Fighting for Flight

my sanctuary. I plug in the boom box and hear Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” fill the silence.
Lost in my work, buried under the hood of a ’99 Ford Explorer, the rumble of a powerful engine draws my attention. A deep bass beat accompanies the engine’s growl as it pulls up to the bay. I attempt to figure out what kind of car it is just by listening, one of my favorite games. My guess is a large—no, a very large—pickup truck. American made.
I hear rather than see Guy head out to greet the truck’s driver. The engine and bass go quiet, and I faintly make out a deep voice. The low vibration sends a tingle down my body and goose bumps race across my skin. What in the heck was that?
I check my forehead. No fever. Hm.
“Ray! Ray, get out here!” Guy’s beckoning call yanks me from my thoughts.
I grab a towel to wipe my hands.
“Ray! Now!”
Jeesh, he’s impatient.
Walking through the bay doors into the Las Vegas sun, my eyes adjust to the bright light.
A monstrous, black, Ford FX4 pickup looms out front. Ah-ha! I was right. It’s a twin turbo, kitted out with thirty-five inch wheels, black rims, and a six-inch lift. The limo-tinted windows and black headlights make it look alive. Whoever drives this beast has a passion I can relate to. My gaze swings to the truck’s owner to commend his choice in automobile.
“Nice Ford—” I’m frozen, feet glued to the asphalt, voice stuck in my throat, and gawking at the Universal Fighting League’s local-celebrity-hot-guy, Jonah Slade. At my work!
He’s well over six feet tall, six-five if I had to guess. A jersey-like, sleeveless shirt hangs artfully from his broad shoulders. His well-muscled arms are covered with brilliantly colored tattoos that beckon to be touched. My fingers itch to trace each swirl, to touch him to see if he’s real.
He clears his throat, making me lift my gaze to his face while continuing my appraisal. He’s wearing a black baseball hat backwards with dark, almost black hair peeking out around his ears. His strong, square jaw frames the fullest, most sensual pair of lips I’ve ever seen on a man.
“Ray, this is Jonah Slade.”
Yeah, no kidding.
My head tilts to the side at Guy’s voice, but I’m physically incapable of taking my eyes off the man, no, the god, in front of me. I’ve seen him on posters and billboards all over town, but they don’t compare to the breath-robbing, live version.
“He has an old Chevy he needs help fixing up. I told him you’d be up for the job.”
I hear the smile in Guy’s voice, but still can’t move my eyes to look at him. Car. He said something about fixing up a car.
Pushing through my shock, I reach for my sanity. “What kind of—” My words break on a squeak. This is embarrassing. I clear my throat. “Car? What kind?” That sounds slightly better. I can—Oh my gosh!
Jonah Slade is smiling.
Framing his perfect straight teeth and his luscious full lips are two freakin’ dimples. Sanity gone, fan-girl lust-buckets owning and operating my mind, I bite back an audible swoon.
He crosses his muscular arms across his broad chest, still smiling. “Ray? You’re, Ray?”
He said my name. My cheeks heat.
“Raven. My name is Raven. Guy calls me Ray.” My voice sounds weak and irritatingly pathetic. I try to sound more confident. “I guess it makes him feel better about having a girl working in his garage if he gives her a man’s name.” I study my feet and kick a pebble that isn’t there.
“Raven. Great name.” The compliment is said under his breath, almost to himself. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He’s continues to smile. If he doesn’t stop that soon, I’m never going to be able to concentrate on not making a fool out of myself. More than I already have.
His arm extends to shake my hand. I look at it like it’s a live scorpion. Guy nudges me with his shoulder and motions for me to shake. I wipe my palm on my coveralls, hoping he thinks it’s grease I’m removing, rather than my nervous sweat.
His large hand swallows mine in a firm handshake, the simplest gesture communicating strength and reliability. My shoulders relax, and I fall into the safety of the feeling. Static electricity buzzes between us. His thumb moves over my skin in the tiniest caress. Or did I imagine that?
I’m captivated. I’m unable to see his eyes behind his dark glasses, but I feel them boring into mine.
Without warning, his smile falls, and his eyebrows lower behind his shades. Oh, no. A simple handshake has now turned into holding hands. He thinks I’m weird. I pull back from his grip.
“You, um, have some grease on your . . .” He motions to his own forehead. “Here, I’ll . . .” His hand moves toward my face. I lean back, but keep my feet firmly planted as he swipes his thumb across my forehead: once, twice, three times, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“Oh, yeah. I shivered earlier and . . .” I wipe my head, deciding not to disclose the fact that his voice made me feverish.
I peek at Guy from the corner of my eye and watch the corners of his mouth twitch. Glad someone thinks my embarrassment is funny.
“Your car . . . er . . . what—”
“Jonah here is restoring a ’61 Impala.” Guy shows me mercy and saves me from making things more awkward.
“That’s great. Old Chevys are my specialty.” I could dance with joy at my ability to speak in full sentences. “You want to bring it by?”
“Actually, I . . .” His voice cracks. With a fist, he taps his chest and clears his throat. “Sorry, what I mean is I was hoping you might be able to work on it at my house.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline, my jaw loose and swaying in the breeze.
“I have a decent garage that has all the tools you should