Page 7 of Car Wash
The jeers fade to a murmur, replaced by a shift in the air—hot and electric, like a storm about to hit. A new kind of shiver takes over as I turn around to see John charging right at them.
He rips his shirt off as he walks, like it’s offending him just by existing. He has a white t-shirt underneath his light button-down. Sweat glistens across his shoulders, all hard muscle and thick veins.
His eyes rake over me—wet hair, soaked shirt, tight nipples and bare skin—and something breaks in his expression. Something dangerous.
I see the moment he stops thinking. I can feel it. He steps forward, just a little too close, and drapes his still-warm shirt around me. It’s so big on me that I feel like I’m drowning.
I swallow hard. My whole body is buzzing.
He shields my body, tucking me behind his back as his eyes flash to the guy holding the tell-tale bucket.
“Hey,” John barks at the guy. He still has me tucked behind him. I bite my lip. The proximity to his power is intoxicating.
“Did you do this?” he says.
The guy’s shoulders slump, and he seems to be coming up with an excuse for his behavior.
“It was an accident,” he says, voice breaking.
John doesn’t say a word at first. He just steps toward the guy with the bucket—slow, deliberate, terrifyingly calm.
“Was it you?” he asks, voice low but clear. Not a hint of panic. Just quiet, blistering rage.
The guy straightens up, trying to look casual.
Wrong move.
John grabs a fistful of the guy’s shirt and slams him back against the hood of a nearby car. Not hard enough to injure—just hard enough to make a point. The bucket clatters to the ground.
“You think this is funny?” His voice is still level. Still tightly leashed. “You don’t look at her again.”
The guy sputters, caught between trying to look tough and realizing he’s already lost.
John doesn’t let go right away. He leans in a little closer, the space between them crackling. Heat rises from the pavement. I can almost see it swirl around John, thick like steam.
“Walk away,” he says.
And the guy does. Shoulders hunched, face red, trying not to look like he’s running.
Holy shit.
John wraps a protective arm around me, holding me close to his side. The mix of soap and sweat bears down on my senses, as hot as the air around me. As hot as his chest as he holds me close.
“Get in,” he says in a low voice, opening the car door for me, my wet thighs sticking to the fresh leather. John walks aroundto his side like he’s a force of nature. A storm rolling in from the horizon. Gray skies with a beam of light breaking through.
He gets into the car, carrying even more heat along with him. He puts his hands on the steering wheel, the huge barrel of his chest rising and falling.
“Are you all right?” he says gruffly, his knuckles turning white.
“Just a little wet.” I give a tiny smile and laugh. “No use crying over spilled water, right?”
I look at his face as his eyes scan over me. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, sliding down the side of his temple. His hair’s grayer than I remember—more salt than pepper now—and it just makes him look hotter. Sharper. Like he’s settled into the kind of man who knows exactly what to do with you.
I don’t know if he’s looking to check me for signs of injury, or if he’s looking at me the way I want him to look at me.
The way he looked at me out there in the wild.
God, I hope so.
