blake glanced past her at Fred — who’s pale face was a clear testament to the woman’s anger — and lifted his eyebrows. Fred backed away, shaking his head and letting out a low whistle as he sauntered to the far side of the wide workshop.

  “Well, I need to speak with the manager. Immediately.” Her voice had almost risen back to a shout.

  “I’m the owner, so I guess I’ll have to do,” Blake said. He gestured toward the Merc. “What’s the issue here?”

  “The issue?” The woman blinked at him as if, for a moment, she’d forgotten what the issue was. Her gaze fell to his chest and then flickered to his arms and back to his eyes an instant later.

  Blake looked down at himself. Had he gotten coffee on his—

  Right. No coffee — just grease. Lots and lots of grease.

  It didn’t help wearing clean clothes to the workshop. It didn’t help cleaning the workshop. There was always a car to slide under, always a leaky gasket to drip oil on him as he pointed out a tricky issue to one of the junior mechanics on staff. So he wore one of two vests — both used to be white, neither of them were anymore — and his pair of fraying, torn jeans. There were overalls, but… he hated the things with a passion he usually reserved for restoring his classics at the dead of night.

  This grease monkey was probably not what she expected the owner of anywhere to look like, even if it was a repair shop.