Page 45 of Exrated
He takes a seat and tries the ignition.Men.
“Tyler, I just said it was dead.”
He nods. “I know.” And then he smiles that smart-ass grin of his. Reaching down he pops the hood, then climbs out and walks around to the front of the car. He fiddles with some things under the hood.
I cross my arms over my chest and cock my hip. “Since when do you know anything about cars.”
“I’m a guy. Guy’s know things about cars.”
I roll my eyes because Tyler is not a car guy. “Please don’t make it worse.”
He pushes away from the front of the car, makes his way back to the seat, and tries the key again. “Well,” he shrugs. “Can’t do anything with that.” He grabs my purse from the passenger seat, gets out, and shuts the door. “Come on,” he calls over his shoulder.
“What? Where?”
“Do you wanna stay here. It’s getting dark. That’s when the freaks come out you know,” he laughs. “And Frankenstein.”
Huffing, I follow him to a Mustang parked a few spots over. I smile a little. Tyler had a Mustang in high school, a ratty one, but it was still amazing. “Still have the same taste in cars, I see.”
He smiles and opens the door for me. “Yep, and in women.”
That swoon induced heat floods my cheeks and I chastise myself for letting him get to me. “Thanks,” I say as I sit down.
Moments later, he’s behind the wheel. The engine cranks and I can feel the hum of the motor in the seat. “Where do you live?” he asks.
“Venice Boulevard.”
He backs out of the parking spot and revs the engine before pulling onto the street. “I’ll call a garage and have them come get your car. Probably the alternator or something.”
“Thanks…”
As he drives, I keep glancing over at him. When I really think about it, it gets to me a little. This right here, riding in a car with him, this was my teenage years. We rode to school together, we rode to parties together, we basically did everything together. Honestly, I barely put a thousand miles on my own car because I was always with him. And the thing about this right here—there’s nostalgia to this. Tyler is like that smell you get a whiff of every once in a while that drowns you in blissful memories.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “What?”
“What do you mean what?”
“You’re staring at me like a fucking creeper.”
My face heats. “I was just looking at you.”
“Yeah,” one of his dimples pops out, “like a creeper.”
And…silence. I have to get my mind off of us, so I do the only thing I can think of that will not remind me of us. “Do you like it?” I ask.
“What?” His eyes narrow, his brow wrinkling. “Do I like…what?”
“Porn.”
His head falls back against the head rest, and he laughs. “Do I like porn?”
“Yeah.”
“Watching it, or doing it?”
“Well…” I recall the first time I watched porn with him. “I know you like watching it, fuckingDebbie Does Dallas—”
“Oh, that was hilarious!” he says.
