Page 16 of Grease Monkey
Seriously, dude. Get yourself under control.
I think I’ve been caught staring when she covers her chest with both arms, but then she rubs her hands up and down the length of them, trying to warm up.Turning the dials on the console, I crank the heating up full blast, angle all the air vents in her direction, and then grab a hoodie from the backseat.
“Here,” I say, draping the zip-up sweatshirt backward over her cold, wet body and tucking the edges over her shoulders. Ana’s slim fingers clutch at the hood, pulling it closer to her chin and she slowly stops shaking. Her lips return to their natural soft rosy shade of pink, and her skin dries as the car heats up.
“Thank you,” she says in an almost whisper. “The forecast didn’t mention rain when I left this morning, and it was unusually warm today.”
I nod and pull the car back onto the road, driving toward home. I’m facing the wrong way, but the extra ten minutes it will add to the journey doesn’t seem so bad with Ana sitting next to me, the smell of rain and something citrusy tickling my nose. Except as the silence between us becomes almost deafening, the sound of splashing from the road and the rain hitting the car roof the only noises to fill the car, I’m wondering why I stopped and offered her a lift. Remove the flirty banter and it’s a little awkward.
“So, what kind of music do you listen to?” I ask and cringe.
Kill me now. I hate small talk.
Her head bows down, and her hand peeks out from the sweatshirt to tuck a lock of hair which has started to dry into a ringlet behind her ear. “The usual, I guess. Chart stuff.”
“Chart stuff?” Oh my God, this is painful. I would have thought seeing my dick would have made her feel comfortable around me, but apparently not.
“Actually,” she says, her voice taking on an oddly strong tone compared to the mousey squeak it was a second ago. “I prefer the music from before I was even born. You know, old-school Rock and Roll. Neil Peart makes playing the drums look like an art.”
I feel my eyebrows disappear into my hairline, and my hand slips from the wheel, making the car jolt slightly. “You know Rush?”
She laughs. The sound light and warm, finding its way into my chest and settling there.
“Who doesn’t know Rush?” she asks. “Neil Peart is arguably the greatest drummer of all time.”
I’m stunned, unable to form words, as the girl dressed in a private school uniform, with a mother who is more judgmental than the town gossip, has me shocked into silence.
“Jeff Porcaro, John Bonham, and Keith Moon are pretty good too.”
“Toto, Led Zeppelin, and The Who.Fuck, Ana, you know your seventies rock bands.”
She smiles, sucking that bottom lip between her teeth, and I wish she would stop doing that. It drives me fucking crazy for something I only noticed recently.
Tucking her hair behind her ear again, she says, “It’s my little secret. Mom hates anything from that era. She’d much rather I spend my time listening to classical composers.”
“Sneakily listening to forbidden music, taking the bus when you’re not allowed. You’re a little rebel, aren’t you?”
She chuckles lightly, and I lean over to tug the auxiliary cable stuck under her bag and shift to grab my phone. Plugging it into the jack, I clickPlay, and David Gilmour’svoice comes from the speakers.
“Pink Floyd,” she whispers.
I groan, slapping my hand over my heart. “Marry me, Ana, just fucking marry me right now.” She giggles, not the high-pitched, whiny giggle girls usually do, but soft and sweet, and I like it. “My family lives for seventies rock. My brother, Bowie, was actually named after…”
“David Bowie,” she interrupts, a blush creeping onto her cheekbones. I glance at her from the corner of my eye, utterly amazed at the conversation we are having right now. She’s also somehow managed to rearrange my sweatshirt, so her arms are in the sleeves, and the zipper is facing the right way and pulled up to the top. From what I can see, she looks pretty damn good in my clothes, and when she thinks she’s being subtle, I see her pull the material to her nose and breathe in.
I must groan because she drops the sweatshirt and wrings her hands in her lap, keeping her eyes on the road like she’s scared of my driving or something. No, not that, like she’s nervous being around me.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, then nibbles at her lower lip again. Her perfectly plump lip in the shape of a bow, desperate for…
Fuck, she’s trouble.
“Do you only have one brother?” she asks, tugging the sleeves up and over her hands, and I’m grateful for the subject change. These intrusive dirty thoughts of Ana are getting worse.
I drum in time with the music, moving into the easy topic of my family, and shake my head. “Nah, got two. Bowie is two years older than me, and I miss him like crazy. He’s been in the Amazon for the past eighteen months, but we speak every week on Skype or FaceTime or whatever. And then there’s Wyatt. He lives near New York, but he’s a high-flying pilot and eleven years older than me, so he doesn’t exactly hang around with his kid brother much.” I smile, thinking about my brothers. It’s been too long since the whole family was in the same room. “What about you?”
Ana sighs. “An older brother, but I haven’t seen him in years. He’s also in New York, working in a restaurant the last time I checked.”
“You guys not close?” I couldn’t imagine not speaking to my brothers regularly.
