Page 3 of Bound to the Minotaur
I turned on the truck without a word, ignored how Avis had made himself at home in her lap like he belonged, and started driving. Then I started talking, because that was better than facing the question that hung in the air. Her fear, her worry.
“It’ll take a few days to get the parts you need,” I said to her. “Your brakes are a mess.” I didn’t say this part out loud, but her brake line had torn. It could have been from natural wear, but given the looming danger that clung to her, it could have been sabotage just as easily. My money was on that second option. “And your car is so old, I don’t have the parts in stock.”
She bared her teeth at me as if that offended her, but she didn’t spit angry words. Just nodded, smoothing her expression as quickly as that flash of anger had come. “So it’s dead for now, is it? Are there any other options? I have to get to Des Moines by tomorrow afternoon. It’s imperative.” Imperative, fancy word for a clearly fancy girl. She was out of luck, though; there was no way I could fix her car that fast or provide her with an alternative means of transportation that wasn’t going to cost her an arm and a rib. I eyed her fancy but unsuitable jacket and wondered if she might not have that kind of money, she looked fancy enough for it. I hoped so, because it appeared to be the only way to get her out of my hair.
“Dead as a doornail,” I said, and my mind conjured up the dead cars that had made it into my maze as building blocks. This car was just as ready to be committed to that graveyard, but I had a feeling she was going to insist that I fix it. I had a feeling I was going to have to call in a few favors to put a rush on that because I wouldn’t be able to live with this itch for much more than a day or two. The thought of having to survive that long made me feel positively claustrophobic.
“I’m Kess,” she murmured after a prolonged silence. Her hands kept petting Avis, a nervous energy clinging to her that seemed to seep out through her fingers. A cat was good for that, Avis always seemed to soothe the most frantic customers. Kess, huh? That was a pretty name. I liked it, and it was tempting to wrap my tongue around the single syllable—to say it out loud. That would only encourage her to keep talking, though, and I didn’t want that.
“That’s when you offer me your name back, you know?” she dared to say with a half-smile that trembled at the corner of hermouth. It was half-sass, but offered without any real snap, as if she’d learned to curb that impulse at an early age. This was a woman who didn’t really want to rock the boat. I wanted to think, Good, I liked it that way, but it felt wrong, and it scraped against my nerves.
I jabbed my thumb at the patch on the front of my coveralls and that made her smile turn wider, more genuine. “I know it says the name of your shop. The Pit Stop, but that’s notyourname, now is it?” She stroked Avis again and I wondered if it felt nice before I yanked my eyes back to the road and refused to look again. Shrugging was the only answer she was going to get, for now. I didn’t need to be polite, I just needed to help her move on. As fast as possible.
Chapter 3
Kess
It felt like I was finally able to feel my toes again, thanks to the heaters blasting at full power. My ever-so-surly, and noncommunicative rescuer might be a grump, but hehadturned those on for me. Proving that he cared more than he let on, or that at least some rusty part of him remembered his manners. The incredibly beautiful, silver-gray cat currently cuddling in my lap also helped to warm me back up. Opening the truck’s door and discovering the creature had been one hell of a surprise, but a welcome one. Surely a guy couldn’t be all bad if he rode around with his cat in his truck when on a call. Surely…
I looked at him from the corner of my eye, frowning slightly as I tried to figure out what to do. He was intimidating, because he was a big guy; his leather jacket stretched tight over his wide shoulders. There was nothing but muscle packed onto his frame either, not an ounce of extra fat. This guy was in shape, but I still couldn’t quite believe what I’d seen him do: lift my car like it was nothing to hook it to the winch. Even a bulky guy like him shouldn’t be able to do that, right? I had to be mistaken, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t.
He was also far too attractive for my own good, and his grumpiness only served to make me feel safe. I wasn’t sure if that was silly or not, just that it was a fact. I still didn’t know his name, and yet he made me feel like everything was going to be all right.
Glancing over my shoulder through the back window, I eyed my ancient car, its hood shining silver rather than murky graybeneath the moonlight. That car had gotten me this far, but it appeared to be the end of the road for it. How was I going to get to my job interview in time now? It was past midnight. In twelve hours, I had to be there… It was impossible—unless this guy had a car I could borrow. And why would he trust me with another vehicle? He wouldn’t. He didn’t even trust me with his freaking name.
The road turned from asphalt to dirt when he made a left turn before reaching the town. Then I saw the glimmer of lights in the distance, followed by the low shape of a single-floor cabin with a cute A-frame. There was a large front yard, and a sheet metal building stretched out to the left of the cabin, with a sign on it that caught the moon’s glow just enough for me to read: “The Pit Stop.” Every T in the three simple words was shaped so that the horizontal bar looked like a pair of bullhorns. It was charming.
Beyond the two buildings, shapes loomed that I couldn’t make much sense of. Trees, but darker, denser shapes too. I didn’t get a chance to study them because my tow truck driver parked the truck in front of the garage building and flicked off the ignition. Instantly, the warm air that had been blowing on my feet and face cut off, and a shiver wracked my body at the cool air that replaced it.
