Page 5 of Come Ride With Me
Banyon either didn’t pick up on that or was too pissed off to care because he didn’t say another word. Instead, he pushed past Nash on his way out of the office. Nash looked as if he wanted to punch the guy. His fingers actually fisted at his sides before he turned back to face her.
“We typically close the shop at six. The showroom stays open for sales until nine. I came to see if you wanted me to walk you to your car,” he said.
He looked angry. No, it seemed to be more than that as his chest—the wide muscled span of his chest—moved up and down with his quick, but controlled breaths.
“I think I’ll be fine to walk out by myself,” Mica replied.
“It’s the end of February in Virginia so it’s dark at six o’clock at night. The back lot where you parked isn’t well lit. Tomorrow you should park out front where the streetlights are.”
He hadn’t moved from where he stood but spoke to her in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Oh. I hadn’t realized how late it was.” Mica had been so into the spreadsheets and calculations that she hadn’t chanced a look at her watch. And since there was no window in her wonderful office…she let out a small sigh. “Thank you. I would like that.”
He waited while she packed up her stuff and then took the lead once more, walking her through the building and out the back doors. He had keys to those doors and he punched a security code into the black box on the back wall.
“You have the security code and keys?” she inquired when he’d turned back to her.
His gaze quickly locked on her.
“I’m the shop manager. I’ve worked here for ten years. I know everything there is to know about this place, even where the bodies are buried. So, yes, I have keys to the doors and security codes to get in and out of the building.”
“I didn’t mean to sound offensive,” she stated in return to his irritated tone.
He sighed. “Which way is your car?”
“Over here. The black one.”
He walked in silence until she was standing at the driver’s side door.
“Do you need a ride?” she asked because he’d put the keys he’d used on the door into his front pant pocket.
“No,” he told her with what could have been construed as a smile. Mica was more inclined to call it a smirk. “My bike is right over here. Have a good night.”
With that, he walked away. Mica unlocked her door and sat behind the wheel. She’d put on her seatbelt, had the keys in the ignition, but did not move after that. Her gaze was focused across the lot to where she could see a man, slipping on a black and royal blue helmet. He’d parked beneath one of only two lights on this back lot, so she had a good view of him. After the helmet, he dug into his back pocket and pulled out another set of keys. Lifting a leg, he sat on the bike and kicked up the stand before inserting his key into the ignition. He looked mean and ominous…and dangerous as hell as he sat astride the large bike.
Mica gasped as his head came up and she thought he stared back at her. She couldn’t tell because the front of his helmet was dark. For endless moments they both sat that way, staring but not acting, until finally he pulled off. She let out a breath that she was well aware she’d held the entire time she watched him like some wanton hussy, and with a shake of her head drove out of the parking lot.
The hunky shop manager had nothing to do with her job. He wasn’t the numbers person. That was Banyon, she thought as she drove through the streets of the town, being careful to listen to her GPS’s explicit directions. Banyon was the guy she needed to keep close because she was certain there was something in those additional financial documents that he did not want her to see.
So, thinking about the sexy Nash with his piercing gaze, full lips and cocky ass demeanor, was not only out of character for her, but it was a waste of time. Time, she didn’t have to lose if she were going to save her father’s company.
Nash
Nash downed his second beer of the night, swallowing the bitter, yet flavorful liquid with a smack of his lips. He sat in his recliner with his feet propped up while the television across the room played snippets of the evening’s national news. Beyond that the black blinds he’d installed at the window were partially open so he could see across the tiny courtyard to the next set of apartments in this building. They were watching television over there too.
He emptied the bottle and set it inside the holder conveniently located at the end of the chair’s arm. Nash loved this recliner from the first moment he’d seen it in the furniture store. It was a deep tree bark brown color and the softest leather he’d ever felt. The reclining mechanism was electric so that he never had to expend more effort than pushing a button for his back to be relaxed and his feet uplifted. That’s what he did each night he came in from work. The first hour or so was spent sitting right here, having a beer, listening to the news and letting the events of the day run through his mind. Normally those events consisted of a troublesome area for a bike they were fixing, approval of a unique but possibly too edgy design Webby may have come up with for one of their more conservative customers, Rock’s daily words of inspiration that inspired absolutely no one, or whatever the hell dumbass rules Earl was trying to impose at the moment.
It was no secret that there was no love lost between Nash and Earl Banyon. The man was a conniving manipulator who hated Nash since the moment he found out that Nash had served time in jail. There were lots of people with those feelings. Nash had become accustomed to it.
He closed his eyes and tried—unsuccessfully—to dismiss the thoughts of his past, preferring to focus on Earl and what Nash suspected the man was up to now. Three years ago, when Bell hired Earl to take over as the general manager, Nash tried to object. In fact, he recalled that conversation with his mentor and hated like hell that he hadn’t pushed the issue a little harder at the time.
“He’s a sleazy used car salesman,” Nash told Bell when they’d sat in the parking lot of the dealership late one Saturday night.
“He managed one of the largest lots in the city, dealt with staff and customers and his dealership saw over half a million dollars in sales in one year,” Bell replied.
He was talking around the cigar he liked to stick in the corner of his mouth, but never lit. His black hair had just begun to gray at the temples, his mustache and beard only sporting one or two sparkly hairs. But age was setting in, Nash thought, and so was the nasty cough that Bell insisted was just a touch of bronchitis.
“More than half the cars he sold were lemons, Bell. There are over fifty reports filed against him and that dealership with the Better Business Bureau, for some sort of fraud. He’s a liar and a cheat and I don’t like the look of him,” Nash continued vehemently.
