Page 1 of Wicked Sinner
1
BRIDGET
Even after twenty-seven years of living here, the Miami sunset is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m looking at it from upside down beneath a car as I finish the last of a brake pad change, checking over my work once more before sliding out from under it to give the keys back to the owner and ring up the transaction. My neck aches, I feel covered in grease, and there’s sweat dried on the back of my neck—but I’m happy.
I’m always happy at the end of a workday. And that’s something not a lot of people in this world can say. It makes me feel lucky, even if the scent of grease and oil and car exhaust come with a touch of sadness now, as well as satisfaction.
With the transaction finished and the keys handed over to the old man who brought his Honda Civic in, I flick off theOpensign and lock the office at the side of the garage for the day. It doesn’t take me long to clean up, which means I can head inside for a much-needed shower and the burger and fries that I’ve been anticipating all day.
The house smells pleasantly of wood polish and a slight scent of salt from the breeze outside when I walk in. I left the windowscracked open today—it’s October, which means that to anyone else, it would still feel too hot to go without air conditioning. For someone born and raised in Florida, mid-seventies feels practically chilly after a summer of 100-plus degree days.
The shower is heavenly—better than sex, in my opinion. The few experiences I’ve had in that regard haven’t left me all that impressed. And for the last few years, I haven’t really had time for it. Men have been my lowest possible priority, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
Scrubbed of the grease and oil and sweat of the day, I braid my wet hair and go about my usual routine. It’s nothing exciting, but it’s peaceful. Shower, cook a simple dinner, sit in front of the television while I eat it, before going back out to the garage. I breathe in the salty, humid air as I step back out, feeling the warm darkness wrap around me.
This is my favorite time of day. It’s quiet, utterly peaceful, with only the sound of the cicadas and the far-off crash of the waves. My father definitely could never afford to have his house and mechanic’s shop anywhere close to the beach, but when it’s silent out like this, I can hear the water.
We’re far enough out from the city to see the stars, and this time of night, no one passes by. I open the garage up to let the night air in, turning the radio to a classic station and gathering up my tools before heading over to the furthest bay, where my project car is kept. A bright blue ‘67 Corvette Stingray, one my father and I picked out to work on together just before he got sick.
Now, I’m restoring it on my own. Every night I spend out here, working on the car and listening to his favorite music, feels like I’m getting to spend time with him even though he’s gone. It still makes my heart ache, but it’s a good pain—the kind of pain that reminds me that I had something special in my life.
That I still do, in a different way.
An hour passes, maybe. I’m fully absorbed in my work on the car when I hear the crunch of gravel outside, startling me out of my peaceful reverie. It sounds like car tires, and I slide out from under the Corvette abruptly, my eyes narrowing as I keep my wrench in my hand. There’s a tire iron near the garage entrance, and a gun in my office, but I wouldn’t be able to get to the latter in time.
That’s fine. I’m not sure if I can beat a grown man in a fight, but I certainly wouldn’t make it easy for him.
I step toward the garage entrance, peering out into the dark parking lot as headlights swing toward me. I’m expecting either trouble or some old lady in a beat-up sedan with middle-of-the-night car trouble—something that rarely happens but isn’t unheard of. Instead, my mouth nearly drops open in shock as I see the car that pulls up in front of the right-hand bay.
It’s a Ferrari. Sleek and red and new, a car that costs the kind of money I’ve never even imagined. I prefer the classics, but still, it’s impossible not to appreciate it.
The engine turns off, and the driver’s door opens. I can’t see the figure that gets out clearly yet, but from the height and build, I can see that it’s a man, and I shift toward where the tire iron is leaning against the wall. I don’t know what a man with a car like this is doing atmyshop at ten o’clock at night, but if he tries anything, I’m going to make him wish he hadn’t stopped.
He steps into the light, and my heart flips in my chest.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more gorgeous man. Admittedly, my experience is limited, but this man is movie-star gorgeous. He’s tall—probably a few inches over six feet—and wearing black jeans and a grey T-shirt that clings to his muscled frame like gift wrap on a Christmas present. His arms are carved with visible dips and swells of muscle, his jaw sharp and dusted with dark stubble, and his medium-length dark hair looks messy, like he had the top down and was driving fast.
I can’t see the color of his eyes from where he’s standing, but suddenly, I’m desperate to know.
“Evening.” His voice is rich and cultured, with an odd accent. There’s a hint of what sounds like Italian there, but something a bit British to it as well, like he’s not from a specific place. Somehow, that only adds to his mystique, everything about him sending my heart into a spasm of flutters and my stomach coiling with an unfamiliar heat that I realize, a moment after it blooms through me, is arousal.
The kind of arousal that no one has ever gotten out of me before, more than even what I’ve managed to coax out of myself. This feels likelust, like what’s described in books and movies and songs, and I swallow hard, reminding myself to not be a fucking idiot.
I have no idea who this man is or what he wants. He’s certainly not here to be ogled by me, and considering the state of my grease-stained overalls and half-dried braided hair, I doubt he’d have any interest.
“We’re closed,” I say sharply, my voice tense. “Sorry, but you’ll have to come back in the morning.”
He smiles, and something about it needles me. It’s the kind of smile that men give when they expect to get what they want, something almost patronizing at the edges of it. “I’m headed back to the city. The car’s brand new, I don’t want to drive it any further than I have to, like this. I need you to take a look at it.”
Are you fucking kidding me? A moment ago, it was his good looks that took my breath away—now it’s his fucking arrogance. I stare at him. “I’m not sure if you heard me. I’m closed for the evening.”
That smile lingers on his lips, the kind of smile that I’m sure has had women all over dropping their panties in an instant for him. I’m a little ashamed that it’s working on me, too. Still, I hold my ground. “You need to go.”
He doesn’t move, and irritation prickles down my spine. I was enjoying my peaceful evening, listening to music and working on the car, and he’s interrupting. From the radio on the other side of the garage, the Rolling Stones advise that you can’t always get what you want, and the irony of it makes me laugh a little.
“What?” The man looks at me curiously, and I shrug.