“I’ll take you inside,” he said, “and then I’ll try to fix your car somehow.” It was possibly the longest sentence he’d said to me so far, and I stared at his mouth as he spoke. His voice was low, with a primal rumble to it that evoked this feeling of power, of protection. His lower lip was plush and soft-looking, a contrast to his sharp jawline and the rough stubble that edged it.
“Okay,” I said quietly, and to his back, as he’d already turned to leap from the cab. I heard the thud of his feet as they struck the ground, then watched as the cat quietly leaped after him, landing without a sound. I scrambled to turn and get out of the high seat myself, tangling in the seat belt and struggling with the heavy door. He was at my side before I’d managed to fully swing it open, and the panel was abruptly yanked from my grip.
He stood in front of me, too close now for me to just leap out, I’d tumble straight into his arms if I did. A prospect a little too tempting to contemplate. He didn’t want me here, or he would have told me what his name was. I couldn’t forget that. We stared at each other, though, our eyes clashing. His mouth was tilted into a half-smirk that clung mostly to one corner and made me feel all weak-kneed.
It was the sound of leaves rustling across the ground in a sudden gust of wind that broke the spell. “This way,” he snapped gruffly, and he turned away without watching what I’d do. His long-legged stride took him across the yard to the porch of the cozy A-frame. I tumbled from the truck in a rush, clutching my purse to my chest as I scurried after him. It was too dark, and the ground was uneven, causing me to stumble twice before I reached the porch.
There, my silent host was waiting, and he had me by the arm, hauling me up the steps the moment I reached him. He didn’t appear to trust me to make it the final bit to his front door. It wasn’t locked, opening quietly, with warm air leaking out to caress my cold cheeks. He propelled me through the door and stepped in after me, his chest brushing against my back. The blast of heat that came from him was even hotter, and a shiver shot down my spine in response.
For the briefest of moments, I was there, trapped by his grip on my arm, right against his body. It felt...safe. It felt sensual, too, and my mind grappled with that possibility. Then he abruptly let go of my arm, flinging it away from him as if he’d gotten burned. He kicked off his boots in a practiced manner as he brushed around me to move deeper into his home.
I remained on the coconut fiber doormat, staring at his wide shoulders and silky black hair. Was I imagining all this sizzling heat between us? Was it a figment of my exhausted and overstressed brain? I didn’t think so, but it was pointless anyway. I had no time for a fling; I had an interview to get to, and it appeared I’d only make it if I miraculously managed to sprout wings in the next few hours.
The house was open-plan, the living room and kitchen forming one big space. Two doors led off the room, plus a back door across from the front door. I assumed those were a bedroom and a bathroom. The space was rustic, a little messy, and decorated with dark, earthy tones in a very masculine fashion. A big leather couch sat across from a large TV, with no pillows, and a huge trestle table was surrounded by big-boned wooden chairs. The kitchen looked bare, but a splash of color decorated one counter in the form of an overflowing bowl of fruit.
“You’re going to have to sleep here,” he said, his back still toward me and his voice even more growly than before. It sounded as if that statement personally offended him. I felt like an intruder then, invading his clearly very valued private space. “There are no rooms in town to rent.” He stalked to one of the closed doors and disappeared through it, only to return a moment later with a pillow, blankets, and fresh sheets.
His brown eyes seemed to glimmer with something undefined but very intense as he crossed the room back to where I still stood by the door. I fumbled to catch the stack of sleeping supplies when he shoved them into my arms. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll fix your car.” Then he was stomping back into his boots and out the door without another word.
I stood in the empty house for several minutes, trying to adjust to this new development. The pile of blankets grew heavier and heavier by the minute in my arms, as my exhaustion made itself known. For the first time since I’d gotten that exciting job offer in my email, I was no longer in motion. This was the first chance I had to truly think about the consequences of what I was doing. My father was going to kill me if he got his hands on me, no doubt about it. A chill struck me as I contemplated the near miss of tonight. Maybe he had already tried.
The pile of fluffy things dropped from my fingers and onto the couch, and then I sank down into the worn, buttery-smooth leather myself. I blinked back a wave of sudden tears, hating myself for that show of weakness. The meow that came from my left was a welcome distraction. “I don’t know your name either,” I said to the silver tomcat perched on the armrest of the couch next to me.
At the sound of my voice, he rose onto all fours and arched his back. Then, with another plaintive meow, headed for the kitchen. I watched him go, the plume of his tail fluffy and large like a feather duster. He stopped to leap onto a counter, then raised on his hind legs and scratched at a cupboard. I instantly understood what he wanted, and I wondered whether I should or not. There had beenveryfirm instructions not to touch anything, but feeding his cat, what harm was there in that?
I kicked off my own boots, then brought them back to the door to put away neatly. All the while, the cat meowed at me as if he were in great agony and only I could fix it. By the time I stepped onto the scratched-up hardwood floor in the kitchen, his meows were loud enough that I wanted to clasp my hands over my tired ears. He abruptly stopped meowing when I opened the cupboard he wanted and peered inside.
A box of kibble for the cat—just like I expected—and a beautifully shaped metal food bowl beside it. The piece was made of scrap metal, welded and bent into an artistic shape, with the name Avis spelled in chunky metal letters on the side. My heart began beating rapidly inside my chest at the sight, my hand flying to my neck where, beneath the collar of my sweater, my own scrap-metal handiwork hung from a chain.
