Fighting for Flight

is coming over. Like a real one, over to your house. Is that correct?” His Perry Mason tone has me grinding my teeth.
“Yeah, bitch. Except it’s not a girl. It’s a mechanic who happens to be female.” Why I’m even wasting my time to explain is beyond me. I remind myself to never answer phone calls from Blake again.
“Potato fucking poe-tah-toe. God, you’re testy. Are you on the rag? I tell you what, grab a Midol and a brownie and call me in five to seven days.” He’s laughing at his own joke.
“Moron.” I shut the dishwasher door and hit start.
“I’m just stating the facts. You never have chicks over. It’s weird.”
“News flash, pickle dick. The person who decorated my house was a girl. My cleaning lady, also a girl. This is no different.”
“Then why are you cleaning your kitchen?”
Because this is different. And the reason why it’s different kept me up all night. Every time I closed my eyes all I could see was her face. I would have brushed it off as a simple case of the I-wanna-screw-yous, but if that were true, I’d be picturing some other part of her anatomy. Not her face. Or the aquamarine color of her eyes, so unique, I had to fight from getting lost in them. Not the way she chewed on her bottom lip when she was thinking. And certainly not the way her cheeks turned pink when I touched her.
“I’m cleaning my kitchen because it’s dirty.” I wipe down the counters for the second time.
“Did my knee to the head do this to you? You got some kind of brain damage that turns you into a pussy?”
“You’re hilarious, you know that?” Sarcasm laces my voice.
“I’m glad you think so.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got to go. See you at training.”
“All right. Let me know how your date goes.”
“You never quit.”
“That’s what she said.” His laughter sounds through the earpiece and I end the call.
I shove my phone in my back pocket and head to the living room for a last once-over.
This is ridiculous. I haven’t gotten all stirred up over a girl since Samantha Salazar in the fourth grade. I did everything to get that girl to like me. Even changed the way I dressed, only to find out later that she was looking for someone to do her math homework. And I did for an entire school year before I figured it out.
That’s the thing about women. They know what they want, and they use their pretty faces and hourglass figures to get men googlie-eyed and panting. Then they shred them of their pride, time, and bank accounts. I’ve seen it happen a million times, and I’ll be damned if I allow that to happen to me.
Raven’s probably no different. She practically radiates innocence and vulnerability. It’s an act, I’m sure. A girl who looks like her can’t be all that innocent. Just because she acts like no girl I’ve ever known before doesn’t mean that she’s not the worst of them.
Shit. Why did I invite her to my house? That certainly wasn’t the plan when I went to the garage. I thought I’d have the Impala towed there and it would sit until Guy got around to it.
Then I saw her: The way she walked out of the garage all rolling hips and sex. Her coveralls tied at her waist, and tight tank top that hugged her delicious curves. I had to cross my arms over my chest to keep from reaching out to trace the dip of her collarbone. A groan rumbles in my chest at the memory. She makes being a car mechanic sexy. Hell, she’d make collecting garbage sexy.
Her silky, dark hair was pulled up to expose her gracefully long neck. Every time she turned to look at Guy, I could see the hint of a black tattoo where her neck flared into her shoulder. The urge to run my tongue along the gentle slope of her throat, to feel her fluttering pulse beneath my lips and taste her olive skin overwhelmed me.
Yeah, this girl’s trouble.
I need to work her out of my system, just like all the other girls I’ve been with. After sex, I’m done. I totally lose interest. I may have to find a new mechanic, but at least I won’t lie in bed every night having fantasies about getting to know her better. Wait, what? Getting to know her better? I don’t think I’ve ever fantasized about a woman completely clothed before.
Holy shit, Blake was right. I’ve turned into a pussy.
I’m shoved from my thoughts by the sound of music blaring. Is that . . . Johnny Cash?
I creep to the door and check through the side panel window. A jet-black Chevy Nova with a white ragtop and white-wall tires stops in the circle drive right in front of the door. Sweet ride. Sweeter driver. Time for my game face.
Raven sits, gripping her steering wheel. Her mouth hangs open as she stares at my house. One side of my mouth lifts into a smile. She likes my place. A rush of warmth engulfs my chest. What in the hell is the matter with me?
Minutes pass before she moves out of her car. She leans into her still-open door. I rake my eyes over the contours of her perfectly round ass. She’s wearing hip hugging, low slung jeans with a rip in the knee and a bright blue tank top. I smirk when my eyes land on her shoes: black, low-top Chucks.
She’s sexy in a way that lacks self-awareness, which only makes her sexier. Women in this town are overly aware of themselves. I know there are exceptions. But what are the chances that an exception who looks like a rule is about to push through my walls? Walls? I mean, house. Dammit.
She walks toward the door in a fluid way, as if her joints have been oiled. It’s the same way girls walk when they know they’re being admired. But